Thursday, April 8, 2010


Writing is therapeutic for me. It often helps me work through the thoughts and feelings and events in my life in a unique way. There is just something inherently valuable in the written (or more correctly, the typed) word. Something about letting the words escape the confines of my brain, and putting them into a form for others to see.

There are times that composing even a long post here can take just minutes. It's as if my thinking shuts off and my hands are indirectly controlled by some remote force. The words spill out of my mind through my fingers quickly, sometimes almost too fast for me to keep up with them.

Then there are the times like now. When I have to think very intently about what I am writing. When I have to censor myself. When I hold back from saying exactly what I am feeling. When I have to bottle up those words that so desperately want to be free.

I always had a diary as a teenager, but this is no diary. I've opened it up for the world to see, and I can't just always write about what I would like to.

This isn't a diary.

There are times like today that I would write and write and write about what I really feel. About what my thoughts really are. About my fears. My struggles. The things in my life that I long for. But this isn't a diary.

I could do all of those things, it's true. I could write about them. But I won't. I can't without prying deep into the lives of others and releasing their secrets for the world to see. There are some who have asked that I leave them out of my writing. I try as best as I can to honor those requests. But there are times, like today, when all I can think of is them and their situations and how it all relates to me.

I could write today. But I won't.

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