I have been reading more than writing these days. Feeling weak, and needing to escape from my own thoughts into books, into other people's words and lovely other worlds, where things come right (or at least closer to right) in the end.
For most of the year, I was on a frenzied journaling path. I journal in sketchbooks for when I need to just scribble or shout my words, sketch, etc. I've gone through five. Yet, it took me four months to finish the last one (just yesterday I reached the last page). Now, it was twice as long, but still...the journaling has tapered. I am thankful that all inner-conversations are now more inside rather than on paper...kinda amazing to me that I can now endure listening and responding to myself. However, I have to had to escape into to fiction also to just get away. I have found myself re-reading familiar lore with predictable endings. I have been so tired of the flashbacks, forgotten memories hiding in the shadows, and raw evidence of relationships I've had to cut out to preserve my sanity. I guess reading has become a coping skill for me. While some may argue that escape leads to denial...I would beg to disagree. Without proof that stories can have happy endings, even if it is a story created by the mind of another, I just don't think I would have the faith to keep moving forward. Keep reading, keep finding the messages of hope in the stories of another. Who cares what world it comes from. I have decided to believe that I can adapt anything from any world and bring it into mine for sustenance. I don't care anymore. I find messages in the trees, rocks, children's books and songs. And even in the image of goldfish crackers I created when I read your "wishes" entry. I think I might adapt this comment into a post...(sidenote. haha) Anyway, be encouraged, pen and ink friend. we will overcome.
For most of the year, I was on a frenzied journaling path. I journal in sketchbooks for when I need to just scribble or shout my words, sketch, etc. I've gone through five. Yet, it took me four months to finish the last one (just yesterday I reached the last page). Now, it was twice as long, but still...the journaling has tapered. I am thankful that all inner-conversations are now more inside rather than on paper...kinda amazing to me that I can now endure listening and responding to myself. However, I have to had to escape into to fiction also to just get away. I have found myself re-reading familiar lore with predictable endings. I have been so tired of the flashbacks, forgotten memories hiding in the shadows, and raw evidence of relationships I've had to cut out to preserve my sanity. I guess reading has become a coping skill for me. While some may argue that escape leads to denial...I would beg to disagree. Without proof that stories can have happy endings, even if it is a story created by the mind of another, I just don't think I would have the faith to keep moving forward. Keep reading, keep finding the messages of hope in the stories of another. Who cares what world it comes from. I have decided to believe that I can adapt anything from any world and bring it into mine for sustenance. I don't care anymore. I find messages in the trees, rocks, children's books and songs. And even in the image of goldfish crackers I created when I read your "wishes" entry. I think I might adapt this comment into a post...(sidenote. haha) Anyway, be encouraged, pen and ink friend. we will overcome.
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