I've begun to suspect this act - this will - this compulsory muse which I call "writing" is, in fact, the illusion of catharsis. Like a mirage shimmering far off on the horizon I gaze upon the unreachable waters of a quiescent mind. And far too often I've trekked through these shifting sands of unrefined ideas and abrasive conclusions towards that placid falsehood. "If I can just get words onto paper," I think to myself, "if I can just form these vague thoughts into enlightened views then I could navigate this landscape. I could find my way back to the present moment. I could be. Here. Now."
But the present moment is an illusive creature. It's capable of hiding itself anywhere. Everywhere. It's in the sound of a passing car. It's in the feel of the warm blanket pressed against my body. It's in the smell of the rain wafting through my open window. The present moment is all around me. Except for here. With me. In my writing.