looking for a way out

on life transitions and the self-doubt they always bring

i walk and walk but there doesn’t seem to be an end. a long, endless corridor ahead of me, its yellow walls faded with time. at one point a door opens on the right; it’s a waiting room so i stop there, exhausted, sitting in one of the many green chairs. it looks identical to the one i was sitting in weeks - or was it months? - ago. if there’s a way to get out of here, i can’t seem to find it.

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i seek inspiration, i find it, but whenever i sit down at my desk the words don’t come out. there are so many things i want to write about, so many things i wish i wrote. i pick up a pen but it only writes the same stories over and over. about how much i miss people, how i long to go back, how i crave change. people seemed to like what i’ve written so far but sometimes i can’t help but wonder if my previous works were just the result of a momentary inspiration destined to fade.

i turn my life into fiction, every day a new episode. i love reading journal-like pieces and i love writing in my journal. if i started sharing pages from it, it would mean i could post more often. i’d only need to get over my fear of oversharing first. there’s something so scary about being known. i tend to write about my negative traits, so if you read my unabridged thoughts you’d probably think i’m not a good person after all. i’m a pessimist, i overthink and i worry, i get angry and i push people away. where is the nice girl everyone believes me to be?

from clarice lispector’s a breath of life

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i started a book the other night and it was like it was speaking about me, putting my feeling into words better than i would. she craved quiet corners of her house and yard where no one was laughing or playing music, where no one was at all. and then, in those quiet spaces, she immediately felt her solitude so keenly that it hurt. it was the conundrum of her life at home. she wondered what was wrong with her. she felt guilty for wanting something else. when i catch myself daydreaming i remind myself to be careful what i wish for. i’ve seen too many movies in which people desire something different, something more for themselves only to end up regretting it and wanting to take it all back. maybe i am where i’m meant to be. i just know i’m tired of staring at the white ceiling of my room wondering when change will arrive. that’s what haunts me the most at night and what makes my stomach hurt. but other times - when i feel better - it’s all i crave.

and so, i go on. i live the same day over and over again: i wake up, i sit at my desk and write for hours. i had a month before my thesis deadline, now i have ten days. people told me they wrote theirs in a longer period of time and i feel rushed, as always. it seems like i can never fit in and be normal, even when i do try.

i always blame my procrastination on my lack of time. once i’m less busy, i’ll finally get to read that one book, write better pieces, listen to that album. it’s not time that i lack really, it’s organisation. i get carried away, i am completely absorbed in my tasks that nothing else seems like a possibility anymore. i’ve always been like this, even (especially) when i wasn’t feeling well. everything that keeps my mind occupied and gives me a momentary sense of purpose feels good to me. i don’t know where my restlessness comes from. sometimes i feel like i’m meant for more, other times i’m afraid to dream about a different life, thinking i wouldn’t make it.

i don’t even know if my dreams are valid because they’re still new. i keep picturing myself doing a job that has to do with writing even though my professor told me the other week that i’d need a master’s degree for that and i don’t want to go back to university right now. i want to be creative and to be proud of my work, to find my own style and to help others through my words. i’ve always dreamed of having one of those advice columns i read in magazines growing up, i’ve always been better at solving other people’s problems rather than mine.

i often wonder what advice i would give myself if i were another person - it’s ironic how no one ever seems to follow their own advice. maybe if we trusted ourselves more we would realise we can do anything we set our minds to. we would actually be capable of finding a way out.