I crave intimacy–sharing with others in depth and with abandon is what I live for. It is a deep craving and, at times, a source of pain and disappointment. For when the intimacy I desire doesn’t manifest or ceases to exist, I mourn its loss and wallow in upset. The importance of relationships sometimes creates heartbreak when they end or don’t meet my expectations (which is usually a set-up for distress).
The beauty of journal writing–of writing for oneself–is that you are always within reach, never totally abandoned as you literally show up for yourself and follow your own lead. I write despair and loss and pain. I write joy and ecstasy and freedom. I can go into the heart of the matter, the feeling at hand, or soar away into the cosmos of complete fantasy, abstraction or multi-dimensionality. My writing can pierce the skin and find trickles and pools of blood. It can open up wide vistas of vision and possibility, integrating all aspects of myself, owning it all. Acknowledging complexities and contradictions. Playing, experimenting with sounds, colours, tones, styles, the ways I put letters and words on paper.
I write intimacy by writing it all. As the pages are filled, as the years are lived, as I continue to be present in this life, these lives we live and become more and more intimate with.