Catharsis

My catharsis is writing. There is something powerful about the pen strokes: the high peaks of the M's, the loops of the B's and R's, the teetering tops of the shaky T's that I always leave somewhat slanted as I rush past them and onto the next word, trying not to forget anything. I like the way a pace looks when its completed; when it swells with ink and couldn't bare another word. The feeling of flipping through an entire book of fresh words, from head to hand to pen, and back to head, and back to pen; it can't be replicated and, at times, is far more exhilarating and provides a greater release than hiking mountains, or riding down rivers, or even jetting across entire worlds. Believe me, I've checked. I've thrown so many experiences up on the scale, and it still tips terribly in writing's favor.

You can climb pyramids all your life, reach the summit just at sunset on your birthday, and you still wont escape your own thoughts.

We are all ships, some in harbors and lakes and some out to sea. And we all drop anchors, some more than others, both knowingly and otherwise, which fixate on rocks, reef, debris, sand and sinkholes, old rusted vessels, lost barrels, junk strewn overboard: pipes, organs, statues, broken masts, lamps, mattress covers, pillows, airports, trains, funeral caskets, day trips, one night stands, three year relationships, misconstrued compliments, georgous smiles, hushed secrets just before sleeping.
These anchors have chains which pull on us. Yank us back as we push so hard forward.
Some people can lose the chains so easily, cut them loose and continue on with their course. The level of ease depends on the strength of the chains, the power of the boat, and the desire of the destination. For some, the destination is of minor importance next to the journey itself, which allows the chains to be all that more invulnerable to being discarded.

It can be difficult sometimes, dragging all those chains behind, drifting aimlessly to intangable destinations. But we are the captains of a fate greater than the plans laid out for us by those left at shore. We will not be forgotten because we will never forget ourselves. Not after the immense strain we have endured to so clearly find us.

How do you cut a chain that doesn't exist? Can the be broken by long walks, or morning swims, or intense conversations once a week? Can they be shocked out of our heads with paddles or melted away by drug after drug? Or is the only way to not cut them at all, but instead change yourself, your intentions, and grow so familiar and accepting of your own chains, that they hardly bear a load at all? Is there really even a choice?
So I choose to write, about the chains and anchors and organs and smiles, day after day. I choose to write because I can't choose to forget them. Any of them. So I give them a metaphysical existence, and I sit and hope that, as they become greater and grander and more ridiculous, their physical counterparts will shatter in their own lack of reality, and something greater will emerge. And we might trudge on with a slightly lighter load.