A Dreamy Rhythm…
I have traveled a lot this past year. Maybe more than how much I would usually travel in the pre-covid time. My journey wasn’t even a bit close to normal, or unpleasant, for that matter.
It was dreamy, magical, and astonishingly fierce. I stopped feeling guilty about sleeping in, or for taking a 2-hour long nap in the afternoon.
I realized that indulging myself in reading and writing turned out to be better than reminiscing about the “good old times” when ordering in was a weekly ritual, and hanging out with friends was essential.
The past year, I found real freedom. Freedom from toxicity, freedom from self-expectations, freedom from thinking about my daily routine and rituals, and freedom from seeking validations and affirmations.
I know that I’ll talk to a few friends, and not feel bad at all if months pass by without a word being spoken to each other. I know that my family is safe and I will speak to each one of them every single day.
I rather, preferred to open my book and live the lives of the characters, immersing myself and feeling the emotions. Studying the reality of life through fiction.
A good book does make me feel immortal. I feel real connections with the characters in the book more than with people in real life. The characters haunt me, excite me, they make me uncomfortable, yet this is something I never want to stop feeling. This is the only thing I am a hundred percent okay with.
It’s delectable to drench in spirals of made-up scenarios and come out of it to live the reality.
I know every day, that dinner needs to be cooked and deadlines have to be met. An unfinished project needs urgent attention, but I will return to live in reality only when my characters go for a trance, leaving me with no other choice.
A dreamy rhythm indeed.
