this photo was taken three days before I left the UK for this crazy adventure
I woke up this morning to the sound of my students running down the stairs at 6 am (long, long story). I was dreaming I was back in my house in Glasgow, and that Alex & I had just been fired from our first day of an office job for eating pineapple, and we were writing an objection to our dismissal on a postcard, as recently fired girls in dreams often do.
I stretched, leaned into the fortress of sheets I’d made around myself, shrugged on a hooded sweatshirt and went to the bathroom of my new room in my new city in my new life to get ready for work. I was awake an hour and fifteen minutes before my first alarm would go off, and Alex was still sleeping across the room, so I pulled out my laptop and started writing. I'm writing a fiction novel. I've wanted to start writing fiction again for what feels like an AGE, but I've been avoiding it. Fiction and novel writing was my main creative outlet before I started blogging, so it almost feels like I'm doubling back on myself. But I'm not writing this novel for anyone. This novel is for me. It's not for anyone else and that is why I'm writing it. For writings sake. To get my brain going.
I haven’t been writing just to write in a few weeks. It feels foreign, strange to just be typing without thinking. Without expectations. Without deadlines. Without anything other than letting my mind run.
I’ve missed this.
Lately I’ve been all go go go, but when am I not? I think I’ve always lived my life 100 miles an hour, and always been caught between whether I should be guilty of this.
Maybe this busyness has made me let go of things I don’t have time to hold onto. Maybe it’s helped me forget pain. Maybe it’s pushed me to a place where I feel less lonely just because I’ve been running forward and not looking back.
Maybe one day it’ll all catch up to me. Maybe, if I’m being really honest, that scares me the most.