Days Gone By

A Montrouge (Rosa La Rouge) by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

A Montrouge (Rosa La Rouge) by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

1 May 2014
8:05 PM


I reckon I’d start writing here again, after being remiss for the past few weeks. I’ve missed this, and I was sorry to break the rhythm of everyday letters. Perhaps one day I’ll upload them all.

I apologise, too, if my letter that’s on its way to you will land at your doorstep in Edinburgh instead of Iona. I had planned to send you a letter or two while you are there on the island, but it seems I could never find the time.

No, that’s not correct. I think, if I’m being honest, there is always time, but lately it feels thick around me. There is time but there isn’t enough space. I don’t know if that makes sense, but that’s how it felt. As if I will never get to where I’m going, as if I will never finish anything I started, as if I am stuck in a loop of repetitive actions that never amount to anything.

I am trying to take care of myself. There are things to do and yet at the end of the day I have to reconcile with myself that I did what I could, and I’d try again tomorrow.

I wonder if I’ll ever be okay. When. A. told me that I looked better, but I had to admit that I’ve been trying really hard to sound like myself that night, over dinner, even if I’m really not. For what it’s worth, it was a difficult endeavour, but at the same time it didn’t feel like a farce. Maybe a part of me can remember who I was before. Maybe I’m not as lost? Down but not out.

These days I work. Write. Talk to myself in my journal. Talk to you in my letters. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

I read, too. Oh, that’s where I mostly am actually. Inside my head, with other characters. Feeling their joy, their pain. Walking with them. Experiencing their adventures.

I used to say that these are my ‘cocooning’ days–days when the world chafes and I need to wrap myself around myself–but I can’t remember the last time I emerged and felt like a goddamn butterfly. Perhaps ‘hibernating’ is better. The beast hides and turns its back away from the world, and when it’s ready to go out again, there are no pretenses, no surprises–because it is still a beast.



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