Writing is also cathartic. It takes the mighty journey of getting an experience move through neuronal pathways that store memory to associate with emotional states and behavioural idiosyncrasies to get words from the brains word-storage boxes and then to move through musculoskeletal processes involved in transcribing that experience into written comprehendable word sequences. The whole process itself orders some of the chaos running around in a person’s head waiting for a surface to bounce off of and make sense into some form of cared order. Chaos is unknown order, you see? Our shadow selves – the different shades of grey and blue and all those rainbow colours we won’t let anyone else know about- also has sunny spots and balms and solutions waiting to anoint our aching souls and spirits, if only we care enough to give our own self some time – some personal ‘me-time’ – to reflect and appreciate and listen to what we have to say, even if no one else has the time or inclination to pay any attention to us. When we listen to ourselves, that’s one ear whose attention our aching selves don’t have to try grabbing attention of just to be listened to. To care enough. For our existence…and to validate our experience as worth paying attention to.