I had a fight with a very good friend yesterday. It was over the internet, which in some ways is better, some ways worse. No matter the medium, I ended the day upset, tangled, and sick to my stomach. I can’t stand arguing with friends and family.
It wore me out, in other words, and all I wanted to do was curl up with some hot chocolate. I did so, but after quelling my distress-induced stomachache, I did something else. I wrote.
Writing is many things to me. It’s fun. It’s a career I hope to purpose. It’s a device to survive dull times. But it has also always been a catharsis. I have dashed out angry prose, classically teenage anguished poems, even a few lines of an enthusiastic play. Strong emotion, particularly negative, wants to get out of me and onto paper. This frequently manifests as crappy poetry. I remember scribbling down something about the presumptions of Zeus after the third Clery report of an assault popped up in my email and something inside me snapped. I remember playing with double voice structure as I struggled to convince a friend not to end her life. Last night, I produced twenty or so slanting lines in a purple and white notebook. They were angry, maybe, but not fiery anymore. More tired. I was tired. Despite my attitude toward the occasional internet troll, I do not relish conflict.
Still, I’d written something. That meant I’d taken all that stress and ickyness and made something with it – maybe not anything good, but it was there. It’s still there,tucked between my alarm clock and a box of almonds.
Better than nothing, anyway.