Am I, are we, doing it wrong? Is it wrong that I write about the pain and the grief I feel here where it will never completely disappear? Will I someday look back and regret that I poured all of that bile out where it will remain as a reminder of even a fragment of what I felt?
Perhaps I should have written those thoughts and feelings on a scrap of paper and set it alight, letting the flame eat up the pain and carry it away. Purging rituals. Banishments. White candle and sage smudge cleansings. Is that what I should be doing?
I don’t believe so. I don’t know. It was a passing comment I saw, about feeling relief at not having recorded those feelings. It struck a nerve. I’m curious now. Why we choose to share or not, to leave this indelible record or not. Why do or don’t you? I do it because I don’t know how not to. It’s bigger than me and I simply can’t contain it. I think even if I hadn’t been writing all along about our journey, I would have started just to get through it. Sort of a twisted version of publish or perish.