I was alone at the cafe twenty minutes ago; now there are three others. Two of the three brought bibles, the third reads a thick maths book while holding a thick calculator.
Yesterday, a coworker went to the photo gallery of this site. “Your pictures won’t load,” he said. I confirmed this with a frown. “I like to look at your pictures when it’s dead like this at the office,” he explained (unnecessarily but welcome). “I should update that site during dead times like this at the office,” I responded (unnecessarily). From the refused pictures I realised the thirty-plus days since the last update here embraces my meeting a new person who agreed to date.
I notice that my writing output, either public or private, dwindles during times of personal changes. By that I mean, writing production reduces as uncertainty increases. Perhaps it’s a matter of trust? I don’t trust myself to write honestly; that i’ll express feelings poorly, immaturely, so express nothing at all. It’s some form of escapism. Virginia Woolf wrote that nothing ever happens until it is written down. She likely meant that for the wonderful things deserving posterity though it applies without a doubt to the situations one wishes could be forgotten.
No comments:
Post a Comment