Kindred Spirits

The other day, while trying (and failing) to fall asleep, I decided to scroll through my kobo's overdrive looking for a book that would soothe me to sleep while not being too tempting to keep reading until dawn. I... think I found one...?

The book is Practice by Rosalind Brown. It's... strange? But also incredibly relatable? It's the story of a woman working last minute on her essay on Shakespeare (hence the relatable), but it's told in the most minute details. I know exactly how the narrator's pee feels when trickling down her labia kind of detail. Someone online compared it to Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway, and I can see that in a way (I haven't read the full review yet because I went into this novel knowing nothing about it and I would like to keep it that way).

I haven't finished the book yet. Partly because I've been able to sleep the nights after and didn't have much time to read during the day, partly because, well, if I'm honest, I have both expectations and apprehensions for where the book is going to go now. And it's something I want to work on pulling out of my head. I want to relearn to let someone tell me a story exactly how they want to tell it rather than go in with the knowledge I possess from both decades of reading and years of deep analysis of literature at uni. If anything, as much as reading has once been a comfort zone, to learn to let go of those expectations is completely out of it. To read a book and consume it with my mind a blank slate feels foreign to me now. When expectations come from the first volume of a series, it's a little bit different. I have had a taste of the author's writing style and the general direction they seem to be aiming for. But when expectations come from just the first few pages I've read, it feels... the only word that comes to mind right now is "terrifying". How strange, to feel anxious about whether or not a story will live up to what I want it to be in my mind. What gear in my brain went askew? And was it always like that or is it something that happened later on during my studies (because that's also when I've been at my worst, mental health-wise).

Is it the topic of the book? That weird balance between "I relate", "I miss it" and "I'm so glad it's over?" Is it the writing? Something I compare my own to, knowing there is space for my bizarre storytelling out there, the one that I don't really share, that I most often do not write, because who would like to read that? It's not the first book this happens with though. Regardless of topic and writing technique, I've DNFed books halfway through that I knew I might like but was scared to see how it would fully unfold. I've DNFed books I've almost finished for the same reason.

There is something about books that is both what I love most and what scares me most both at the same time. And I don't know what is at the junction of both. Love and hate, I can certainly understand. Love and fear, there is nothing to fear from the stories I read themselves. What am I afraid to discover within myself if I finish the books? It's the same kind of fear that holds onto me when I'm thinking of writing. So it must all be related one way or another. What I read and what I write, sisters looking down on me, not in judgement but as two goddesses disappointed in the quality of my worship. I can see them clearly in my mind's eyes. I would draw them if I could (I just might).

There certainly is a pedestal. I do not see them as my equal. I do not see them seeing me as an equal either. How catholic. Something has to give though, for me to find comfort in worship once again. And that something has to be me.

The only way forward is through.

(I would give a therapist a field day...)

This week, I've managed to stay offline for the most part. Even when posting here, I've mainly wrote on Obsidian first and copy pasted, so my time on the website have been minimal. I've responded to most people's comments, but I haven't been as present to read and comment on their own posts. Which I'm learning isn't such a bad thing either. Sometimes, being in a community means knowing others exist in the same neighbourhood even when we don't actively seek out each other. It's something I have to remind myself often. Community takes time to build, and that's okay. Community won't disappear if I don't read and comment on every single posts for a week or so. I will not develop fomo over missing some people's posts. Missing posts is not the end of the world. If I'm okay with other people not reading and commenting on every one of my posts, then they are most likely okay with me doing the same. Because when they do, I am just happy to say hello back and exchange with them then, so surely they feel the same way. And if they don't, maybe we are just not a good fit for each other, and that is okay too.

Community takes time. I do not have to be chronically online to maintain it. I can be present just once in a while, write and respond when I can, and it's okay. It's easy to fall back into familiar patterns, familiar pressure to exist in online spaces daily or else. An "or else" that implies erasure, disappearance of the self, a fallen tree no one can hear. But the tree is still there. The tree still stands. The tree exists even if no one perceives it.

(I will not disappoint the tree for not seeing it. The tree still exists. The tree does not need me. The tree is okay. Why is my brain like that?)