I recently looked in my journal and saw 7 months of empty space. 7 whole months, during which the pain in my head was so great, to acknowledge it with ink would be the kiss of death. To write it down would be far too permanent, almost as though admitting pain is what gives it power.
I now know the opposite to be true. That the ink that seemed so permanent, in fact acts like a magnet, pulling the pain out and wrestling it onto the paper with all the strength of a fine point tip. The paper-pen-hand-arm-brain succession of atoms fully ready to serve you.
To them, nothing is permanent. To the pen, the ink that flows through it is as fleeting at the muscle stimulation the brain sends through the arm and hand to move. The paper, grateful for the touch of a tip before once again being left bare. All of these things are grateful and meant to show you that good can come of something so full of pain.
