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I might slow down now. I have been splurging for a year, putting down every thought and feeling. Why? For whom? For what reason, other than inner counsel?

Who do I write for? For me? My wife? My family? For complete strangers? Passersby? Who knows? Mostly for nobody at all, my words just drifting out into the ether, fleetingly existent.

One thing is clear, though unread by others, they have mostly served their purpose, providing a therapeutic healing for my heart. A year and a half ago, such intense neuroticism, verging on despair. But now? Almost peace.

All of a sudden, I find myself writing about the mundane and routine. In place of meditations on the profound — on the spiritual ascent or descent of the soul — I find myself moved to speak of work, technology, publishing. Trivial concerns.

But a good sign, I think. Have I emerged on the other side, sliding out of that dark despondency? Have I rediscovered contentment? Embraced simplicity? Understood that all I was worried about is long forgotten? Realised that nobody cares?

All is okay, I realise in the end. The world didn’t change. Shoulders were shrugged, and everyone just wandered on as they had done before. And me? I saw unusual things that knocked me sideways momentarily. But then I too picked myself up again and likewise wandered on.

And so off we go, back into our own worlds. The world of work. Raising families. Fostering hopes for the future. Focusing on the road ahead. Perhaps I will slow down now, and write less. Perhaps this chapter is closed.