It’s a little before five in the morning. With my coffee in hand I look outside my window. It is still dark outside. It is a new dawn and despite the dark it is full of promises.
Two days ago I cleaned my workplace. I emptied my desk, I sorted out my notes and files. I put the books that were piled up on my desk back in my library. I did this with such joy. Because with whatever is going on in my life lately I want to have that hour of profound happiness writing my stories. Even though I have always felt this way about writing I have never had the luxury to become a full time writer. And just when I thought I could finally do it, I had to look at the possibility (necessity) of going back to teach again.
Going back to work after years of staying home and taking care of my then sick husband and doing nothing with my life is heartbreaking. In the words of Jean Paul Sartre:
“A break means giving up a world while the world is still there and you have to wrench yourself away from it everywhere and the heartbreak is terrible.”
But now that I am ironically speaking ‘free’ I guess my problem is I want to belong again, to have a structured way of life. That’s what I have been looking for this past month. Discipline, some kind of a structure, something that will grab me and within which I can let myself go. This wish, this desire to get hold of something again, comes over me like a panic on some mornings. I have a great need to have my busy self back again, to be settled once more in a disciplined existence. But the problem is the world and everything around me has moved on. And in this respect I feel my age and the vague hope of being able to do something.
A part of me wants to put whatever is left of my life to good use and live fully. But the more I look around, the more I talk to people about it, the more disappointed I become. And the more I want to be detached from the outside world. Shall I only write then?
Didn’t my late husband urge me to write and not waste my time looking around? Didn’t he tell me over and over again that it’s a shitty world out there? Didn’t he make me promise to live my dream and make writing my priority when he was gone? So why am I still looking around then?
The more I dwell on this idea the more eager I become to begin again with something of my own. A desire to live life as it presents itself without miracles from outside overwhelms me. It’s like the beginning of a new form of life for me, staying home and working instead of distracting myself and looking for help outside.
It is going to be a good day, I can feel it. I have a goal in my life, something that depends on me. I am going to get back to work. I have all these ideas in my head that are waiting to be explored. And:
“I must continue creating sentences, paragraphs, chapters, and go on writing until I die, and not allow myself to get caught in such traps and failures.” Paulo Coelho