Reminding of Yourself

I am reminded daily of what happened in the past, so acutely that it's disorienting in the mornings. Sometimes, I don't know what day, time period I wake up to. I confused the fine line between past delusional haunting of my mind with today. I seem to wake up in the past, continually. It is damaging to myself and a bit tiring, difficult and hopeless to work through that every morning. Speed up the process, relive through these pains and suffer these wounds daily, until time catches up again. And sometimes, because the living of the past is so condensed, the emotions that are strongly attached to my experiences bring such negative emotions that the pain is all that much more intense, hurtful and bewildering.

It's a battle with myself, everyday. To forget, to greet the day, to keep working. It's my personal battle to not descent into my personal hell of revenge, depression and abyss.

Some days are more successful then others. Some days the necessity of appointments, arrangements and promises to keep is enough to get me going, out of the house and momentarily disabling the sensory inputs and outputs, which allows me to clamor, climb and pass through the day, until I come home and break down.

Other days are bad from the beginning and grow even more excruciating in the process of noon to night. It's immobilizing and I am reminded of the hopelessness of then. Not a good feeling.

It's a daily battle.

Coming to a close

Today is the last day of my Fiction Writing class. It's bitter because, well, I am a pout and like to rain on everybody's parade. Simply, if I wanted to pay for having the time to write, I could have done so. I would have created a writer's group where we could pay to read our writings.

But then again, I am glad having gotten the ability to go back to writing, without strings attached and having to worry about turning my unpolished work for a grade. Besides, we've been so busy with so much that, I barely got the time to hand in several pages of a story and two character sketches. Though, on a personal level it has done me a great deal of therapy.

But I was hoping for a far more structured, informative, planned ahead, with serious homework load, class time preserved for instruction and different writing exercises that would kick start any levels motivation and also imagination. I also work better with unmovable due dates, grave attitude and serious atmosphere where consequences are made real and heavy with a structured, organized lesson plans. I learn the best that day.

I am glad I began and finished this class even though it felt a bit of a waste of my time. I was able to recognize several things about myself, personality and mind working ways, as well as about myself as a writer and had a lens poking through about me, my work in depth. I am glad to see all my work of the previous years has had a cumulative effect on my writing. The level of my writing has seriously been upgraded. The stories I am able to imagine and capable of sketching out, flushing out, characterizing has also become somewhat more sophisticated.

Even these things are worthy enough to recognize, though I did not need to pay 70 dollars to see it.

At least I feel like I've taken the first step towards becoming a professional writer that I have been hesitating, and had no idea where to begin. I feel like, I am one step closer and that I could actually do this. To feel an impossible dream is one step closer to becoming improbable is a lift to my heavy curtained heart.

Summer

This upcoming summer is not going to be what I've imagined and anticipated. Though I guess stopped dreaming about back in January. This is another summer everything will be delayed. Another summer that I am not working, another summer that I am not attending conferences, workshops, symposiums. It's another summer that I won't be going back to school. Fall,when it comes will hurt. But it's too far from now and thinking about it is not going to change anything--at least at this point.

I will be moving--again, this summer. I so did not want to do this. Hopefully, we won't have to move out next summer. That will be the bummer: moving out three summers in a row.

But, both S and I have learned some valuable lessons. S has seen me in my worst. Without a job, depressed, hopeless, purposeless and without an inclination to change anything about my insecurities or situation. Then he saw me doing my best to get out of this rut, plan a healthy, careful, well balanced life. A meaningful life where we try our best to merge our lives. Merging lives though, is not something people can rush into and is not an easy task.

S is also a lot like me. Meek, timid and sometimes shy. Afraid. Without the proper ammunition to fight a battle. But determined, loyal, honest and hard working. I'm also seeing S at his a turbulent, trying and challenging time. Without a summer job, meaning without a decent income and without a group. I can see the fear in his eyes that I will think less of him. Or judge him. Or think him incompetent. Perhaps feel that he is not a hard worker or unable to provide. I think none of these things. He's overwhelmed, overworked and incredibly hurt. Whatever happens, we will get through it together and at the end of the day, that is what matters the most to me. He is an incredible person and everyday I feel even more lucky to be sharing my life with him.

Everyday, I love watching his smile grow.

Time is of Essence

Time is of essence. I am a firm believer in that. It's a fluid, frigid, impossible to reverse, but possible to repeat, relive and always consumed thing. It is of essence, because we are all here on borrowed time that reminds us we are here, alive, but definitely not permanently. We eventually move on from here to wherever you believe there is next after here.

It's fluid, because we have the ability to relive several similar experiences. It's fluid because there are universal, or near universal experiences most humans go through at different times, but in their time on here. While one matures quicker, the other matures more slowly. Everyone's evolutions are their own, in their own pace and with their own lessons to learn. Some end up having to grow up fast, while others are granted a longer childhood with less responsibilities and less severe consequences.

It's frigid, because once we live through a second, a day, a month we unfortunately have lived it up and time, is up. It doesn't always give us a second chance, the thing we give away, we take and made to sacrifice, taken away from us, forcefully or violently, are never to be returned to us. For that it is frigid.

We consume it always, and its borrowed time, until eventually we run out of ability to borrow for any longer.

But time is of essence. We must do the things we must do, when we must, in order to accomplish and move on to the next stage, where we are meant to be.

Until then, keep moving.

Libraries

There is something about libraries that always draws me in, comfortably welcoming me into the imaginative worlds of stories where the characters are bright, eccentric and follow their hearts and dreams. Stories of where time has no significance or meaning, whether it be past, present, future, or far far into the future where planets have been found, destroyed and cannibalistic dystopian futures exist. I could do all of this, cozily from the couch I am sitting on as long as I am enveloped by the silence of a library that drowns me in books and writers I've never heard of before. Lost in the collective knowledge, memory and histories of my craft ancestors that I so desperately strive to be like, painstakingly labor to become a better writer and share in their glory.

So imagine my happiness when I was able to access the library in between my rare work shift breaks. I say rare, because they mostly stick me with the all day shifts, which means I get to be on my feet from 9 a.m. to 10 p.m. At that point in time, library closes. But to be frank, I wouldn't be able to go even if it did stay later due to my excessive physical exhaustion.

On the days that I can get an hour or two break, away from my sexist co workers, the overwhelming scent of food, my black clothes and being on my feet, the library has become my sanctuary, my hospice, solace and a pair of warm arms to softly embrace me, heal me and coddle me to an imaginary future where I did not have to do any physical, manual labor.