If I begin to unpack my thoughts in this way, allowing thoughts to flow directly from my mind to my fingertips to the screen, I am not entirely sure what will appear on said screen before my eyes. What if I don't like it? what if the unabridged, unedited version of my mind is repulsive to me? What if it is to others?

But -- isn't this why we write? To find out what lives inside of us? And not only what lives inside us as the writers, but to discover what lives inside of all of humankind? Isn't that the point of it all? I write to learn things I didn't know I knew until I began to write them down, and this, too, is a surprise to me even as I write it.

I am supposed to write until my head is empty, and a part of me worries that will never happen because a writer always brims with more words waiting to be spoken. Well, written, I should say. And yet -- somehow, I know my head will empty itself. Because I know so well the familiar feeling of writing in my journal, almost frantic, scribbling lines of thought into existence upon my page in black ink, desperate to pour ideas and feelings and the very idea of being alive, onto a page and capture it there, where it will remain, stained in ink, long after I've forgotten I ever felt that way or had that epiphany or underwent that experience. I know the feeling of dumping myself onto page after page after page, and then, suddenly -- it's enough. I'm done. My pen drops, I let out a breath, I scan the last sentence of my page, I give a shake to my aching wrist, massage my cramped fingers, look at the window, and bask in the feeling that my innards are now clinging to a page, rescued from the abyss of the mystery of my being and held there to paper for me to look back upon later. My head is empty in that moment. My words have run freely, and they have run out. In those moments, I feel overflowingly full, yet marvelously emptied and unburdened. It is that sweet moment of both. Both empty, and full. Reminiscent, and hopeful. Clearheaded, yet awed at the mystery. Both the excavator and the hidden treasure, at the same time.

So, because I know this feeling, I am not worried that I will have to keep tapping away at this keyboard for eternity. I know there will be a moment in which my words have run their race and my head is, for an instant, empty.

What a gift this challenge has given to me to be able to freely write until I reach that point. A mess and tangle of words usually reserved for my journal will appear for all the world to see, and that thought does not make me afraid.

This is one of the greatest gifts of being an artist, of any kind, and writing is art -- this not being afraid. Most of the world is afraid to show their vulnerabilities, and we are, too. But we cannot give in to that fear. To create art is to embrace vulnerability. it is to expose it in others, too, to bring out the worst and the best in humans.

Sometimes I am afraid I will never be able to do that -- that all of my writing falls short, and always will. That I will never write something that perfectly captures a moment, the essence of a perosn. And I am right to think my writing will fall short. I know I am. In part because I am a human, and in part because existence is to broad a thing to be captured into words, no matter how expertly spun. The thing that is wrong is for that to make me afraid. If I choose not to write because I am afraid it will not be perfect, that would be like choosing not to live because life isnt perfect, and that is unthinkable. Life is unbearably, achingly beautiful, and is the furthest thing from perfect. What if my writing, too, then, could be both? What if it could be so wonderful it makes my heart ache, and yet be flawed, at the same time?

Isnt that what it means to be alive?

I hit my sweet spot. I havent yet realized the meaning of my words, but I found the spot when my fingers wanted to stop, and my brain had no follow-up thought.

Signing off, L.

I have a hypothesis (keep in mind that it is only an hypothesis) that the reason mental illness cases are on the rise, and are especially on the rise in the US and Western Europe, is because the number of psychiatrists, psychologists and counselors are on the rise. Universities are pumping out those degrees and those new “Doctors” must have patients, right?

On a side note, I had a doctor start me on Cholesterol meds once. When I went back for a follow-up, he ran tests and said, “Great! I see the meds are pulling your cholesterol levels back down! I will write you out a full prescription.”

Except that I never took them. The levels went down on their own. That was 15 years ago. I have no doubt that had I taken them then I would still be on them today, and we now know what those statins can do to you as far as liver damage and diabetes.

All right, back to my point.

Let’s say there’s a kid who isn’t doing well in school. We’ll call him Little Huck. Let’s say that Huck is a little wild, has trouble sitting still, doesn’t like to read, isn’t eating right, is almost unmanageable even. I knew a kid just like that once! Classic signs of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, right? Well, those are also classic signs of poor parenting. But wait, the parents are bringing the cash cow to the bank, so why would the doctors blame them? Instead, let’s let the bad parent off the hook, call it ADHD, prescribe Adderall, Daytrana, Dexedrine and Ritalin for… well, for life, right? Forever follow-up visits, forever prescriptions, and little brothers and sisters coming up the ladder-all.

So now our boy Huck is 17. Little Huck has been on those drugs since he was 12. He is moody now, hardly eats, has no friends, few interests, chews his nails, is scared of everything. No problem… just a little anxiety, they tell us. A little Xanax will take care of that, or Valium, or Ativan? Hell, we’ll try them all til we find one that works best for Poor Lil’ Huck ;)

But now Huck is 19. He has been on one, or probably a combo, of those drugs and Lithium for 7 years, and he is showing the effects from it. He is lazy, lethargic, depressed… you know the type, the Paxil, Zoloft type. The type that is addicted to all sorts of prescription and non-prescription drugs now, hates his parents, dropped out of school, steals, and is unwelcome at Thanksgiving dinner when all he really needed was more outside time, structure and discipline as a child.

But no worries! We still have that shrink who will work very hard at keeping Huck alive and insured so that she can keep up the payments on that new Lexus SUV that gets her kids to soccer practice. We wouldn’t want HER kids on all those meds now, would we?

But hey, I am no expert, so please don’t be too hard on Old Huckleberry now that you’ve read this.

It IS only a hypothesis, adder all.

(Was shooting for the bonus points, but doubt I’ll get’em, as somehow my straight-shooting hypothesis’ generally make me out the bad guy in the court of popular opinion.)

What do I know of truth

With two eyes that see

A heart that feels

And a mind

That logics out

Whatever I desire

What could I know

Of truth

When love

Always finds me

No matter how many miles

Leagues

Or au’s I put between us

What could I know

Of truth

When I look one way

But was raised another

But if truth

Is subjective

Like reality

Then how can it be

Self-evident

And if truth

Is subject to my beliefs

Then

What’s the point of arguing?