I watched Sleepless in Seattle not to long ago. For the life of me, I can’t seem to remember how long “not too long ago” was.
I used to know. I used to be able to pinpoint the exact moment everything happened in my life because I would write it down.
I remember back in high school, I used to keep my notebook open in every single class and during lunch and keep writing everything. Anything. Something interesting a teacher or classmate said. How I was feeling that day. A math problem I couldn’t solve. A history lecture that seemed cool. Lyrics to a new song. Everytime I failed a test or got above average it would go into my journal. Every vacation. Every daydream. Plenty about Jagapathi. And the rest of my crushes.
And then COVID Summer hit. Life halted. There was nothing new to write. Everyday was the same old same old… and then life slowly picked up pace but I slowly gave up writing about it and it became difficult to get back to it.
Was that what happened?
It occurs to me right now: it could’ve been that I didn’t give up writing but I began channeling it in a different way… MML, songs, my poetry, novels, other creative ventures.
It probably also helped finding a temporary therapist and a few non-temporary friends I finally trusted and a lot of strangers who didn’t mind hearing me talk.
But it feels off… To not journal.
It feels like a part of me it leaving. And I don’t like that.
Maybe it’s something else.
I just don’t know what.
Maybe it’s the same reason I’m unable to sleep again. Well I could never really sleep properly. I don’t do the whole ten to six thing. But I didn’t used to feel time. Not like this. I didn’t used to feel so restless.
I used to be okay with the empty hours.
Before I became a workaholic.
Before Winter 2020.
I used to spend my spare seconds daydreaming. Living another life. Many other lives.
What happened to those dreams? To those stories?
