So I have been MIA for five days and I wish I can say I have gone to the beach or a nice luxury hotel. Instead, I stayed in bed and did some serious reading about studying in Canada. I so want to get in UWindsor so badly and take an MFA program. But let’s save that euphoric illusion for later. My long weekend is over and I can’t bring it back. If I could just retrieve those days, I swear I will make it worthwhile. I would have converted them to a rewarding, remarkable and glorious Me-Time. A physical vacation in contrast to my habitual mental holidays I organized for myself whenever I feel stressed or bored:
Been through places, you know. A lot of places -during my spare hours at work staring at the monitor or during those static seconds in the metro or those wee hours of stubborn wakefulness. I travel. I travel in places I know I am supposed to be. I sit in a corner over viewing Prague’s romantic riverside and I walk under the magnificent skyline on a beautiful cobblestone streets with a good book wrapped around my arms… and then I would revert back in putting turmeric in my chicken.
How can I have wasted my Eid Holiday like that? A slow steady slap on my face. I should’ve written something neat and took advantage of that creative isolation. Instead I just did what I normally do. Let time pass me by. Not that I procrastinated in bed doing nothing. I did something – which up to this point I am trying to make sense of as productive. Apart from obsessing about going back to film school, I’d like to think that cooking meals and doing laundry is something beneficiary to my individual growth as a person, as a human, as a partner. I am learning to be a better version of myself lately, although it remains unrecognizable and unappreciated. At least, I am doing something.
I just hoped that somehow, I have planned those five precious days systematically. I would have prioritized writing because frankly, this is the only thing that makes me feel fucking alive and amazing these days. It makes me feel worthy of something. It makes me feel capable of something good. It reinforces me and it ignites me. It is probably by far, the only thing that makes me feel “exceptional” and even if I don’t have a wide reader – (heck I know it’s an insanely boring blog). I somehow feel I am of “high value”. And I am taking all the much deserved credit because I know how in love I am with the process of stitching words and putting the puzzle pieces of my thoughts together to create a quilt, if not a diorama of my musings. And to see them vividly in flesh is a bliss. I revel the emotions poured on paper. That is enough relaxation for me.
I guess all I am saying is, I want to be alone with my thoughts lately. Just enjoy the privacy of my own haven. I just want to slam my door sometimes and dissolve in my own writing. Just shut the hurtful noise from outside. No one to hurt me or belittle me or make me feel unappreciated and unworthy. I guess all I want to say is, when I’m alone with my own thoughts, I know they stand by me.
Creative Writing comforts me in a way that some people can’t.
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