On Catharsis

So much going on. Not in the physical sense. Not in the external environment. But an upheaval of emotions inside me. A constant stream of thoughts that just won’t stop.

It is a combination of hurt and disappointment. Because the end came about. When I begin a story in my real life, I never imagine it ending. Or only imagine it ending in a very fairy-tale sort of manner. I am after all a woman of literature. But reality gave way to an end nevertheless. An unexpected one.

So here I am, saddened by the entire state of affairs. No I’m not grieving. Nor crying. Nor screaming into the wind. I’m quiet. Quieter than I have been in a long time.

And instead finding pleasures in various pursuits.

In learning about storytelling.

In studying about the History of Africa.

In attempting a beginner’s course in Italian.

In writing a journal/diary of all the unrestrained thoughts and emotions that I do not wish to contain.

I am discovering my own self in this universe. It is healing. It is cathartic.

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