Hi. I’m back. I could start this post with a promise that I will post regularly on here from now on – for real this time. But I’ve recently learned that promises are really tricky little things. They’re tricky because we constantly evolve and the world around us constantly changes. Promises are intentions, most often good ones. Intentions can change as life changes and as people evolve. So I’m not promising anything this time. Something, some voice recently prompted me to bring bring this blog back to life and give it a small cosmetic overhaul. And it made me ask myself “Why do I write?” I don’t get paid for it, I don’t have any stake in it (family tradition, education, etc.), I don’t necessarily have too much free time on my hands. There really is no external motivation for it. So what’s the internal one then? Well, for starters, I have a lot of words in my head but I’m not a big talker so they don’t come out that way. I feel much more eloquent when I write than when I talk.
Something about the act of writing makes me connect with my emotions. I’ve recently learned (among many other life lessons) that I haven’t been great at being in touch with my emotions for the first 33 years of my life, especially not with the negative ones. What I have mastered quite well is telling myself stories about my emotions. That usually works until they boil over. And even then I’m often able to somehow put the lid back on. I might burn my hands in the process but I get them back under control. Earlier this year, I decided to not put the lid back on and it has lead to the biggest crisis of my life. That crisis is a story for another day – a story I’m not really ready to tell yet. The crisis has been big enough to ask myself tough, existential questions. The type of shit that the Greek philosophers grappled with thousands of years ago. I’ve learned a lot about myself and some of the revelations have happened while writing. So that’s why I write – to connect with my essence, the stripped down version of myself that has nothing to do with where I live, what I do for work, what I like to eat, and who my friends and family are. The version of myself that I have to love if I want to be happy in this life. And in order to really love that version, love myself, I have to see all the sides of it and writing helps me do it. Maybe the energy, the waves, that I’m sending out into the universe by publishing my words will be picked up by another stripped down version of another human being whose receiver happens to be set to the same frequency as my sender. And that’s when magic happens.