After some time of rolling around the bed, she managed to pull herself out of it.
She remembered all the wrong and maybe some right reasons that kept her up in the night and she decided that she needed coffee more than her thoughts.
She opened a new pack of freshly grounded filtered coffee- its smell was always reassuring that better days will eventually come- and prepared an excess of it in the tiny coffee machine which was placed next to the window with the view to the always-these-days greyish sky.
She looked at the coffee that was poured slowly to the glass pot with some anxiety. Like the drops were the countdown of an hourglass that was almost done. As if drop after drop the feeling of discomfort was becoming more and more acute.
She got distracted by the pouring rain that was striking the roof of the house. It sounded like a symphony written in a harmonic minor key; its sound was melancholic like the dark sky at a stormy weather but there was hope for a clear sky after a while.
She remembered the blue of the sea that turns black in the winter during the gloomy days and tried to find some comfort thinking that it was just another Sunday. And Sundays were always depressing, even though she was born on a Sunday of the most unstable month of the year, the winter-spring as she called it; March.
She moved to the sofa, covered herself with a blanket made of wool and sipped the warm coffee.
Her thoughts came back. she evoked the memories of giving up so many things that could have potentially made her happier than she was now, the music that she used to play, the photography classes, the abstract art.
Creativity was what was missing from her life and her life had become a flat line on an electrocardiographic monitor. And she was long gone to even try to fix it. It was the feeling of emptiness that she couldn't cope with. This feeling, as she had analysed it before, was the only feeling that she couldn't understand. It was the only feeling that did not make sense. Emptiness. What kind of feeling is this? She wasn't frustrated, agitated, depressed. She was just empty. How does one fix this? How can one fill the emptiness without being creative? She knew well that this was the most difficult part; to find these answers. to convince herself that she was able to escape from this inertia. But how?
She remembered that as a child, she always had this feeling of wanting too many things to be done in a second but she wasn't able to deal with the fact that nothing came easy in life. She never understood why everything had to be done step by step and why people were always telling her to slow down when they were the ones running away so fast. There was a controversy that was kind of ironic. People reassuring her that she had the potential of being whatever she wanted but at the same time those people were abandoned her at the very crucial decision-making time.
Then she remembered all the things that she left unfinished. Her novel, her half-written short stories that the publisher told her to put them together and publish them, the painting left at the attic of her house, the undeveloped films. Everything was unfinished but she felt like she was done with all of these. She felt like this was the purpose of her life, to leave everything unfinished for someone else to finish them. Like her life wasn't hers but someone else's.
This is how inertia felt like.
As she was thinking everything and nothing altogether, she realised that the rain has stopped.
And along with the rain, her discomfort was more at ease and her anxiety was wearing off.
She got up, washed her face, got dressed and got the fuck out of there.
She remembered all the wrong and maybe some right reasons that kept her up in the night and she decided that she needed coffee more than her thoughts.
She opened a new pack of freshly grounded filtered coffee- its smell was always reassuring that better days will eventually come- and prepared an excess of it in the tiny coffee machine which was placed next to the window with the view to the always-these-days greyish sky.
She looked at the coffee that was poured slowly to the glass pot with some anxiety. Like the drops were the countdown of an hourglass that was almost done. As if drop after drop the feeling of discomfort was becoming more and more acute.
She got distracted by the pouring rain that was striking the roof of the house. It sounded like a symphony written in a harmonic minor key; its sound was melancholic like the dark sky at a stormy weather but there was hope for a clear sky after a while.
She remembered the blue of the sea that turns black in the winter during the gloomy days and tried to find some comfort thinking that it was just another Sunday. And Sundays were always depressing, even though she was born on a Sunday of the most unstable month of the year, the winter-spring as she called it; March.
She moved to the sofa, covered herself with a blanket made of wool and sipped the warm coffee.
Her thoughts came back. she evoked the memories of giving up so many things that could have potentially made her happier than she was now, the music that she used to play, the photography classes, the abstract art.
Creativity was what was missing from her life and her life had become a flat line on an electrocardiographic monitor. And she was long gone to even try to fix it. It was the feeling of emptiness that she couldn't cope with. This feeling, as she had analysed it before, was the only feeling that she couldn't understand. It was the only feeling that did not make sense. Emptiness. What kind of feeling is this? She wasn't frustrated, agitated, depressed. She was just empty. How does one fix this? How can one fill the emptiness without being creative? She knew well that this was the most difficult part; to find these answers. to convince herself that she was able to escape from this inertia. But how?
She remembered that as a child, she always had this feeling of wanting too many things to be done in a second but she wasn't able to deal with the fact that nothing came easy in life. She never understood why everything had to be done step by step and why people were always telling her to slow down when they were the ones running away so fast. There was a controversy that was kind of ironic. People reassuring her that she had the potential of being whatever she wanted but at the same time those people were abandoned her at the very crucial decision-making time.
Then she remembered all the things that she left unfinished. Her novel, her half-written short stories that the publisher told her to put them together and publish them, the painting left at the attic of her house, the undeveloped films. Everything was unfinished but she felt like she was done with all of these. She felt like this was the purpose of her life, to leave everything unfinished for someone else to finish them. Like her life wasn't hers but someone else's.
This is how inertia felt like.
As she was thinking everything and nothing altogether, she realised that the rain has stopped.
And along with the rain, her discomfort was more at ease and her anxiety was wearing off.
She got up, washed her face, got dressed and got the fuck out of there.
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