I’d stay in bed all day and all night…and think. Just think. Just think about what I’ve recently found in my life, and how I’ll never be able to touch it. Maybe I’d write a poem about distance and bridges. Maybe I’d pretend that my bed is the sea and that I could swim.
So tonight marks the beginning of my four-day long weekend—although, in reality, my four-day holiday is just like any other work day, only I won’t be going to school (except for tomorrow, to get my notebook which I left on my table this afternoon—stupid, stupid me—and to attend a workshop).
For my poorly disguised long weekend, I brought home my classes’ final exams and papers. My To Do List is comprised of checking the final exams, checking and grading the final papers (and more papers, too), record stuff, and basically more stuff so that I won’t have to cram (too much) next week for the deadline of the submission of grades for the first term.
I’d also like to read something that’s not school-related. Or maybe (well, I should!) research about documentaries and essays for the next term. And recently, I’ve been feeling the impulse to write (like how I used to and what I used to write), but unfortunately, I had to ignore these impulses since I have this tendency to let go of everything else just so I can write—which is not advisable for me since I have to prioritize my work right now.
I’m always tired (but content) and I’m becoming fatter (how can I make time for exercise?) and there’s an immediate call for maturity (there are still some moments when I act like the college student that I was—stupid, reckless, irresponsible, and arrogant me).
“Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.”—Joan Didion, “On Keeping a Notebook” (via asyoulikeitnow)