I haven't been writing because, I say, lamely, excusing myself, I haven't had time. This is not entirely true, though. I don't have an exorbitant amount of time, but there are days in which I don't have class in the evenings, days in which I do get home before ten or eleven at night, and there's no reason why I can't put aside a few of those minutes for an entry.
I haven't been writing because, I say, lamely, I have nothing to write about, or, more to the point, because I feel the need to censor. I don't want to expose anything about my day job, and don't want to betray the confidences of my classmates or clients. This limits me. This makes me think I'd be better off keeping a private journal. Perhaps I'll talk myself into it yet.
The thing is, I miss writing here. I miss, again, the interaction. I miss the checks and balances on my thought process, and I miss being able to cull and respond to the richer ideas of others. I don't know whether I need to just recognize that now is not the time to move back here; I don't know whether these fleeting efforts to reestablish myself on these pages are anything more than lazy nostalgia.
I have too much going on, I think, and I relish all of it, but at the same time I feel the pull of wanting all this too-muchness to be over. It bothers me, this eagerness to race ahead. I'm happy now; why am I squandering an entirely pleasant and challenging and frankly wonderful period on impatient wishes for post-graduation? I know full well as soon as I get settled into private practice (this has been a dream for so long) I'll start getting anxious and restless and eager to travel. The tension I feel has nothing to do with my outside environment, and everything to do with internal regulations. I am content here, when I take the time to notice.
It's these miniature insights, these gifts to myself, that I miss when I don't write.
posted by Siona
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