sick of writing sorries
Today was the end of the week, and the working hours were spent drilling through invoices and intermittently talking about nothing with my fellow interns. Donut spots, coffee shops. When you're bored, it all trails back to snacks. I've been growing tired of the same old lately, but struggling to pinpoint what exactly needs to change in my routine, and the nothingness of the day gave me just the right amount of time to ruminate.
The adjustments began on the subway ride home, where I was chatting with a friend over text while she also slaved away at her job. We both become slackers when it comes to each other. My phone has been uncharacteristically hot this summer for a few reasons. One, the increasing calls cross-continent which are nothing short of necessary, and my skyrocketing time spent scrolling. I'm going to write almost nothing of this scrolling habit because I know everyone, including myself, is bored to death by the topic. Needless to say, first change: I deleted Instagram and Reddit off of my phone, the two social media apps I use the most. I left Substack because I find I actually learn on there for the most part. We'll see how long that lasts.
The rest of the ride was spent in my journal, which has been seeing drier days since the summer started. I laid down the events that just occurred, and did a quick dissection of what could be causing me the ever-present stress that's impeding me. I found my next culprit, soon to be victim: My room. My messy, messy room.
After a slightly smoggy walk home (I'm sure everyone's heard about the Ontario wildfires already in the news, and frankly it would devastate me to even write about it), I dropped the keys in the bowl by the door with a newfound determination for keeping things in their place, unlike my usual habit of forgetting them in my hand until I reach the piano some few meters away where they inevitably get dumped. Onward and upward.
Like most good things, my room got worse before it got better. I have an affinity for collecting ephemera. Postcards, letters, photos, sure. It then extends to anything that feels connected to an important period of my life, like scribbled sticky note reminders, receipts, draft ideas that never came to be. I've finally gotten fed up with this disheveled collection of mine. All of my various piles and folders of papers were wrested from their hiding places on my shelves and onto my floor where I threw out, saved, threw out, saved, and on and on.
I'm of two conflicting opinions.
- I love to be true to myself and feed into my collector habits, my creative habits. I find that almost all of my friends that I admire are also some of the messiest people I know, and I am a firm believer of that adage that mess points to creative minds. It means that you have bigger things to worry about.
- I also see the importance that a clear space has on my life, and see the truth that a clear space indicates a clear mind. There's an overwhelming aspect of having everything right at your fingertips that makes you tend to not do anything.
I'm feeling a lot better already looking at my thinned-out room, even if it may be only a stepping stone. I'm trying different things little by little to clear my mind more, as I've realized that I've fallen behind on some of the things I love doing. Not the necessary things, but the ones that make the work worthwhile.
I'll be addressing each email, each letter with a sorry, thanks for waiting, hope the last two weeks, two months have treated you well, send my regards to the partners, pets, read this zine once I finish it eventually, read this letter when I finish it eventually, and so on and so forth. Better than nothing, eh?