I've been writing surprisingly little lately. Am I running away from something or the corruption has reached a point of unacceptance? Being back here feels surreal, yet so ordinary. There are no swarms, only sparks ever so easy to put at the back of my head. Talking about 2024 resolutions on walks with Karly was a chance for me to verbally organise my thoughts: I'm growing to seek easy comfort in pure present enjoyment, a grattitude I've been lacking for the past years. I've been less desperate for meaning, to allow the simplicity and carefreeness of light-hearted talk and banter. I don't know if these new tendencies symbolise a shift in stages of worldviews, or remnants of what it once was. I catch myself enjoying being alone much more than before, endorsing in little unnecessary routines like hair oil and skincare masks with music playing on the speaker while the mess and trash of the room is cleared. Or walking to my guardian's alone in darkness to deliver some New Years gifts. It's the continuation of the daily walks I used to feel incomplete without.
Events that occur just seem like events that occur. No matter the sporadity or progress, sometimes I view it through such a lens that it all appears to be mundane and ordinary. Snippets of the day flash back in mere seconds and life becomes a film trailer for when my pen flows seamlessly with the paper and I am lost in eloquence. I'm reaching a newfound peace. Overwhelmed by a lack of emotion. It's like the first step of success today, characterised with intentional yet artificial excitement and wonder. Or it's the numbness from the not-so-occasional waves of exclamation that there are so many possibilities I haven't yet exploited, current efforts are still inadequate, I need more. Or maybe it's the self-sustaining will for ambition that I envelop myself in when other things don't go as planned.
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