I have joined an illustrious fellowship of writers. Thoreau, Hemingway, the romantic poets, and others have long seen the value in escape. Thoreau wanted to make a political statement about excess. Hemingway liked rum. But the romantics wanted to escape the dinge of Victorian London and sought refuge in the English countryside. William Blake points out in Songs of Innocence and Experience that the romantics twisted the reality of life and created a beautiful beach of sand for them to stick their heads in. Unlike The Romantics, I have sought out the Spartan accommodations I currently enjoy and have thrown myself behind a cause I believe in to serve as a corrective lens. To enable me to more clearly see and understand the reality of the world I live in.
There’s a catch to this. And people often wonder why so many writers struggle with depression. It is because writers are forced to reckon with things most people can inconsequentially ignore. Writers must engage in endless self-harm. Not physically, but writers must continually fight themselves in a relentless quest to arm themselves to take on the world.
In these fights, they are forced to become their fiercest persecutor. They pick apart every moment of their entire existence and judge it more harshly than any critic ever could. Now we’ve reached the purpose of this post.
I find myself in a room with white plaster walls without many of the comforting amenities I have lived with especially during the last few years of my life.
We were together for a little over 2 years. Which I realize like so many of my parent’s generation have said is only long at 22. But never the less we were together during a major time in my life. And from now on when I look back at that time she will always be in the picture. So, I have to come to terms with that.
It’s been 3 months since we split up. And to be honest I still don’t really know why it ended. But as I spend my days here I am forced to recognize the reality of its demise. I am forced to reckon with how my life must move on now. How I will forever have to look at things differently not just without her, but because she existed in my life at all. And I have to do that on my own.
There is a gap in my posting because I’ve be busy. I’ve been busy all year moving from trying to finish school, to the logistics of moving after graduation, to prepping for my trip to South Africa, to traveling, to getting settled. In other words, I’ve had no shortage of legitimate distractions. Until now. Now I finally understand why so many writers have put themselves in this position before. You are forced to see what distracts you. And when someone can take stock of their distractions they can remove them. I think I’m finally starting to.