I fall in love over the holidays, when the days are long, and longing is the word of the day.
How things change! I used to count the days till Easter, till summer, till Christmas. I would sit in school, doing various mental arithmetics to calculate when the bell would ring, so that I could rush home and write my stories. I’d listen with half an ear while doodling in my margins, always half-lost into a world of my own. Now, I manage my own time, and I never seem to get anything done. The people I went to school wish all seem to have collectively found their artistic calling, and are making headlines. Meanwhile, I’m meandering.
Term-time is easy. Term-time means deadlines and courses and trips to see my supervisors. But there’s nothing to do on weekens and holidays. Unless there is a training session nearby, my days are filled with sitting around, thinking how I should really be writing.
So of course, I fall in love.
I fall in love with an empty space, I fall in love with a construct, but I fall in love nonetheless. I find new daydreams to fill the air when I’m too scared and overwhelmed to even start working. I’m so good at it, I convince myself this is actually happening.
And then it’s time to come back down to earth, come back to reality, with its smelly socks and dirty dishes piling in the sink, with shopping lists of things to read and buy and write, with deadlines and courses and trips to see my supervisors. Come back to real life, which is just this little bit ridiculous and weird and imperfect, far less petty than a fantasy, but nonetheless, all that I have. All that I can work with.
Any dreams I have will have to come out of that.