Writing
For a while, I was afraid that whatever trigger that filled me with words would disappear shortly after my crisis past. But it hasn't.
I'm very glad for this new ability: to see, to hear, to write. It feels right to be able to put down my thoughts on paper, and see them take on meanings I never knew I thought. It's like having a conversation with yourself, without having people avoid you because you mumble to yourself.
Everyday, I've been writing in this weblog, and every so often I write in a notebook. I've been flipping through one of Julie's books, The Artist's Way, and the author writes about how writing every morning can improve your creativity. There isn't any explanation for why this works, only the assertion that it does.
I find that the more I write, the easier it gets. I do a little bit of stream-of-consciousness. I do a little bit of analysis. I do a little wordplay. There are fewer self-criticisms now-I can explore and play with my letters on the page. With the sound of the words as they go round my skull. And watch the images and feelings that it all evokes.
It's a pretty wonderful experience and I wouldn't give it up. Not after the cost I paid for it.