Being busy is a choice. Letting life slip through your fingers every time you say you’re busy, is also, a choice.
A note to self, more than anything else.
“You need to write more,” she tells me.
I nod. Yes, yes, of course.
I’d been thinking the same thing, usually at that moment before I fell asleep after a grueling day. It has been a recurring thought.
(But, but, I think to myself, how does one wake sleeping words?)
It has unsettled me, this dark silence.
Words have been my companions through the best and worst moments in my life. Words have brought me friends from all over the world, and words have helped me to heal from the pain of losing friends. Words were there when cancer was, words were there when cancer sort of left (it never really does, let’s face it). Words were there to remind me of the person that I wanted to be, words were there to remind me of the beautiful people whom I never wanted to forget.
(The Word, has always been and will always be there)
And now, all of a sudden, nothing but this dark, deep silence.
It has happened before. I know it will happen again.
“How do you think I can become a better writer?” I remember asking the best lover once.
“Live better. The words will come, you’ll write better.” He told me. He’s not much of a texter, this one. And yet, with those poignant words, he reminded me of something I’ve held at the forefront of my life, ever since.
The truth is, I haven’t been living well. I haven’t been all here. Hell, I haven’t been all anywhere. Days have blurred into late nights, and instant deadlines, and the constant busyness of something which amounts to something which eventually amounts to nothing.
(It’s no surprise then, that the words have sunk to the bottom of the pit, waiting for life to ignite them.)
I had not known my mother was ill until two days later, when she told me over breakfast. We live in the same house. She hadn’t seen me for most of the week.
Thank goodness she understands. Thank goodness she forgives me each time.
The truth is, it shouldn’t be this way.
Being busy, like everything else in life, is a choice. Sometimes, it is a choice we are forced to make. Regardless, it is a choice. Being busy without really “gaining” anything, is also a choice. Most times, a choice we make because it makes us feel “useful”, “productive”, gives us a sense of “worth”. After some time, this “being busy” way of living becomes an excuse. An excuse to make ourselves feel better, an excuse for a life that is spiraling out of control, and perhaps, an excuse for not stopping and facing the barest and most stripped down versions of ourselves.
There is a time and place for everything, including being busy.
There is a time and place for everything, including (and especially) rest.
More than you, and you, and you out there, this is a reminder I’m writing to myself.
P.S: Learning to stop is not a sin, it is a necessity.
P.P.S: To write well, one must live well. Start living!