Genuine
Random thoughts:
It occurred to me today that I haven't been thinking about the whole truth of cathartic release... merely one half of it.
Yes, when one pours one's very essence into a sheet of paper, it affords them a measure of closure. By recounting the bearings of history, it draws them out of the trapped confines of one's memory and allows them to drift freely into eternity.
But what about those who read the experiences of others?
I have a theory on the matter... it offers a form of cathartic release that cannot be matched by the intensity of one's own experiences. However equal in strength and potency, these experiences are as different as night and day. It's the reason why people still seek escape in such tradegies of Romeo and Juliet and The Great Gatsby, such cinematic juggernauts as Ghost and Terms of Endearment, and the numerous TV shows that flit in and out of our lives.
I don't know how else to explain it. All I know is that I've been reading a lot lately, both published works and amateur attempts. It's reenergized my will to write, and I can't explain how or why. Maybe it's the belief that I still have more to gain yet from it.
I've gotten inspiration for my book/novel/thing once more. It's a weird feeling, but I haven't touched it for months, and in that time I feel like I have stagnated as an evolving person. It's as if the book grows as I grow. It's becoming a burden of love, and for some reason I've lost all motivation to see it published. It doesn't matter anymore. Even though the storyline has nothing to do with myself, it has become so intrinsically buried within my soul that I have to finish it, just because I feel it will coincide with my own closure.