Went on a book adventure today. Didn’t want to leave, ever.
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.