The fire crackled in the fireplace as we relaxed in the living room. It was day two of my mission to finish up the laundry I had left unfinished the past two and a half weeks. I didn’t feel like a very successful adult because of it, but I had to admit, I had been very sick the same amount of time, and was unable to do much but go to work so I could pay bills, and come home to sleep. Barely eating in between activities of course. I was finally feeling good enough to actually get out to my parents, and after two weeks of living within the same two blocks because of fevers and still needing to work to make ends meet, I was ready to venture out a little further than my neighborhood.
The afternoon had taken a very sleepy turn. My mother read her Kindle in her wing back green chair while my father fell asleep watching TV in the next room. He snored loudly. I decided I’d rather be busy than simply scrolling lazily on my phone in between laundry loads. So I pulled out my laptop to type. Something I don’t often do because of my lack of wifi at my apartment. My laptop is a pretty neglected Mac Book Pro. The trackpad sticks obnoxiously, making a 15 min change on a design an hour and a half. The memory so full that even with a terabyte of external hard drive space, my computer will still flash the “Memory Almost Full” warning on the screen at least once per use. It’s been well loved, and perhaps overly so. To the point I began to wonder if some of my design projects and music were really worth keeping, and if I shouldn’t do the design don’t of deleting some of my least favorite projects and unappreciated music selections. Then I remember what an overwhelmingly tedious task that would be and I quit that foolish thought immediately.
I didn’t know what I would type. I don’t often type something that I hadn’t hand written first. It was unlike me. I enjoyed hand writing much of what I post on my blog, and I wasn’t even sure going to write something worth putting on the blog. What did I have to say this week that even felt like it was worth typing? Yes, things had happened. Some petty dramas easily resolved. My sickness. An argument with my boyfriend. Nothing that seemed worth publishing or posting. Small events that may have had big impacts, but had happened during a time when I’m not sure I was physically well enough to really process their impact, nor did I feel like I needed to. If the moment of meaning had passed, I was not going to spend what small amount of energy I had regained to try to process it. I was going to leave it lost…and that was that.
I considered the possibility of writing a book review of one of my recently finished reads by my favorite author. It was a prequel to a series I had fallen in love with in middle school, though it was far above the reading level of some of my peers and had a great deal of adult situations in it. Still I enjoyed a good fantasy with an original world rendered almost effortlessly. The author hadn’t out done himself but rather complimented the world he had already created and told the story of an unexplained family dynamic for an obscure and mysterious historical character mentioned later in the series. He had also announced in an author’s note at the end of the book that a sequel to the last book in the series was going to be produced soon, and that excited me very much. My mind swirling with the possibilities of the potential, I found myself lulled into a bigger and bigger book hangover. So much so that I wasn’t sure I’d be able to start a new book for a few days…even if I tried. Much less would I be able to effectively order my thoughts on the review, and so I left it be for another to write.
Instead, I decided to write of the potential of writing other things. Mixed with memories I would probably never share with anyone else, and decided never to publish the post.