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So.

It’s been a while since I last wrote or posted anything. In the past few weeks, a lot has happened, so much so that I haven’t had the time to actually come back to writing. Well, no, that’s a lie. It’s more like, I haven’t taken the time to do so. I’ve been scribbling ideas down in the margins of my life, trying to build them up, in vain. I have sat at my desk and stared at my screen, at my paper, and nothing has come out yet, ironically. Even the ink has dried up in my veins. Is this the end, or am I just in a rut?

Perhaps I was brash. I used to think that time was elastic, that hours meant nothing, that tired was merely a feeling, a state of mind. And I happily lost myself in days and days of work, which quickly turned into weeks, into months. I leave at dawn, come back at dusk, and it’s the same everyday. A grinding feeling of doing good work, but having time for nothing else, has gradually engulfed me. And I don’t really like it, I think. And I’ll get used to it, probably.

Don’t get me wrong, I know it’s like that for everyone. That it’s hard for every single person on this planet, really. No one likes waking up early in the morning to go to work. And I’m not complaining about this, about any of this. I simply don’t know if I’ll be able to do it indefinitely. Looking forward to the weekend, over and over again, to these extra two or three hours of sleep on Saturday and Sunday morning, only to start over on Monday. For now, it’s fun, and I can’t wait to see more of it. But it means that I don’t get to write as much. And I still have a head full of awkward sentences and grumpy words, and no time to get them out. It kind of sucks, doesn’t it.

And sometimes, it’s the body that’s not quite there, not quite ready to answer this call of duty of sorts. The head feels oh so cloudy, the eyelids heavy, and rest of it keeps getting worse. When I come home, there’s no juice left, anywhere. Like a zombie, I trudge around the streets and the corridors, shaming myself into opening my computer or putting on running shoes, in vain. It’s a feeling of powerlessness that comes over me as I slump on my bed every night, with messy hair and day old clothes.

And then the guilt settles. Endless, shameful, sour guilt. Little by little, it creeps into me, seeping into the cracks of my soul. Little by little, it distills its lethargic poison, its bitter bile into my already exhausted remains. Up until the point where I can’t even pick up a pen anymore. My fingers curl around the blueish-blackish ink, my knuckles whiten, and I freeze. I could easily turn to stone. Some days I think that I could gladly stare into Medusa’s eyes and maintain her icy glare, as I turned into a perfect statue of frozen ignorance and idle dysfunction.

Am I scared of writing again? Is that it? Is that what makes me uneasy as the days go by, when I lie awake at night, staring at the uneventful ceiling for what feels like hours? Is that what makes me look at the blank pages as I shudder, again and again? 

Or maybe I’m scared of trapping myself in a corporate career I thought I wanted nothing of. I don’t even know anymore. Or maybe, I’m plainly anxious. And tired. And I’m getting myself stuck in a routine that is absolutely not helping.

All in all, I think it’s just the creeps. I’m being dramatic, for sure. I have less time, and it freaks me out, and the stress keeps adding up, higher and higher; but is it me against the world? Not really, no. I need to calm it down. So what, if my rhythm is different, now. I still need to find that spark, that fire that pushes me forward, somewhere in the darkness I’ve plunged myself into. Because at the end of the day, I can’t be as harsh a judge on myself as I am today. I could take it a little easy, you know? Take it easier, but take it seriously, still.