Preface: this post is a bit of a paradox.
I feel like over the last year, the last months, I’ve had so much time to think about myself, my life, society and the world (in no particular order) that my head started to overflow. It’s just spilling over and prompting me to deal with it the only way that seems naturally today, by starting a podcast maybe? Jokes aside, I’ve felt the increasing urge to write again, not just in my diary, which I did religiously last year. One entry for every day, though not always on the day in question, but reconstructed in bulk as a weekend chore, which doesn’t feel like the softest way to do it, but it kinda worked for me.
So there’s an urge to write, even sentences and whole paragraphs forming in my head while I go about my day (which I probably should record somehow? Dictate to my phone? There’s people that do that, right?). But then there’s the matter of writing them down, in order, edit them, publish them. Which is something I have rarely done over the last years, maybe one Medium post every year, because it’s just not an easy thing to do, not for me, but also in general, or so I’ve heard.
I have a full-time job, which I like (which is already quite the gift), but I have many other things that interest me, and the job only goes so far in relieving this pressure to get things out. This longing to make sense of things (or just escape) through creativity, that regularly pulls my thoughts to drawing or painting or crafting or writing or just an elaborate instagram story (it’s mostly those in the end).
But, to pick up this form of creative expression needs a level of concentration and energy that I usually don’t have when I also would have the time to do it, it’s bound to be used up during the week. And the weekend is required to gain at least some of that energy back (who still dares to dream of all), which is, unfortunately not possible while also spending that energy. I’m afraid this is yet another cake I can’t have and eat it, too. I keep reminding myself that creativity also brings energy and I still believe it can. But the threshold to this magical land seems just so so much higher these days.
And then I sit there, head full of thoughts with nowhere to go, and Monday is just one sleep away.
We’re so far into this pandemic that I find it increasingly hard to tell what level of exhaustion I should consider normal, what of it is “just me” or if “just me” is completely taken over by pandemic fatigue anyway. I keep asking myself if I shouldn’t have adapted in some way by now, being able to deal better with this as a “new normal”. And it’s a twisted feeling, because in some way I know I am (a bit out of spite), in some way I know we don’t have much choice in the matter anyway. While at the same time I don’t even want to remotely give anyone the feeling that I expect them to tough it out or something like that.
On the contrary, I’m angry at how stretched thin people are, how much is asked of them, and how little room and energy is left for the playful sides of life. Even if it’s as silly as starting a new blog when one has done that a multitude of times and never managed to do more than a few posts before abandoning it. I have no idea if this time will be different. Times are, that much is certain.
And at least I didn’t start a podcast.