I have become very acquainted with this apartment in the past few months. We're soul mates in every way: I love it, I get sick of it. We spend a lot of time together and our relationship is "complicated" but I do, for the most part, love my quiet days here.
I sit between silence of these walls, listening for I don't even know what. Eventually work will pick up, life will get crazy, and I won't be walking to the mailbox just to say I got outside. These days won't stay forever. I sometimes try to put myself in my nineteen, twenty year old mind. Where did I imagine I would be at twenty-four? What kind of a wife/woman/person did I hope to be? Sometimes it's hard to remember.
But I think, I hope, that I would be happy with the way things are turning out. From an outsider's perspective, I probably look lazy. Staying in my pajamas for just a little too long, clicking away quietly on my laptop. It doesn't look like I'm chasing after dreams, taking risks. But I am. These little moments are adding up. The words I punch into the laptop are forming chapters which will one day become a book. It's silly and cutesy, even, but it's a dream nonetheless.
And maybe that's the point of this post. That the quiet chipping away we do actually has meaning, probably more so than the more exciting, dramatic life events that I write in all caps in my planner. "BECOME A WRITER" somehow never ends up on the calendar. But I like to think that that's what's really happening.