Writing Is Medicine

Lying on my bed in my childhood home. Stressed, unhappy — who knows exactly why — but I pick up a Moleskine notebook, write the date on a new page, and diagnose myself. 15 minutes later, I am calm, cool, and self-assured. Writing is medicine.

15 years later. There’s a fly in the room. The buzzing should be annoying, but it isn’t. There’s a bird chirping in the sunlit trees outside. It should be beautiful, and it is. The heat of the laptop agitates the deadlifting graze on my thigh, but no bother. I’m writing, and it’s perfect.