I want so desperately to write because I have a lot to say and a lot to think and a lot process, and let me tell you I have tried, but it just hasn't worked.
My friend walked into my room the other day and asked what I'd been doing in the whole hour we'd spent separate, and I replied that I'd stared at my screen trying to write and still nothing would come.
Admittedly, the flaw in this was probably that I was trying so damn hard, but I'd finished my essays and wanted to vent and nothing would materialise.
Maybe its so hard because so much has happened and how can I explain how vivid and intense and overwhelming my life is when I can't even process it. And even when I try to process all these weird thoughts and emotions nothing happens. Fuck, man! I feel like I need to just lie still for a day and feel.
So now I'm back, in front of the fire, with my cat and my choral music, where I wanted to be when the library was cold and I was tired. It doesn't feel as relieving as I thought it might. I miss my friends and carry on seeing, hearing, thinking things I wish I could gossip to them about over a cuppa. I miss the pub and the back streets and the laughter and in some weird ways the library. I'm not yet relaxed and feel caught in a liminal existence, but I know I need to breathe and ease into it and it will soften.
Today, I went back to the foodbank, which was a sobering (necessary) jolt to my Oxford privilege, and something I want to write about. It made me feel angry, then embarrassed and then helpless, and has confirmed how I will vote on Thursday. I then went back to work, which was a total dichotomy of privilege. It's been a lot.
What else? I read Queenie curled up in bed, on the sofa with my friends, on the train. It was a profound contrast of a light-hearted rom com and the realities of systemic racism/sexism inherent in Britain. Funny but sobering in parts. I also fuckin' adored the ways her friends dealt with her mental health issues and have written them down in my journal for future reference. Would very much recommend for a quick christmas read.
I haven't listened to much, because I lost my headphones and refuse to buy new ones. But I have successfully managed 3 carol concerts of varying qualities and theological commitments, and probably need to reign in the amount of choral music I listen to. I'm 20, not 90.
I've done some other sick things, most of which sound mundane when written down. But for reference, a dinner party, a christmas dinner, nights out, 4pm's in pubs, reading in cafes, almond croissants, mulled wine, walks in the park. Good stuff.
But if your panicking that your life isn't living up to this picture of golden euphoria, don't fret. Mine isn't either. Stress, control, big anxiety about the future are all dominating, along with just generally feeling a bit lost and on edge and burdened by unreciprocated friendship dedication. But hey!
I wanna write a lot this Christmas, even if it is narcissistic and vain, mostly because where else am I going to put it?!
(also, don't worry; I too am rlly bored of these update posts listing the 'fun' things I did whilst also crying; more interesting shit is coming i promise)
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