Sometimes life just throws you a curveball, you know? And even though you thought you knew some things, it turns out that maybe you don't, but that's okay.

But you'd still like to talk about, complain about it, chew it over with someone.

You can't talk to your roommates, because by and large they are wastes of flesh that exist only to torment you.

You can't talk to anyone at work, because, well, it's work, and you'd rather not make it any more than that.

You'd talk to your significant other, but maybe they're part of the curveball, or maybe you don't have one, or maybe both.

You could go to your priest, except you don't have one.

The parents and/or siblings are an option. Family in general, let's say. But maybe you don't have that kind of relationship with them, or the curveball you've got winging your way just isn't something you feel comfortable broaching with them.

So you just bite down on it. The words build up in your throat and crowd your molars and try to spill out with every benign, everyday conversation you engage in, but you keep it held back. You can feel the pressure of needing to speak like it was a weight on the top your head, but there's nowhere for the words to go, and speaking them to the empty air is no better than the circles they're running inside your skull, and worse in some ways.

Pretty soon this little curveball owns your life. Your hand trembles as you reach to answer the phone or pick up the pen. You get short with people, and your moods are darker and last longer than normal. Food tastes like ashes and you sleep more and more.

But then, just when things are bleakest, you remember that there is someone who will listen without judging, who can be on your side no matter what.

The page.

Blank, bleached, slightly rough paper. And as you drag your pen furiously across its surface, spilling out your blandishments, fears, hopes and despair, you can't believe you ever forgot. The very act of putting it all down frees you from the weight, and you realize you've been clenching your jaw and grinding your teeth.

Soon enough, it's out. It's apart, separate, away. The page contains it for you, channels it, bears the weight and balances the burden. You can store it, you can throw it away, you can even burn it, but the page has captured the power of the Thing and it can no longer rule you.

And then it's all sunshine and rainbows, because why shouldn't it be?

The Thing, contained on the page and limned by words, seems smaller and you can't believe it was ever so important as it seemed to be, and you chuckle, for maybe the first time in days.

And you decide to go get a burrito, which ends up tasting damn good.

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