Dark in the water
we stood, you breathing
me trying to follow
the rise and fall of your body
as bubbles rose around you
but not from me for I had
held my breath too long
Sometimes I write poetry – well, ‘poetry’. It’s less much tiring than prose, possibly because it feels to me like a medium that inspires brevity, what with the line breaks and all (yes this is all I know about poetry).
There is a great freedom for me in writing poetry because I know that I am by no stretch of the imagination a poet. I don’t even try and it’s so refreshing to be able to do that. All I need to do is write words that feel right, and then hit Enter and Tab a few times at random. It’s great.
I feel rather pretentious calling my words-with-line-breaks ‘poetry’, especially because I have friends who actually do write the stuff. They know about meters and feet and that kind of thing…and that’s cool, but not for me. I don’t really care. I’ve read poems that are supposed to be ‘objectively bad’ and thought they were fine…and my exposure to good poetry is pretty much limited to random things floating around on the internet, and one issue of Poetry magazine that I read in the basement of the Providence Athenæum. Which is a very cool place. I’ll write about my afternoon in Providence some other time, but here’s a picture:
I rediscovered two days ago a notebook I bought from IKEA at the start of the academic year, originally purchased with the intention of being a successor to my simple black diary. It is now my designated creative writing notebook. The cover is grey, but emblazoned with little foil snowflakes that make the book a bit too shiny for my currently sedate state of mind. Right now I have a page of poems inspired by feelings about people, one accidental diary entry illustrated with little stick figure comics, one page of really terrible song lyrics about living life to the fullest despite uncertainty and angst, and one doodle inspired by said lyrics.
As of late I’ve been having existential thoughts, or perhaps more accurately an existential crisis. I think it helps to explain the bigger problem I’ve been facing with motivation, something that has only really reared its head over the past 1.5 years or so, but that was probably present before that.
The good thing is that now I have a question to answer: ‘What’s the point?’ Exploring it isn’t going to help directly with my motivation problems, but perhaps thinking about it will help me refocus. There is a Humanist chaplain (oxymoronic as that phrase feels) here, so I made an appointment to speak to them in a few weeks. I’m equally nervous about it and interested in what he might have to say about purpose in life, and will share with you what I gain from that session.
I was feeling pretty out of it earlier this evening, and looked up a list of depression symptoms. There is a possibility I may have a bit of seasonal affective disorder. I’m a bit unsure if it’s actually contributing to me being down, because I have had pretty bad days even while on the equator or when it was earlier in the semester. But I also know that I did feel generally happier in the spring and summer, so my plan for now is to expose myself to as much daylight as I can for the next few weeks, and see if that has either a stabilizing or improving effect on my mood. It’s incredibly frustrating not knowing how to effectively control for things like hormonal changes or significant external triggers, but we do what we can, I guess.
I also miss regularly talking to my close friends. J has been pretty busy, and so have I, so we haven’t Skyped yet (or had a real conversation of any kind) this semester. I hung out with H for hours on Skype a while ago – that was nice. Things have been sort of rough with E since the last time I wrote about them, but I’m really looking forward to talking again, whenever that happens. It’s sort of a stupid cliche, but I feel happier when that’s something going on in my life, and as N reminded me yesterday, I really need to start doing things that make me happy again.
Such as going to bed. Now.