Well, what have we learned? I set out originally to understand writing a bit better. Although it defies direct description at times, I feel like I’ve gotten at part of the core of it, in a way. Listen:

Tomorrow, I will berate myself over how sloppy my flash fiction is.

Next month, I’ll probably cry because my poems are bad.

Next year, I may flip out over a book that changes my life.

My feelings towards writing aren’t going to go away. In the worst of times she’ll appear to me as my guardian angel, in the best of times, as my personal demon. But if nothing else, amidst the chaos of life, writing will allow me to grab a moment of peace, a brief reflection, a tiny shard of bliss.

What more could I want in a best friend?