Writing therapy. the most human thing, addiction.

Life is good

Life is grande, things I tell myself, but really isn’t that all this is.

Our choice, amidst nothingness. What we decide to hold onto and give meaning. A small rope within millions of years and endless ventures, each singular thing takes more then a lifetime to master, yet there are so many, and mastery never ends, it’s simply the journey.

To put a pen to paper, to give words constaint and hence have the ability to create something from nothing. To put energy into a form that is timeless, certainly beautiful. So many arts, so many forms, which we take on and let go of. Sometimes without knowing, sometimes we know the reason all to well, like the familiar cull of the deathrending smoke entering your lungs, and the blissfully sweet release. Drifting away, the lure, the pull, the ease, the feeling of momentary bliss. To take away the harsh rapids of this world. So we run, and we keep running, instead of facing this moment, instead of going towards the pain and into truth, looking at our cravings, our desires, the things we chase, and I would say without knowing, but the truth is we know all we well, we just choose not to open our eyes. Reality is painful, reality is real. Our minds, imagination, the television, the noise, stimulation, drugs, they all take it away, the most human thing, addiction. The small things we eat for stimulation, the drugs, the ways we seek stimulation from others, validation, the sex, the thoughts, the mental churnings of the machine, the want for things, for perceived success and mental highs, away from the life energy, the opposite of the oak tree. Afraid of the silence, the stillness of things.