Time scares me these days. I dread my upcoming birthday. The first half of this year is passing so terribly fast, and I feel like I’ve achieved close to nothing, even fallen back into some old unhealthy patterns.
And it’s not just a matter of perception; this year’s reading list is still empty. I’m stuck on this boring crime novel that I’m determined to finish because I borrowed it years ago and returning it without having made it through would be ridiculous at this point.
Another development reliably backed by statistics is that I’ve gained a lot of weight since my return home, and even more since the end of my sabbatical. If the amateur instruments at my disposal are to be trusted, I’ve lost some muscle mass as well.
To top it off, I’ve been repeatedly unsuccessful at sticking to anything close to my ideal daily routine. I was ill twice in May, which I’m planning to use as justification for only doing one blog post a month for the first time since last August. And a rather self-pitying post at that.
Which it’s not meant to be, really. While these developments are certainly not favorable, none of them are especially tragic. Wars are happening. Lives are ending. Muscles can be regained and nobody cares how much I read or write.
And I’ve been writing more than ever this year; eleven unique entries for writing contests so far, more upcoming. I am yet to taste success, but at least I’ve stopped obsessing too much about the deadlines. That could be a good thing. Unless it’s bad.
Beyond that, I’ve been cooking up some writing-adjacent ideas and toying with a concept for a board game. Who knows, maybe giving less of a crap about blog articles and contests will lead to me actually finishing some of that stuff, and / or finally starting work on my novels.
I’ve also created a new Instagram account where I post some of my old art and try to slowly take up drawing again. It’s reasonably fun so far, while not taking up too much time.
That’s a small number of pros against a perceived army of cons, but maybe that’s because I still have a hard time counting things like ‘slowing down’ and ‘just existing’ as successes. I am starting to do a bit better in that department.
No use in sugarcoating it though; this has not been my best year. Like many people, I’ve been more or less isolated for quite a while now, and the effects are hard to shake. I feel like my social muscles are diminishing just like my physical ones. Like I’m getting lost in melancholy. It doesn’t help that I’ve lost some friends in 2021, and most of the people I’ve met in 2022 are turning out to be assholes.
Honestly, where did all these assholes come from all of a sudden? And am I one of them? We may never know. I just hope I can get back to a point where it feels less like life is just a thing that happens to me. Take care.