Lost letters…

… to myself of varying timelines

Part 1

I have these moments. Single, sharp. They fill me up, wrap me tight, remind me that there is something there. Something almost akin to… joy. Something soft, peaceful. YES, THAT’S THE WORD! Peaceful.

These moments, as vivaciously addictive as they might be, I do not run behind them. They are illusive, fickle. They come as they please and leave me… . Perhaps that’s the end. Because them leaving doesn’t hurt as much as I fear it would. The leaving is a silent departure. An Irish goodbye.

But while they last, they make me forget. They make me forget the time I cried at the bus stop for no other reason than that I felt overwhelmed. Or the time I held in my tears during class because… I didn’t know a language that wasn’t in tears. Or the time when it hurt to breathe or walk or… live. They make me forget for a little, and then I remember. I remember the person I am. The person that I moulded myself into in this plane of existence. The person who belongs to me and multiple others. I don’t mind that you know, the belonging to others I mean. Not as much I always thought I would. It is strange, growing up, thinking you want to be a certain way, a certain thing, and suddenly you are not and that feels okay. It is not quite as simple though. I was angry, for so long, but I am not anymore. And I do not hate that.

This letter is a reminder to myself. This precise moment I am in, my anxiety is spooling into this murky mess inside me. I need a reminder that the inside and the outside are different things. That the feelings inside me, as valid as they are, are just a singular part of this large whole that is me. This letter is a pin, a moment of reflection for I have had none this whole year. A moment for myself, to write as much as I can and want to. Especially because I need a light in between the crushing weight of feelings. Something that reminds me that it’s okay to want to disappear, to want to scrub myself clean from existence for a little while for this feeling too shall pass.

On the very last day of the semester just before easter break we had a presentation. That whole week felt emotional, nostalgic, absurd. It was just like that a year had passed. Felt like a flash, so quick, so very very quick. In spite of that, it was so very full with… living. In between and mixed in with many things. Or maybe the many things are living. I cannot decide.

It was proposed that we go to a pub and then to an exhibition opening after to commemorate this year end. In the pub was when I felt it, that single sharp moment. We had not bonded, all of my curating classmates I mean. Never really had the proper chance. All of us working. Or maybe it was just me who felt that lack of bonding. I have never bonded properly with people, it’s hard. It would be understandable if it felt like it was only me. Even then, in between these people, that single sharp moment, for a single sharp hour. It was beautiful.

London is brutal. It is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your soul. Not only the weather, it is everything. It hurts for the colours, though dull, feel brighter. But BA Curating is joy, maybe even love. It is so very beautiful, I never knew I would enjoy something so very vividly. Even then, it is about care. Caring for objects, things, places, people, stories, histories. It’s about caring for others while not really understanding the limits of your own body, your mind. Feels like a lot is taken from you at times. Burning out at the cost of caring. For the first time caring felt like… a chore. Also not though. Caring is fulfilling. Beautiful. It’s like being lost at sea and being content about it. However, when care becomes a requirement, it is so very taxing. It erodes at the soul.

Living in London made me realise that there are things I want to achieve. A phd for instance. In what I do not yet know. But I want that. Also I want to disappear for little periods of time in between things. Rest is essential. Necessary. It is not evil. Bodies are not machines, neither is your soul. We need rest and silence. I don’t know yet what I wish to do with my life, but I want to figure it out, try things, get a cat. Younger me would hate this uncertainty. Older me, the me that is in pain and tired and angry and just breathing, she likes this plan.

In between all of this is the single sharp moments of the world lighting up. It will be fine. All of it will be fine.

It is in airports I believe that the world will somehow work out. It will fix itself. And the cynical me believes that.