Every term we get one week towards the middle to catch up on reading and generally reflect on how the term has been so far for us. It’s a break basically. But when you have the amount of work I have it’s a god sent. But it’s not as if there isn’t any time to myself. A week feels so long when it starts but so short when it ends.
I’ve begun looking outwards, in this world we’re constantly looking inwards trying to see everything with us at the centre but if you even tilt the angle a little bit everything seems different. That’s what I have been trying to do, looking at things differently. The theme for this week really is reading for me along with chores. For some perhaps Valentine’s will take precedence.
I am grappling at words, like trying to catch dust they fall through the gaps between my fingers. This happens to me when I focus, it becomes hard to switch out of that mode, all my writing is conserved for my work that my own words run short. That’s why I haven’t written a blog in a while. All my creative energy has been directed towards work and what was an overactive brain has settled down. It’s a zone where you can only see what’s in front of you and everything else fades.
Last year since I was not working, writing was everything, but writing is my work. This was my worry when the year began, that things would change, that the time I once had would be over. I am still adjusting to the shift, the shift of place, and the mind. I am not anxious in the way I used to be, it’s a new kind of anxiety where my emotions have detached themselves from my thoughts like oil and water.
Too much happened too fast, like a plot twist in a book. But unlike the reader, I can’t go back a few pages to reread and understand what happened. I am the protagonist so I must continue. Here I am in reading week reflecting on all of this.
Perhaps there’s something strange of looking forward into the future and then making it there. I am reeling from the fact that I even came back, that despite losing my grandfather things have been better for me, despite so much grief there’s been rays of sunshine. I have a hundred emotions inside me and my writing reflects that, but they are separate from my thoughts.
Sometimes words don’t find their way out of you, not because you don’t have anything to say but because you’re not ready to write or speak about it yet, you want them to be yours for a bit before they become somebody else’s. There’s so much I want to write about every day, about every detail, every fallen leaf, every raindrop and every sound but all I can say or write are the words in my head and not my heart. When I am ready I will tell you.
It’s reading week and I will read, I will think and I will write but I will feel, allow myself to feel what I am feeling and let those feelings exist, give them the benefit of the doubt. They deserve at least this much.