I’ve made a habit of waking up at 12:20 every day. I don’t think it comes from depression. I just think I like to sleep a lot. Well, here’s the other side to it: if I can sleep one more hour I shave off a little bit more time that I might have spent moping.
I’m not going to mope. I’m going to be productive. Because it’s all I’ve got. I’m going to work my fingers to nubby little bones that bleed all over my keyboard. Not because I’m overworked. No, I’m choosing the amount of time I’ve been putting into my writing. But there’s an urge inside of me–an anxiety that is only quelled by sitting down and writing.
“I wake up, there she is.” That’s what I said in my last post, and it remains true.
This morning I woke up and the first thing I did was check her instagram. I know… obsessive. I know… you’ve got to stop stalking her, Zoey, it’s not healthy. And of course it’s not. Especially because it’s only a picture. And while pictures might be worth a thousand words, I don’t really know what those thousand words are. So my restless mind, which tends to go crazy under circumstances where information is lacking, fills in the blanks with sad, painful things, like a suffering-theme game of madlib.
And then I saw this post on my facebook called ‘Morning Pages’ which talks about waking up and writing and getting things out of your head first thing in the morning, so they’re not swirling around in there like sad little clouds.
So these are my morning pages, and this is what I’ve got to say:
I’m happy with what I wrote last night–not just the blog post, that was good, mind you, it was raw, and real. And I even started crying at one point while writing it and if that’s not the best possible outcome of writing (besides laughing, which I also did) then I don’t know what is. No, no, I’m happy with what I wrote in my novel. I’m happy with how much creativity and imagination is flowing through me. I’m not afraid to sit down and start writing. I’m not afraid to slip my way into a nice flow. I’ve learned it may take a little time but in the end what’s an hour of digging versus six of sheer absorption and flow? It’s well worth it.
And then I read someone’s post about how people are always complaining they don’t have enough time for the things that matter to them. Which I think is true. We make excuses for a lot of things. Like right now even I’m making excuses for why I’ve put off my next article for the sports blog. I’m making excuses as to why I’m not working on it right now. But anyways, this is about something much bigger than that. For me, this is about making time for my dreams–for the things that beat inside my tender heart, the things within my control that I wish to bring to fruition.
And wouldn’t you fucking know it? I AM making time for that. Time is all I’ve got right now. It’s quite wonderful. Even though there are moments where I look at my hands and I see all the time I’ve got on them, and it freaks me out, and I think shit I should get a real job. Shit, what am I doing with my time? Those are bad thoughts–well at least the “real job” part. It’s not unhealthy to examine the ways you spend your time. Which is probably why I started this post talking about how I wake up at 12 every day and why that’s justified. Maybe it’s not. Maybe I could wake up at eight and accomplish some important things (like securing my healthcare for the coming year. like writing my statement of purpose for Iowa. like finishing my next article.) But nooo, I’d rather sleep so as to avoid the possibility of having to live in a world where she’s gone, even if it’s only for one hour.
But then I’ve got my morning pages. And by writing this, I do see how my obsession with her takes away from my life. I do see how the pain it engenders does eat at my time, does compel me to want to sleep instead of waking up with a smile and getting some things done so I have time to read a book in the afternoon. I do see that, really. I see how the energy I put into this obsession, into this attachment, is energy I could be directing elsewhere. After all, it does nothing for me, but cause jealousy, anger, resentment, and at the worst of times dissociation.
But I don’t want to be dissociated. I don’t want to be jealous or angry or resentful–at least not all the time. She should be able to live her life–to be happy–to explore, and maybe if it’s right find love again. And I should be able to do all of that too. I should have the chance at love and passion and happiness and stability. I do have that chance.
And I have the chance for peace. It’s right in front of me.
Right now, it’s foggy in little Lamporecchio. Up on the hill it looks like the villa is floating in a cloud.
And just now, Giacomo calls to me. It’s time to help him with his english. I’m enjoying this tutoring thing. It makes me want to come back to America and practice my language skills again. I feel like Americans are so behind in regards to language. Everyone in Europe speaks at least two languages and in America you’ve really got to pursue it to learn anything else besides english. So I’m going to come back and get to working on my Spanish again. And I also want to take the TEFL so I can start traveling and tutoring families more. I think I could get used to this sort of lifestyle. It means a lot to me–helping people learn how to communicate in different ways–and I learn too. That’s another benefit.
Anyways, for now I don’t have much else to say. I wrote last night that I’ve got to wake up and do it all over again, and that’s what I’m doing. Each day I’ve got to relax enough to see what’s happening around me–like as I write this, I look at the clock and see that it’s 1:11. I’ve been seeing 1:11 a lot lately, and 11:11. You may not think so but it’s a good sign to me. It’s good to see these numbers. No matter what their significance really is, I gain support from them, encouragement to keep going on this path. And I don’t know where it’s leading but I’m happy with how much work I’ve put into this path.
It’s like it took me all these years to figure out what I wanted to do with my life–even though it’s what i always wanted to do, even though it was always staring me in the face. It took me all these years to realize that writing was actually my purpose in this life. And now that I’ve figured it out, I haven’t worked this hard on anything in my whole life. And if that’s not something to pat myself on the back for then I don’t know what else is. And if anything else, it just proves how committed I can be when I care about something.
So I’m going to keep this practice up. Maybe I’ll write morning pages every day. Maybe not, but for now this is my saving grace. This is the manner by which I’m going to keep myself from falling into oblivion. Or at the very least, if I’m going to fall I might as well write on my way down.