You know, I've been writing compulsively over the last two months since my life came to a standstill. I log multiple entries in my online diary every day without fail. I continue to write articles for my friend despite being overloaded with reports at work. And those demand lots of technical writing. I haven't had time to consider homework yet.
One of the first (and most impressionable) modules from my undergrad days was this called 'Writing Home'. It blew my mind away with the promise of agency in constructing even safety. I could feel secure in my own world, one which I was responsible for conjuring, engineered exactly to my taste, and wouldn't fall apart unless I fancied. The imagery, then, always appeared as I wished; it was more steadfast than my tangible environment.
The wonders of writing. I am reminded of the Italian author, Italo Calvino, who wrote in 'The Nonexistent Knight' that the effects of writing were therapeutic, at the same time as it shred your world to pieces with the falsity it upheld. So one cannot have her cake and eat it. Time is an investment that cannot be split between two accounts. The more serious my focus inwards, the less adapted my physical context. You know you've crossed a certain threshold, the day people begin to call you weird.
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