You may wonder why on earth I would choose to write a blog. Why would I intentionally invite the entire internet population to see my thought life?

Here is the thing, I need to write.

My mind is a dryer machine set to delicates. My thought life is fragile [handle with care], exploding in uneven spurts within the steel machine, ideas, feelings and questions tumbling and jumbling around. I attempt to make sense of it all, yet my thought life explodes from its machine container, splattering into all crevices of my life. It cannot be contained. It demands to have the body of words and voice and sentence. I ask you: How can so much wonder possibly be contained in such a formless space, absent of articulation?

Some things need to be spoken, some things need to be sung, some things need to be written.  It is one thing to scribble them into a journal or whisper them to a best friend, but to write them in a space transparent to the entire world – now that is something entirely different. To articulate all the jumbled thoughts in my mind, is to bring them to life.

A girl kneels in a jumble of debris, surrounded by brokenness and the remnants of all the things she tried to build. A hand is offered to her; she takes it timidly. She is helped to stand on both feet, an unfamiliar posture of tall and stable. A voice bellows, kind and gentle: Let’s make something beautiful this time.

So I string words together, create complex combinations of consonants and vowels, because together, displayed to the public eye, I believe that words can build something beautiful.

I created this space – herglassdiary.wordpress.com – and for months and months, I did not post anything. I was waiting, I think, to create a perfect post. The one with the words flawlessly strung together, conveying exactly what I wanted to say. I was lost in the obsession to create something perfect and attain a sense of completion in my thought life. Fear was a constant companion in my writing: An all too faithful friend who whispered doubts into my ear. Not good enough. No one will ever read that. Forget any dreams of becoming a writer.

Until I realized that it is not about being perfect.
It has never been about completeness or certainty or having all the answers.
Always, it has always been about the writing.
About the healing found in the concreteness of letters and words.
About the undoing and being put back together.
About the process.

So, I write for myself. I write for others. I write to wonder and explore. I write because I have things I want to say to the world. I write because I think words are beautiful. And I write because to me, it is healing.





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