The resilience of a seed

   I went there so that we could work together: too many days locked away on my own, trying to work had set me on edge a tad bit too much. She said she had to finish two applications first and then we could get on. In the meantime I lounged on the couch, reading Benjamin's book on Baudelaire, her sister searching something on her phone on the other armchair. And there, amidst the noise and the light and the thought that I would certainly would have liked the chance to punch Baudelaire in the face, I was lulled to sleep. I slept deep and well, the best sleep I have had in weeks. I woke up in the morning well rested and thinking of flowers. 

  It is odd to always keep your life on hold: this prolonged pause of life difficult to measure at times. She remarked how a year ago these days I was at her home with them, my life already falling apart, the quarantine at its first days. I was a different, weaker more tender version of myself yet already tired. There was terror back then whereas now there is anger. The last year I feel like I have not existed in my life but it's effect is there nonetheless.

  I feel like one of the things that the pandemic exposed was the fact that I had not, in fact, been present in my life for a much longer period than I had realised. My mind had been too preoccupied with too many things to be present in anything. And every time an attempt to grow fails it hits harder than it should. On some days I feel desperate. On days like this it's difficult to hang on to anything that might help me feel better. It's harder to grasp the reality of myself. Breathing becomes erratic and I almost wish it was a sudden panic that would end faster even if it needed to be stronger for that to happen. 

  Losing myself in books sometimes helps but to be honest I would prefer to lose my self in creation: it has always been more effective to doodle than to chase after words that belong to someone else. And when I don't make things little else makes any sense. I'm trying to find interest in small insignificant creations though I always feel the pressure to make big and important things. But it is not always so: when you make as a calling to yourself, what importance does it have to measure up to others? Often I feel the desire to withdraw to somewhere more quiet, somewhere where I can walk without the fear of people, where I can watch the stars and gaze at the sea. 

  It's difficult to call upon yourself to hold your own hand. I'm saving money for a therapist - most of us should have gone to one even before this year started. And I try to remind myself that no matter how deeply I have been buried. I have always found the way towards the surface. I try to recognise in my heart the resilience of a seed.