I woke up this morning to the sound of a child on a scooter in the apartment two doors down from mine. I was dreaming I was back in my house in Naperville, and that my ex-boyfriend was there, telling me that he never stopped loving me, as ex-boyfriends in dreams often do.
I stretched, leaned into the fortress of pillows I’d made around myself, shrugged on a hooded sweatshirt and went to the kitchen of my new apartment in my new city in my new life to start writing.
I haven’t been writing just to write in a few weeks. It feels foreign, strange to just be typing without thinking. Without expectations. Without deadlines. Without anything other than letting my mind run.
I’ve missed this.
Lately I’ve been all go go go, but when am I not? I think I’ve always lived my life 100 miles an hour, and always been caught between whether I should be guilty of this.
Maybe this busyness has made me let go of things I don’t have time to hold onto. Maybe it’s helped me forget pain. Maybe it’s pushed me to a place where I feel less lonely just because I’ve been running forward and not looking back.
Maybe one day it’ll all catch up to me.
Maybe, if I’m being really honest, that scares me the most.