It’s as if the most effective method of communication is the written word—if we consider longevity and reach
The artistic development of language and characters makes us human. Works of prose embed our history and consume our life.
Its influence fascinates me.
Especially in my experience as a young woman learning to navigate the demands of our modern world, writing has become my solace. My thoughts, when not channeled in a productive direction (a.k.a. toward the page.) they instead, spiral into my own demise.
I noticed a sticker on my friend’s laptop today. “Floss your brain,” it said. This is what writing does for me—nothing clears the corners of my mind like a good old brain dump. Sometimes these raw, unfiltered entries not only offer insight into crevices of my mind that I typically neglect, but could potentially be worth sharing.
…It is in the development of a cavity, that we finally begin to floss…
…It is in progressing mental anguish and self-destructive action that I finally begin to write…
Dramatic, I know.
The page holds perfect space for the unfolding of new ideas and the crumpled, stagnant self. There is nothing like beginning to write with direction, turning awry, and allowing the subconscious motions to overtake the hand…
Sometimes, everything feels aflame. Our surroundings will more than passively set the stage of our life—-they will actively challenge resilience. Although I am aware of ‘challenge’ as a constant, I frequently find myself consumed in emotions I fail to sort through—-and to what end? Dwell, solves nothing…
I live an incredibly privileged life, one that I often feel guilty for having when I have yet to return as much to this world as I have been given.
“Who am I to live this way? And why the hell do I feel all of these things when I have no valid reasoning?”
The reality is, I am a highly sensitive individual (roll your eyes if you want…) and the stimulus and pace of our modern world affect me far more than I let on, and far more than I realize. Learning to cope with our environment is part of our development as an individual.
So, as I learn to put fires out within myself and interact with the world as if it were the ocean, ready to embrace and carry me away, rather than an evacuation, I will keep returning to the page.
This is my solitude.
And yet I feel inclined to share my thoughts, for a reason I am uncertain of. Is it for validation? No, I am absolutely terrified. I just can’t help but think about the few people who may read my thoughts and feel understood, or benefit in some way from my ramblings. It would make the grammatical correction of my entirely messy, unstreamlined thoughts, all worth it.
(and just maybe, I could make some of these pieces cohesive?!?!)
The running away from myself, hiding from parts that feel daunting to confront, often bring me to the conclusion that I am just crazy, or there’s something wrong with me.
I know, crazy is a strong word, but we live in a wild, amazing, emotional world—we all have to be crazy or dysfunctional in some way or another. It is our individual quest in which we unravel all of which our delicate souls have been entangled.
So no, I am not crazy. I am a young woman who is learning to walk among the flames and remain untethered.
I write out of survival and a desperate need to learn how to exist in this human body I occupy (again, so dramatic…). May these ramblings contribute to a deeper level of introspection, of understanding, among myself and the reader. In sharing my perception of this world, I hope you find something of value 😉
Although these entries are random, unplanned, and probably inconsistent, the intention behind my words will remain…
This post, untitled.
My opinion, voiced.
My authenticity, unfiltered
My ruminations, shared.
With a warm embrace,
Isabella
Isabella Elena 