hello again
i forgot about this shoebox at the back of my closet
i feel such deep shame.
it’s a familiar shame. it’s the shame of dragging your best friend to a party where they don’t really know anyone, and then abandoning them for hours so you can try and talk to your crush (who might as well not even know you’re alive).
it’s the shame of looking at a letter from your grandmother sitting on your desk, and saying to yourself ‘i’ll write her one back tomorrow’ every day for 6 weeks until you suddenly realize that she might not be around forever and so you drop what you’re doing to write her back while you gently weep about her mortality.
it’s the exact same shame i felt as a teenager when i would open my journal to transcribe some urgent angsty teen feelings and see that the last thing written there was a hastily scrawled ‘can’t talk, will write more soon!’ from 7 months earlier.
i’ve never been good at consistency. not when it comes to writing, not when it comes to routines, not when it comes to texting my friends back. so i won’t make any promises; i’ll just blow the dust off the lid of this shoebox and keep it on my desk, so hopefully it won’t get forgotten at the back of the closet again. for a while, at least.
something bringing me joy at the moment:
reading! i’ve become a person who has multiple book-tracking apps on their phone - shoutout to Carly Rackal for influencing me to download Fable, my new favourite little daily serotonin boost.
a favourite recent read: Year of Wonders by Geraldine Brooks.
love you!!! Xoxoxo