The last time I checked, I wasn’t braindead.
Yet every piece of writing I do is an exercise in redundancy.
I know that today’s pain will be gone tomorrow.
I am well aware of the fact that the problems that deeply haunt me right now, will look like old chewing gum spots on the sidewalk next year.
I know that thoughts are fleeting and transient and impersonal.
I chew on stuff that won’t mean very much in the future, that will dissolve no matter how hard I try to hold on to it, yet I keep on writing.
Because I feel the need to remind myself of the fact that we’re okay.
Writing down obvious stuff feels like putting my crap on the floor.
It’s like giving myself a quick hug, or a loving slap in the face when I start dreaming this character into an ocean of sorrow.
Writing down the things that are only temporary painful or confusing, makes them less painful or confusing, temporarily.
Each new word, no matter how stale or mundane it is, creates some distance between the illusion of suffering and the unbroken Self.
Every sentence becomes part of the ground I can stand on, while I felt like drowning.
There is consolation in stating the obvious, because the obvious sometimes seems a continent or galaxy away, and a simple reminder of its close proximity is all it takes to create a fresh bit of freedom.
Writing during moments of lostness is healing, for me and, I guess, at least sometimes, for you as well.
That’s why it’s both useless and utterly powerful.
Part of being human is forgetting that we’re also the universe.
So here’s your reminder.