So I’m back from what had seemed to be a sabbatical of sorts, and I hope you’re all fine.
I have also been reading this book since Saturday night as one of the many ingenious ways (I think) I could get back to my life pace after some obviously star-crossed, carefully orchestrated series of murderous life events that I choose not to discuss anymore as I have personally dealt with them in the kindest way I can possibly deal myself with. Haha.
I know, I know.
I’m well aware of the fact that I have had such a difficult work-life-everything else unbalance for a time now and I had been extremely tolerant of everything. But well and good, I had to severely sort things out recently as, I guess, we all come to a point in life like that.
And I actually also suspect that this (the whole unruly debacle of it all) is all just me, trying to sincerely understand my realities, now that I’ve officially turned thirty. 😧
You know that nagging feeling everyday? Of being confronted with all sorts of existential questions and these get automatically drilled into your head and crashed into your system and you’re helpless?
It’s all crazy, really.
But what can I do?
Well, I weep and ugly cry, and then I ask myself every night where I was supposed to be heading anyway. And then I weep again, and try to get myself together and move on to wake up the next day hoping I’d somehow find some answers to the piled up questions from the days before. And then I find a book to read or a movie or series to watch. But most likely I’d settle with a book because reading makes me cry more. And then I seek solace and answers and peace through it like some ministerial shizz, and then I’m out there again, up and about like life has been nothing but perfect.
I don’t know if that whole routine makes sense to you, but that’s how it is for me. That’s how it has always been. It’s a cycle, really, and it’s quite vicious sometimes.
Interestingly too, this particular read has reminded, all too bluntly, of my jean louise finch self. It disturbs me to ask, where the hell is she. And I am angry at myself for still having to ask. And I tell myself she can’t be dead, I’m sure of it. But she must be tired, really tired, I surmise. And I need to find her. 😕
So the whole correspondence of Nelle (Harper Lee) and Dr. Wayne and this whole exercise of introspect has left a sore, stinging hole in my soul somewhere.
Oh how I wish I also had somebody who’d write me things — whether mundane or intellectually stimulating, it wouldn’t matter. Just somebody who’d ask me how I was, and where I was in the vicious cycle now. And care to ask about my opinions of things however lame my stand is on various matters.
I wish somebody had the patience to do that still in this universe, and call me silly, wicked names because I’ve been living such a tedious little life.
But ahhh, alas, I’m sorry my heart, but there is none like that in our life right now and we can only wish for the same in the next life. At least that brings hope that things may be better (even if it’s still in the next life).
I laugh at the idea of me just writing to myself in the blog as a way for channeling that wish. But well yeah, at least that’s some use of energy there, as we all know such life energies cannot be destroyed. 😅
I just hope though that before I die, some of the people I’ve written letters to would write me back too (if that’s not too much to ask, and I know I’ve written to many).
With that, perhaps, I’d find enough assurance that the Jean Louise Finch in me is not dead.
No, not yet.
Not any sooner, even.