Writing in Chaos

I don’t know what chaos is. Do you?
Here is what I do know. I know that digestion is shoddy. I know that my jaw aches from chewing too much gum. I know that my brain is fuzzy with unspoken and unwritten words, bitten back during the daytime’s perennially busy doldrums.
I also know that my sciatica is coming back, as it does in times of great stress. That I’m developing carpal tunnel syndrome or tendinitis – the doctor can’t tell – and that my ergonomic keyboard doesn’t help so much, nor do the exercises.
A new thing I’ve learned is how beautiful 6am is, even when I haven’t had enough sleep. How silence is a virtue and smiling and nodding dumbly are what is occasionally expected of a subordinate. How the ache in my chest that is love or happiness or hormones can’t be given form, though if it could become corporeal, I’m pretty sure it would be a balloon animal of a giraffe.
Here is another thing I know. I know, finally, what the point of my writing is. It is to make people – and that includes me – feel. It is to smash away the numbness and apathy that controls our days, and to give succor in pages of a story or book to the people who, like me, need literature to help them regulate their shoved-away emotions, their hidden away desires, their shameful and painful secrets. Happiness is beautiful, but it is overrated. There are many states of being, and in writing, I want to touch them all. All the hues of that super-spectrum of invisible light.


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