It’s most certainly time. It’s time I stop running away from the words I know I could spill all over the page and just allow them to flow. I feel that’s the only way I could write again. After all, I’m always spilling things clumsily on the daily.
I’ve been pushing the backspace button for days now, altering and realtering every single thing I write, and although deep down I knew the reason why, I preferred to act like I didn’t, like everything was okay, like everything was fine. Seems like even my fingers know when I lie.
A part of me was hoping the new year would come with different feelings, a different state of mind, a different attitude. I was hoping I could avoid facing the reality of how I’ve been feeling lately.
These days, I find myself questioning every single fickle thing I do and even the ones I don’t do.
As the fireworks brought in the new year, the pressure was already on.
I felt like I had to do something grand, something new. Everyone on social media was going on and on with the #newyearnewme with some even listing the big goals they set to achieve this year as well as their milestones from the last.
What about me? What happened to my goals? My ambitions? Lately, I can’t seem to find them.
I know I once had dreams that almost felt tangible even though they were only in my mind. I could see them, and I even had a rough idea of what it would take, the things I could do to make my desires more than my imagination. I can’t feel them anymore. I can’t see them anymore and I literally feel like I have no plans or fresh ideas.
New mornings don’t seem particularly special and nothing seems to impress me. It feels like I’m doing what I did yesterday today and vice versa. Going to university now feels like a chore, honestly it always did, but now that sentiment has only grown stronger.
I didn’t write a new years resolution this year for a few reasons: partly because I knew it would most likely be forgotten after about three weeks; dumped on a shelve beneath more imminent pieces of paper, but honestly, I think it was mostly because I didn’t know what I would write in it. Everywhere I turn there seems to be a big question mark, a big obstacle. Even the minor ones seem huge and I’m becoming someone that can still find an issue when there isn’t one.
This summer I’ll be graduating. I’ll officially be moving into the adult world. The world of expectations and consequences; that one my professor couldn’t help but describe as sh*t (her words exactly) and she sounded like she really meant it.
Maybe this is it, maybe I’m just not very fond of transition or big changes. Maybe the future seems a little too uncertain to be viewed as bright and hopeful.
I’m scared to make a move, any move for that matter. What if it’s the wrong one? What if it’s the right one?
It’s weird cause I’m usually the ‘cheerleader’: the one that has all the quotes ready to solve every issue. I talk about dancing in the rain, the light at the end of the tunnel and rainbows. I’m the one that is usually asking all the deep questions and finding solutions for all the different possible outcomes of a situation. So why can’t I pull myself out of this hole that it seems I dug involuntarily?
I’m certain it’s not just me that feels this way. I’m sure there are so many of us hiding behind our colourful picture-perfect Instagram feeds, showing only the parts of us we want people to see, only the glossy parts.
There are quotes that are way too real for our timelines, there are pictures that would be too authentic to our realities, too genuine. Just like most people, those are the parts I continue to choose to not put on display, the parts I filter and blur out of the photograph.
It brings me to the question: what is perfection anyway? And why the heck are we all chasing after something I’m pretty sure most of us cannot correctly define.
I do realize that there is something good in recognising that you’re no longer steering the wheel, that you’ve lost control and just don’t know where to make the next turn. It’s that realization that keeps me going, fills me with the hope that everything will be fine and that my mind is not the only one spinning out of control.
If only everything could stop for a moment, I always tell myself. If only I could catch a breath, look around, make a plan. Think. Not just a bunch of random thoughts jumbled up together like a messy pile of clothes, but real objective and realistic thoughts. As I said, I used to be good at that, at not completely losing it I guess.
My ability to ask questions and interrogate everything has become my greatest asset as well as my worst bad habit because now it is a showdown between me, myself and I… and I’m not here for it.
Your restless romantic roamer