The Catharsis of Writing

Despite the extremely cathartic aspect of writing, I find it entirely difficult to begin. It’s like going to the gym, motivating to begin is more difficult than the actual work.

My sister insisted I sit down one day and write in my journal. Knowing my handwriting, she thought I should type but I chose the old fashioned way of fancy roller ball pen to paper. And I felt good. Maybe it was because I was out of the house and was not listening to two screaming kids, but I digress.

The memories of my mom are not as sharp as they were say two months ago and I know I should write them down. I know I should document some of the funny adventures we shared (stranded in Cuba, anyone?). Perhaps this would conquer the fear of the memories fading.

As life gets slightly easier each day, guilt sets in. I know my mom would want me to move forward and live as fully as she did, even until the end. She wants me to finish my book. And I want to complete the novel. And at a certain point I am going to run out of excuses.

But at this moment, I am still mourning. There are just so many reminders of my mom everywhere and wish wholeheartedly that she could be here. I remind myself that there is no loophole that could bring her back and it breaks my heart.

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