I’ve realised that there are quite a few things I’ve missed lately. Like holes in a wall that you didn’t notice at first but now can’t stop looking at. I’ve missed the ability to meet my friend in a cafe and chat for hours about books (our own and other people’s) until we realise we MUST get home and get writing. I’ve missed going to restaurants with my partner to celebrate this thing or that thing.
I’ve so deeply missed the cinema experience. There’s something profoundly and ineffably magical about being in the dark theatre with nothing but you, your popcorn and the big-screen-world painted in front of you.
But I’ve missed deeper things about myself and my life lately. I don’t know if it’s COVID, moving out last year with my partner, getting older, or the change in seasons. Maybe it’s all these things or none of these things.
I miss writing for the sake of it. Writing because it pains me not to. Writing because the characters won’t shut the hell up. Writing because the world I live in seems so unreal and far away compared to the story world inside of my head. Writing because I’m so damn excited to get to that climactic, life-changing scene I’ve dreamt about for months or years. Writing because it’s who I am and to not write would be to not exist.
Writing feels like a chore lately. The act of sitting at my laptop and writing the plot does, anyway. The characters aren’t as excited to have their stories told as they used to be.
I miss reading books and feeling impatient to dive in. Opening up the pages and finding pure gold. Narratives have fell flat this year. I’m not at the edge of my seat. The number of books I’ve started and then shelved is scary. Literally, it makes me feel a bit sick inside to do so.
I want to be excited again. Captivated again. I want to want things deeply. I miss that feeling.
I feel like I’m lying on hot coals, my back blistered and her body engulfed in flame.
I feel like I’m being held in a vice as it tightens, tightens, tightens around me.
I feel like I’m slipping through the sand in an hourglass, time and I passing life by in miniscule, unimportant ways.
I feel lost from myself. Whoever I was or whoever I was supposed to be right now is not the me I am or want to be.
I don’t want to feel so damn tired. I don’t want to feel so damn unsure. I don’t want to feel less-than. I don’t want to keep climbing up the hill, hoping the things I didn’t realise I was looking for will be just appear over the horizon.
I miss being excited, and now that I think about it, I’m not sure I ever have been.