I've missed writing. Desperately. I've poured my heart out into paper journals since I was 11, and the outflow of thoughts into text has somehow become my emotional lifeblood over the years. The form has evolved: journals, blogs, Facebook notes, overlong Instagram posts... But whatever the form, it is the act of writing that keeps me sane. I once considered a crutch - and perhaps it is - but these days, I gladly acknowledge my need for it. The fact that I'm writing this at 2.15am on a school day should suffice as proof.
Why do I still need to write? I'm married, on the verge of turning 30 and occupied with responsibilities (read: job, church ministry and everything in between) that inundate my schedule. But it's precisely because of all these that the need to write comes on even more strongly. It's fundamentally part of who I am. I think in text and I find satisfaction in seeing those thoughts appear in physical form. As the duties & expectations that accompany my station in life threaten to consume me, I find my identity fighting for space to breathe. Instinctively I find myself writing.
Old habits die the hardest - and maybe with good reason.
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