"It made her wonder if you could know a person only at a single moment in time, because a year from now or a day from now, he might be different. It made her wonder if everyone reinvented himself or herself, if that was as natural as other animals shedding their skin." Jodi Picoult, 10th Circle
Two years since I’ve been here last. I feel like I grew to be a different person in the vast silence of more than 700 days. But I’m back. I feel as if I need to be.
I feel like I hardly know myself these days. Like there is this widening chasm from the person I once was and to whom I am becoming, I haven’t decided yet if it’s something I like. In one hand, I no longer have the urge to dig out a rusty blade and carve poetry in the inside of my wrists; on the other, I also stopped carving my soul in paper and shaping this confusing mass into something I can make sense of. In some way, I miss the sleepless moments I struggle with the voice inside my head for some sort of meaning – that tinny voice that answered back in Rilke’s question you need to answer in the deepest and darkest of your day… Now, I have successfully drowned out myself.
I look around here and wish I could start again. I have forgotten what it feels like to begin, to see the blank page as free and untarnished rather than a bandage to cover for all the empty days and pages.
But it might be braver to continue.
… and less of a hassle.
Two years since I’ve been here last. I feel like I grew to be a different person in the vast silence of more than 700 days. But I’m back. I feel as if I need to be.
I feel like I hardly know myself these days. Like there is this widening chasm from the person I once was and to whom I am becoming, I haven’t decided yet if it’s something I like. In one hand, I no longer have the urge to dig out a rusty blade and carve poetry in the inside of my wrists; on the other, I also stopped carving my soul in paper and shaping this confusing mass into something I can make sense of. In some way, I miss the sleepless moments I struggle with the voice inside my head for some sort of meaning – that tinny voice that answered back in Rilke’s question you need to answer in the deepest and darkest of your day… Now, I have successfully drowned out myself.
I look around here and wish I could start again. I have forgotten what it feels like to begin, to see the blank page as free and untarnished rather than a bandage to cover for all the empty days and pages.
But it might be braver to continue.
… and less of a hassle.
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