After carrying a lot of resentment and exhaustion around for the last two years, I recently began to clear space on my desk, in my mind, to do the things that would make me feel good. And the one thing that I really want to do is write. Not write about policy. Not write academics. Not write a novel. Not write Not write with an agenda. Not write for an audience. But just write, like breath.
In these two years, I have wrestled with words. Found them everywhere. Found them excessive. Found them noisy. Felt choked by them, and silenced, too. I have sought silence. Or at least an absence of words. But I have also struggled with words because they were never the words I was yearning to write or read or engage with. They were other people's words or other people's agendas that I had to process through words. Too many words.
Since I began making space for myself in my life, the strongest yearning I have had has been to write. I want to write so badly that I can touch the desire. I know there is such a thing as a flow of words, and I want to dwell in that flow. I have known that flow in my life. I want it back.
But right now, I am sitting at my desk, cluttering my idle mind with lots of things like reviews for films I will never watch and recipes for dishes I have no interest in cooking, and it's like sitting with a bucket in front of a tap, hoping there will be water supply today. Silence. Silence. Choke. Splutter. Choke. Splutter. Sound of throat/pipe clearing. Splutter. Spit. Gush. Choke. Pause. Flow.
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