I miss writing. There is a clarity of the mind that comes only with putting one's thoughts down on paper - or equivalent. My mind wanders into a thousand words at any given second, and the irony remains as the more thoughts I have the less I can hear myself think. By putting my thoughts in a metaphorical box I feel them dealt with, passed on to some other entity that can hear them out - from alpha to omega.
I breathe in and out with relief for getting my brain to stop, focusing on the breathing, even if for a jiffy, and with pride for the mindfulness of the present - or some other platitude straight from the meditation apps.
At once, all my thoughts return as if stronger, and the warm embrace of my competing companions quickly fills in the void left by the nothing that was; the unease of clarity of mind overcoming the peace of lifting the burden of thinking, as the poet would say.
