Catharsis: A stage in the process of finding balance once again.

An in-depth musing.


  1. the purging of the emotions or relieving of emotional tensions, especially through certain kinds of art.
  2. discharge of pent-up emotions, so as to result in the alleviation of symptoms or permanent relief.

I bought myself a new journal this afternoon; stumbled into Waterstones and there she was — the one. The leather journal I envisioned in December 2016 when the moleskin of the year was running out of pages, the time to purchase anew was fast approaching.

We’ve pretty much completed the first quarter of 2017 so, is this purchase overdue?

No, I’d say it’s right on time.

If I was ready for a journal before now, I would have been jotting daily thoughts in scraps of paper or in the many notebooks I have scattered around. The disorganised documents would have driven me towards buying the journal much sooner, (still yet to find friends who gift me with pretty journals *hint*) but this didn’t happen.


To tell the truth writing has become all too much for me of late, a sort of self-inflicted pain that I have struggled to articulate. It’s like simultaneously existing in both parallels. How can something so fulfilling, be so strenuous at the same time?

Perhaps I lost the balance somewhere in the transition into full blown adulthood. For a lover of food, it would be the difference between eating for nourishment and eating to survive. Both the same act, but the circumstances alter the process.

Me: “I’m tired.”

They: “How can you be tired? You’ve been at home on your laptop all day.”

Drained, exhausted and overspent. All relevant synonyms.

Physically, mentally or emotionally? All of the above.

They: “I thought you loved writing, isn’t this what you’ve always wanted to do?”

Me: “Without a doubt.”

They: “So what’s the actual problem?”

It is an intermittent warfare between four corners that are of the same land:

In the soul is purpose and ambition.

In the heart is desire.

In the mind is logic.

In the body is mortality.

I am the land. I bear the fruit and I host the turmoil.

Writing, perhaps like most forms of art, is a fatiguing practice that forces all four corners to dine at the same table.

For the soul lays the foundation for the meal.

The heart provides the plates needed to eat from.

The mind is responsible for the appropriate cutlery; the necessary tools to handle the food as neatly as possible.

The body is the grand clock above the head of the table.

But what are you really saying though Charisse, can you explain without the metaphor?

I am saying that I have dreams, a vision, a fervent sprit and a heart full of love. But I am mortal and I can only take on so much. The balance between bringing my vision to fruition, and taking care of myself is proving hard to maintain. At worst, I become unwell and fail to be productive all together, then everything comes to a standstill.

But that is okay. It’s hard to believe in the moment, to be frank, the number of troughs I go through are extremely depressing. But it is okay. With every fall, I rise equipped with a new lesson learned.

“Overtime you learn that losing your footing is an opportunity to pull back and re-align, to move on. It reminds you of your humanity; it’s okay to stumble, it is expected.”

So back to my new journal…

She’s a rich burgundy, embellished with gold and black foliage; intricate patterns that can be likened to the delicacy of a lace doily. I had envisioned that she would have the unique imperfections of a handmade item, and that she would be weathered in a form that implies she was passed down from generation to generation.

I was convinced that this exact vision of a journal, would be the one worth falling in love with, the one to carry my most profound musings.

Myself and the designer of the journal I bought this afternoon, must have had the same vision, because although she is not handmade and is very much brand new, she essentially tells the same story.

Whilst sat solo on a coffee-brown sofa in Waterstones, these were the first words I penned into her;

“Eeek the first mark has been made, no turning back now. In the fourth month of 2017, I have found a journal worth falling in love with. You. You will be the journal my thoughts bare their raw, unfiltered self to. You bear the paper my pen will bond with and make love to.”

This is catharsis; a stage in the process of finding balance once again.

Shout out to Frank Ocean’s Blonde album, Plucking Petals/Chase The Dragon and Love’s Interlude by Kojey Radical for accompanying me through writing this.


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