With no university and no day job to attend to, this week has felt a little alienating. I can't lie---for a lot of it, I've enjoyed the freedom: the baking, the sleeping in, the mental rest. But I suppose what I have loved the most is the absolute opposite: the feeling of being at a loose-end; of not quite knowing what to do with myself. Because if nothing directly productive has come from this week, it's been the affirmation that I am doing the right thing---despite me doubting it so often. I haven't opened a book in seven days and I am missing it---missing it isn't even the right word, it's more of a craving, really. Because as much as I don't like the deadlines and the rush and the over-whelming sense of being behind, of only just catching up, I can't live without it. Studying---academic or not---has become a second nature, a reflex, a switched-on mentality.
So tomorrow, tomorrow I will pick up a book and I will get back to studying---even if it's a snatched moment on the train. And next week, next week I will get back to preparing for exams. And after that, after that I will start reading again but---and this is perhaps the greatest revelation of all---it will be for me.
Does that make sense?
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