Neat.
I agree with Ala’s post, as I feel the same way.
I miss writing in the way that I violently pry open my skull and wave around the grey matter so that I will feel less pain in keeping it inside (my sanity? *suppresses chortle*), but…containment feels…liberating. Sometimes, the way I write is in spurts, the pregnant truth remains deep in my mind, but it is for me alone to ruminate upon (should I be reminded of it), and it is mine.
I miss writing in that passionate way, but selective amnesia keeps me from being trapped in a state that should have long been forgotten.
In the meantime, I struggle to no longer renew old habits and finally accept my happy atheism. When emotional demons threaten to possess my mind, baking cheesecakes and Lindt chocolate fudge cake for my roommates and myself is a most soothing salve to my brain, endlessly chattering away.
But a goddamn expensive single malt scotch, neat, goes down much, much faster.
