Sojourns in solitude

Swiping through my phone gallery, I pause at my favourite album. I linger and savour the memories lacing each camera shot. It was a sojourn I had always dreamed of and hoped for; one that came true. And yet, I haven't journaled it all, as I have always done, to come back to the narrative a later date, to relive the moments, revel in a state of a happy bubble, and feel grateful.

Nostalgia is a great muse. It rises up like fragrant wisps of strong filter coffee, covering your senses with an aromatic shield, languidly filling you up with emotions, and then with a gush, lets the thoughts and reminiscences flow out.

The end of 2017 was eventful in more ways than one. I had arrived at yet another crossroad in life. A new beginning awaited me, while I closed certain chapters. Emotionally, it was a tumultuous phase. I watched mutely as old connections withered away into nothingness. 

Life lessons don't come in sugar-coated pills. Still, it's not a pleasant truth to digest that it never mattered to certain people whether or not I existed (in their lives). It was amusing and painful to note the superfluous and fluff that we mistake for the real.

I was glad to leave the hurting wound(s) alone to heal on its own and seek refuge elsewhere. Drawing up trip itineraries, researching places to visit, weighing accommodation options, bookings, and finally embarking on a journey rank high as self-care, in my book. I threw myself into planning the trip I had been waiting for. It was a catharsis of sorts. 

Writing would have been therapeutic as well but I was nursing—and still not fully recovered—a battle scar of a different kind. This is, strangely, a wound that now resembles a dried scab. The urge to itch is irresistible but I'm wary of scratching the surface of something that's still raw beneath and would surely bleed. 

Writing (not to be confused with dairy journal) is always two-part: the first is where you strip yourself bare, laying down your innermost fears, thoughts, and intentions, untangling the wired mess in your head to correspond closely with the words on paper. This, though it doesn't seem like it, is fairly easy. 

The second and tougher part is to put it up for public consumption. To publish your writings means to be open to receiving empathy and judgment that would come your way in equal or unequal parts. To embrace that sense of the unknown that's par course when you throw open your life as a book, when you don't and cannot know all your readers. This part is what I'm battling against, the one that makes me reluctant to write and share honestly. And interestingly, it's the readers I know that terrify me more. I'm worried they would come across a person they never knew through their interactions.

My writing is a vehicle to find my inner self. It's an exercise not everyone else can or needs to appreciate. This, I'm beginning to understand but need to accept.