I’m inspired by my favourite writer-duo to try some entries in epistolary style. (The forum gets more intimate, allowing more space for confession. It makes writing these a little less daunting.)
What would happen if I wrote all posts during the wretched hours of sleeplessness? Each year I find myself enjoying the actual event of Christmas less and less, even if my fondness for the idea of the holiday continues. Any semblance of a healthy sleeping or eating schedule gets impossibly vaulted off track upon returning to my parents’ home. I’m not resting during the night, but still wake up too early to meals far too large and incohesive. Then there’s the napping. Each day I say I’ll get up, get dressed, leave the house, but really coming home is like revisiting an adolescent memory of exaggerated depression. It’s low and bleak and, worst at this time of year, disappointing.
Less than a week before I return to Montreal. Which only makes me frightened of what happens after school in Montreal. When does life stop feeling like a perpetual escape from becoming stuck in a past that no longer contains the resources to hold you? And who says it should anyway?