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I think I write the least when I'm feeling the most. Interesting, because isn't writing supposed to be this cathartic release of all one's emotions? Isn't it by very nature supposed to be a beautiful and liberating process through which I explicate all the complicated, convoluted workings of my inner soul?

Ha.

But it's not. And I think most people who "like" to write will agree--writing can be wonderfully cathartic, but most of the time, it's not. Most of the time it's just hard work, and the end result is never quite as good as it sounded when you were talking about it with one of your dearest friends for three hours last night. So you feel silly and frustrated, and you delete what you've written and try again to explain it. But you keep on keepin' on, mostly just because you know that sometimes, sometimes you feel like you actually did say what you meant, even if no one actually reads that writing where you said what you meant. And the words worked for once. And that, my friends, is where the liberating beauty comes in. That's when writing serves as purgative source of peace, cleansing out your soul and restoring whatever it was missing in the first place. Or the second place. Or what it never really had and didn't know it needed until now, when your previous misconceptions are gloriously cast aside.

Or, you just write and write whatever thoughts are in your head and you don't even know what you mean by them. Like this.

I made a decision on Saturday that galactically changed my microscopic universe. I'm pretty insignificant, but it was big for me. And this post was originally me trying to write about it, but apparently I can't do that yet, except in exceedingly abstract terms.

I guess I just need more time.