When we talk, it feels like therapy to me. And in a positive way.
When we talk, I have to think before I speak because your intellect demands that I structure my thoughts. You have very little patience for whimsy or stupidity or irrationality. So I reflect my thoughts before I tell you about them. I choose my words carefully before I let you hear them. And I evaluate whether the way I feel and think really makes sense.
Some people might say that this is stressful and that this is not what a good friend should demand from me. Common opinion suggests that friends will listen to any kind of drivel and love their friends for it.
I have those friends, too. But I prefer your friendship and that you demand more from me when we talk.
I love it so much because it helps me re-evaluate my life and my worries and everything that happens every day. Your demands for proper conversation are like therapy, but I explain it differently. I always tell others that I imagine my life like a row of framed pictures on a wall. And in our conversations, yours and mine, we walk along this wall where the frames have become slightly crooked, and I right them and you step a few feet away and tell me whether they are aligned properly again. You help me straighten out my life by demanding that I look more closely, more rationally, and more critically at my life.
Your friendship is like therapy, and I really wish we would talk more often. Recently, I have become more in need of guidance and conversation.
I feel melancholy. I want to write properly again.
I want to immerse myself in my own words and in the words of great writers again. For a time, at the end of my studies, I felt so close to finding a voice in writing and to appreciating the art and artistry of the great writers, but the drudgery of everyday life has stolen much of my understanding and even more of my patience.
It pains me. There is not much about life as a student that I miss, but this immersion and this time for reflection are the parts that I do miss. With all the pressure of my job recently, I have felt it most strongly. It has led to this melancholy.
Empty Silent London by Photographer Corrado Chiozzi Taken on Christmas Day, The Only Day of the Year Where the Capital Is Silent
- Charles Dickens, Great Expectations