One of Those Days

I wanted to start off my blog with something that I wrote last year in Advanced Comp. I know I should be starting with something new, but this piece I wrote still describes my feelings toward writing and what it has done for me as a person. Hopefull, I'll have new stuff up soon, along with pictures : ). Enjoy.

Today is just one of those days. I’m supposed to be writing notes for the Psychology class I have in 78 minutes, but when I sit at my desk, open my book, and get out my black Pilot G-2 pen, it always seems to be out of ink. Not out of ink in the literal sense of the words, because the pen is new and full of the ominous black liquid that we know as ink, but in the sense that it is out of ink. I’ll explain. The pen is our body. The ink is our mind. The body (pen) is a vessel for the mind (ink). They work as one, and without the other each is useless. So, now, I’ll take my parallel analogy just one step deeper, into the realm of abstract thought and twisted realities. The pen holds the ink, thus, it is the body to the ink’s mind. Together, they are a tool. A tool that allows us to create words and numbers and pictures, but most importantly, ideas. The pen and ink together enable us to make our ideas tangible. Without the pen and the ink, the ideas of the incredible human mind would never become reality; they would be left to drift through bleak human consciousness, away from the tangibility that turns ideas and dreams into realities. But, on a more basic level, it is the ink, the mind, that is the true creator, for it is the mind that carries out the action of conscious thought, not the body. Without the ink of the mind, ideas cannot become reality, and, thus, dreams cannot be achieved. Simplistically, the body cannot accomplish anything without the mind telling it what to do. This is my problem. For some reason, my pen seems to be out of ink. So, I write. Writing has the uncanny ability to spontaneously generate ink even in the darkest chasms of my mind. Writing is the lubricant that keeps the gears of my mind turning when life has drained the oil from my so-called engine. My first journal is finally almost full; only six pages remain, and when I look back and reread the words I have written, a fury of emotions erupts within me. I feel sorry for my journal, and yet, I respect it more than anything. Through all my hardships, through all my pain, through the hell I have experienced, my journal has always been there, listening. Never once has it left me, and even in my darkest hours, it has the ability to drag my mind out of confusion and depression and doubt, and for that, I love it dearly. But, in the same sense, I hurt for it. I am sorry that it is the one that must bear my pain when I am not strong enough. It is my rock and my crutch. But, most importantly, it is me. It contains my most raw thoughts and dreams that no one else has ever heard. It holds within it’s pages my life story, and the road I walked in becoming who I am as a person today. It knows my most desired dreams, my deepest fears, and my darkest secrets. It knows me more completely than almost anyone. But, above all, it understands me. It listens passively and does not judge. I can bend it, break it, cut it, criticize it, and yet, it does not turn away; rather, it turns the page. In the end, a dry pen and a lifeless mind, to me, can only be rehabilitated by the invigoration experienced by putting thoughts onto paper. And thus, writing.