It’s no secret that prior to this pandemic, I have been living in self-imposed quarantine. Writing is both a luxury and curse; words don’t require physical strains other than longstanding hours of just sitting. No movement. Hardly even breathing. In my room, there’s only the soft tapping of the keyboards and the light breeze of the fan; sometimes, none of the latter when I turn it off during lunch hours. Birds would sometimes drop by my window and remind me of the things I’ve missed: outdoors, but even outdoors aren’t as thrilling as the places I’ve gone to inside my head.
I’ve been to a lot. Through a lot. And I never left my seat.
When you’re writing, there is no hour. No day. No year. The only measure of time is the rapid sprinting of your chest during moments of epiphanies. Otherwise, it’s just waiting, it’s just prolonged agony, it’s just a constant unearthing of emotions through words that sometimes don’t make sense at all. Writing is like pulling the string on a yarn, hoping to find a knot in between, a gem tucked inside the braided cords, or some candy lost in there somewhere. Writing is a mortal sense of eternity.
I wrote this on my Instagram: take your time, and don’t let time take you.
It is, in a sense, a motto. Because at this point, when time stands still for everyone, you hold your eternity, and you hold your precious, priceless moments. And there are things set to steal your joy, to distract your attention, to stir your heart in a wishy-washy state, hoping that circumstances are different. But silence, if you’d think about it, is pure solace. It’s pure you.
You unravel yourself. You write ink on your blank canvass. You create. You have the opportunity to just be and then become. The hours will keep ticking, and the old extroverted joys are temporarily put on break, but here is a chance to reconnect to the quiet of your heart, and find gravity in your peace.
And so, in my homely refrain,
Praise God for this pace, praise God for this place.