In the past, I’ve been told to journal, to write my thoughts and emotions down. I often scoff at this, thinking it a trivial waste of time and effort. However, I often find myself turning to writing during times of darkness and despair. I find something, and begin scribbling thoughts upon it. Some incoherent and random like the chaos inside my mind, others organized and detailed, purpose driven and coherent.
The purpose of this… Shall we call it an experiment? Is to see if the written expression of the tumultuous sea that writhes inside the confines of my skull can indeed help me in the journey I was born into, the adventure that was forced upon me, the life I live at a distance from day to day.
I often feel weighed down and frozen beneath the things I feel as I trudge ever onward towards the inevitable fate that awaits all creatures that live, have lived, or ever will live.
I do not presume to be wise, or intelligent, or even likeable deep down inside myself, often feeling as if I do not belong anywhere except inside my own mind, or in some far off place that hasn’t been found yet. Somewhere not here, in this existence that I have been placed into.
So, here it is, in all of its mediocrity. My attempt at sorting my tumult into its own general consensus.