I have neglected to check in with myself since starting the emotional purge project. The pressing need to write prevails and I can’t seem to focus on anything other than the shit I’ve done to other people. Every photo, every dream, every piece of art, and every song triggers some kind of memory, and the memory snowballs until there is no space in my brain left for anything else. Once I get it out, once it’s written about, I can breathe more easily. At least until the next thought, anyway.
However, I am happy to report that I feel less haunted, for lack of a better term. These things I’ve written about don’t creep in like they used to. They exist as opposed to consume. That’s a plus.
In addition to feeling less burdened by the past, I’m writing a bunch more, which is a nice feeling.
There’s more to tackle. I am still just as committed as I was when I started this shit. Onward.