To this day I never really came close to closure about therapy.
And when I close my eyes and leaf through moving picturesque memories in sepia, I’m reminded blurrily of my kindergarten teacher, Ms. Karren. It’s been many months since we’ve started our session: the longest of sessions. And just when I think I’m to fix my psyche, she tells us to keep journals. Write about anything that may come to mind, she smiles. Well then of course to me the bigger problem isn’t what to write about, I think. It is my handwriting.
How can I write when I don’t know how to write? To paraphrase, how can I write as I still compile my vocabulary? Instead, to provoke my childhood prodigies I decide to embark upon search for the perfect handwriting: a brand new shiny one for elementary next year. So I try my right hand and try my left. I fall in love with letters and uncover their personalities. The letter e smiles at me; s is yellow and bright and full of life. This is, I guess the moment when my typographic wonders will spark into a hobbyist I claim to be today.
Many years have sailed by and I still write a day when time allows. My handwriting is not a big deal as I once thought. So I scratch to dig up and learn and share these thoughts and discoveries on this enriching medium we call the Web. I know what I think for I write about it. Some folks can read your future from the palm of your hand, whereas others may find it a puzzle to read the doctor’s handwriting, and that’s the thrill of the chase. To this day, until now, I can finally say I understand. Writing is therapy.