I want to record every moment in my day, in my life. I want to make a note of it so I remember what it was before it isn’t anymore. It isn’t a new habit, it is one forged after years and years of repetition.
But you don’t expect to lose it. You don’t expect a wave to wash through your home and erase all the reminders you saved. I am slowly forgetting what I looked like as a kid, as struggle to remember my lost journals and photo albums destroyed by disasters of life. Wind, water and fire. Now when I write or draw on a piece of paper, I feel a faint sting. Why the effort when I might lose it tomorrow. Someone else would be raping my belongings, not knowing how much love went into collecting those pieces of me.
So whatever I do now, I take a picture from my phone and lock it in the clouds. I go to the library and give them back the books I borrow, no longer wanting to buy, own and keep.
It is a beautiful, bittersweet feeling of disconnect.
I woke up around 4:30 in the morning because I accidentally heard my friend’s message while in the bathroom and had to respond. The response took some thinking, and my brain woke up. As I was recording a message to her, my husband woke up as well. He always smiles when he looks at me. Even if he’s half asleep, dead tired after a long day. And it always makes my heart flutter. So we spent the morning talking and joking about the funniest, sweetest things until it got late and he had to go to work. I dozed off a little as he tip-toed around the room in dim light, getting ready and trying not to make any noise.
Today I am off from everywhere. I spent most of my week running around the city and needed a day desperately to myself, so I could get my house in order and work on some important projects. I took a multivitamin, made myself some breakfast, and was about to make a list of things I needed to do when I thought of visiting my blog again. I need to practice my writing as this current project requires some creativity. I can always start a new blog, work on my Medium page or use one of the hundred thousand platforms available for writing and journaling…but WordPress..will always remain special. And it will always call me back. Stats don’t matter now, if they ever did.
I am going to start with making the bed, then doing the dishes, cleaning the kitchen. Then imma dust around, mop the floors, and fold some laundry. I will then water my beautiful plants and arrange them properly for the sun. When this is over, I will plop myself on the sofa and work on my projects- one being my application due tomorrow.
The portion I am stuck at is ‘What past experiences impacted your journey leading to your medical career’. The answer needs to be in 750 characters. What to say and what to leave out? What constitutes an impaction? Who will I be blaming in these 750 characters? How much of it will I be shouldering, and how much will be plain finger-pointing? Maybe I am thinking too much into it. Maybe, I will be done in less than 750 characters if I say:
I did things that weren’t expected of me. I was supposed to obey, prostrate and sell my soul to a world of men run by women. My career was supposed to be a commodity meant to get the highest bidder. Instead, I chose to live my own life as I saw fit and cut cords with everyone who was fashioning a noose with the bonds I had with them. And I found happiness, love, and respect from the most unexpected of places. It was all my choice and I am proud of myself.