Habits: The more they change, the more they don't.

I got some bad, yet good, news about an old friend yesterday. (Bad - critical, initially potentially fatal illness; good - he's survived, and will likely recover fully.) I noticed I was moping about it all over the internet, and was wondering why I was compelled to do so, and it finally hit me.

Ten - even five - years ago, I would've been writing in one of my paper journals until my hands cramped, trying to get all the words and the feelings out out. I might not even be able to read the words later, but getting them out would be the important thing. Getting the words, the thoughts, the prayers, the fears, all of it committed to paper as fast as possible.

Now, of course, I type faster than I write, and my journals aren't made of paper. The words still spill forth, but out where they can soak others unawares. The reflex hasn't changed, just the medium - and the liklihood that someone will notice. (Believe me, frantically scribbling in a journal with tears running down one's face was a good way to get ignored in high school - and, okay, tended to be a vicious circle best left behind.)

This weekend, I think I'll be writing a LOT. Fortunately, I've got paper on hand, so all y'all will be spared.