If you've been following along closely (and perhaps spying on me) you will have known I was in a philosophy master's program before the pandemic hit. In that year and some change, I had left behind the academic life for one in the public sector. I made my living for exactly 12 months of that year as a copy writer and the last five as teacher. But in a turn of the cycle, I now find myself back in the shoes of an academic (or training to be one).
I have acquired a research position at the university that is funding my return and so I have had to transition not only to classwork and writing, but to professionalizing that process in my spare time. As such, I've found my time to write waning, but not in an impermissible way.
And despite the loss of time, writing is still my go to for relaxation. As such, I have a backlog of poetry that hasn't found its way on here only because I haven't had the time to edit and set it out for critique. I'm working on this, though. Trying to see that in times when I lack the creative energy to create, I can always edit and refine.
It's about being where we find ourselves at any given time and simply accepting that state. Not in some fatalistic manner, jettisoning any chance of change or progress, or denying such a place could ever have been avoided. But rather through accepting the decisions that amounted to this state of being and allowing them, for this moment, to be the truth.
What comes next will come next, same as what has come to pass has passed. To long after either is to live within deception; what reality is there to dreams and wishes when the concrete is before you. So I'm trying not to pine after some mythic state of poetic freedom, or miss the days where I had more time to write. They are unreal and in their ability to remain transfixed on the pinboard of my imagination, always in a perfect state, makes them incomparable with what is happening now. If religion is no longer the opium of the masses as Nietzsche claimed, then nostalgia has taken its place.
But I haven't allowed myself to be frozen so just yet. My writing continues, only in secret. I share what I can on my Instagram, but beyond that I have just not had the time I once did. And this doesn't upset me, for that time is going back into an old passion I had given up. While philosophy has not changed as a discipline in my time gone, I have at last come to accept that it is what it is, and I can have to do with only the parts I find useful. No need to dig into dogmatism and fashion a sword of my thoughts; I can go about gathering whatever pebbles of thought come to pass by my consciousness and keep them for a rainy day to share with someone who finds such rocks to be beautiful.
(Also I realized if I finish my master's I can leave this less than enjoyable program for one more to my liking).
But that's good enough for now, just wanted to provide a brief update as to where I've disappeared to. And, as usual, I'll end on a piece I wrote recently.
she is paper thin, made of porcelain
and infinitely precious—
do not waste her in hasty pursuit
of the dawn.