The way I know to heal

The only way I know to heal is this. To pick up this pen and connect it with this paper, letting the ink glide out and form shapes with meanings known only to those who can decode this English language. But these words aren’t for anyone else – at least not primarily – no matter what symbols they are familiar with. My ludicrous handwriting could be considered its own code – even I sometimes struggle to decipher the intentions I had while sliding my hand across the page.

Yes, this is the only way I know to heal. A friend I’ve had since young childhood. I’d pick up my tools and let it all out – the words, actions, thoughts, and feelings that pelted me each day like sharp drops of rain – sometimes even hail. I’d take refuge under the slanted roof where it was dry, quiet, and free of judgment.

I pull these enigmas from my mind the way Dumbledore does with his wand – dropping them into the pensieve, a magical object that allows one to clear real estate in their brain and at the same time see their thoughts more clearly from a distance. Lining them up like soldiers, then shuffling them around like puzzle pieces looking for patterns, connections, familiarities.

This notebook is my pensieve; the pen my wand. At least twice in the last handful of weeks I have picked them up in utter bereftness. I’ve kept my hand moving and let the words drip out fat and hot – sizzling like bacon in the pan, sparks of grease threatening to burn tiny scars into my skin. But oh, the smell. That heavenly aroma is almost unmatched in its potency. The pen kept moving until it no longer needed to, until the bacon was rendered and crispy and my heart was steady, swollen, drained, and satisfied.