Writing strips me raw.
An Update Of Sorts
I’ve been writing every day for about a week now, and though I don’t see much progress in terms of quantitative growth, I do feel that this is a good beginning. Why haven’t I done this in the past?
Writing comes so easily, it’s therapeutic.
It forces me to recognize my thoughts. To arrange them into coherent forms. To re-read and process the words I have written.
Writing is an unrivaled form of nudity.
Writing personal pieces compels me to be vulnerable. There is no greater nudity than this. It is almost as if I am beginning to build a relationship with myself, through the intimacy of confronting my thoughts.
It’s a relief to get the words out.
Holding on to my thoughts becomes suffocating. Letting them go alleviates the weight.
It’s terrifying to share the most private parts of my being. People I’ll meet may know, and people I know may learn. Then I’m bare. But I love to write, so I guess I’ll always be cold.