I write to make sense of my overly strung out, chaotic, torrential downpour, oasis bringing, tornado creating, storm chasing, whirlwind of a mind.

There is an explosion of thought every damn second of the day. It doesn’t stop. There are no breaks. There’s no pauses. My mind works and works and works. The only temporary relief is during vast amounts of physical pain. (Thank the gods for hill sprints).

I write to answer the questions I don’t yet how exist. I write to understand and to organize mind my mind. I write to understand and to organize the world… to make sense of this infinitely complex world. I write because I don’t know where else to go.

There isn’t another human that quite understand exactly your experiences, exactly the way you suffer. Similar but not the same. We can talk and talk and this provides tremendous relief to know others have dealt with similarly daunting problems.

But there’s no exchange for the raw isolation of our own minds that sometimes comes.

We’re born alone. We die alone. There’s a few that come along for the ride every once in awhile, a few that we can trust with their lives.


It’s isolating. But equally liberating.

But each of us is busy battling our own demons. We cannot simply externalize all of our problems. We can and should ask for help. But we owe it to ourselves to make sense of what we can before outsourcing.

The mind is a magical and equally horrifying place. If we run from it each time a problem arises we’re ignoring evolution that we owe ourselves.

I write to capture the overwhelming explosion of emotion that gets us from time to time. I do it to take the feeling and to turn it in to something tangible. I write to create something from nothing, to relay the little grasp I have on human emotion to my fellow friends. I write to connect with other humans. Without making sense of our own minds, how could we dare to step into the ring with someone else’s?

I write to make some sense of the human condition.

I write when I don’t have anywhere to turn or anyone to could or would understand. I write when it seems nobody else has the answers either. I write to explore the parts of my own mind that others don’t seem to understand about theirs.

And when I stumble across another human eager to understand their own mind, I am met with an unbelievably intimate connection. The relationship embarks on its own journey of human understanding, delighting both of equally.

The feeling of discovering the mind, with someone I deeply I care for, is not a delight I take lightly.

I abuse writing as an outlet. Few other hobbies seem to quench the thirst of the mind. I write to reel in the mighty explosion of neurons in my mind because nothing else quite seems to do the trick. It’s one of the few things in this world that bring over a sense of calm.

I write when I don’t know how to express myself. I write when I’m at a loss for words. I write when I don’t understand. I write when I’m confused.

I write when I feel lost or angry or hurt. I write when I’m glad and grateful and overjoyed.

I write to make sense of it.
None of it really makes sense.

I write Johnny Cash or Bob Dylan don’t quite seem to be cutting it. They get it, they do.

But I’m on a journey of my own. You don’t just stumble across these answers, you’ve got to go searching. What better place to look than the mind?

I write to turn that feeling into something palatable something that can be shared, compared and dissected with other humans. I write to be able to speak. I despise not understanding. I despise not being understood.

As life would have it, that seems to happen quite a lot. And so I write to slowly chip at my own enigma and indecision.

I write to retain what little control I can over my mind. I do it some I can pack up and translate this indescribable feeling. I want you to understand.

I pray to the powers that Be that this feeling will be packaged up and shipped across the tumultuous Ocean of brain waves, shipped over The Mountains of Insecurities and The Valleys of Experience to finally be received on the other end.

Then once more I hope to the heavens that it’ll be picked up and tenderly held, reconstructed into a rough approximation of emotion. I just hope my fellow recipient with have some inkling of a starting point. God damnit I hope they understand.

Writing allows me to deconstruct the smallest essence of a thought, interpret the tiniest morsel of a feeling. It lets me take the largest most overwhelming emotion, the most grandiose experience and pack it into a cube. It lets me compress that under the pressure of scrutiny, and gift it to you in nice, neat, little, gift wrap.

I hope to hell you’ll be able to tell what it is. I hope to hell you’ll like it. Hopefully you’ll be able to reconstruct. Sometimes, with sheer luck, it is.

I write because otherwise I’d go insane. None of it makes sense. The Law of Entropy take over.

Every other moment is chaos. Everyone’s shouting. Everything’s happening.

But sometimes, just sometimes, I find a little peace… because I write.