It’s been a while since I’ve felt like writing. Here or anywhere.
There are so many things I can’t talk about. Things that aren’t mine to tell. Things that are mine to tell but are too dull to be worth writing about or that I just don’t want to share. So many elephants, sometimes it feels like there’s no room for anything else.
The things I can talk about feel small in comparison and slightly hollow, almost dishonest. The elephants are there. I can feel them looming over me even as I skirt around them. So it becomes easier not to talk or write at all.
Things I can talk about.
The weather – it’s perpetually hot here. Some days I sit under the fan, not even moving much but still dripping.
My thesis was a close run thing but I can add it to the list of things I’ve actually finished.
I’m flirting with veganism again. It feels good.
Some days I swim or ride my bike. I mop floors and cycle through endlessly repeating piles of washing like a domestic Hercules.
These things are mine to talk about, in small, careful, phrases, gingerly threading my way between the elephants’ feet.
Be patient with me as I work out how to move forward.