scijessreads

What does it mean when I find myself wanting to put down words online rather than on paper? I have physical journals, notebooks, places to record my thoughts and fragments and memories. Places that I can pick up and hold and feel the rough paper between my fingers and hear the scratch of the Kaweco fountain pen as the internal becomes external, ink on the page.

But the online, the typing and tapping, the less physical space… that is where more of the words flow. Maybe because by posting I am sharing. I am not keeping everything inside or just for me, but purging it. Letting it out beyond the borders constructed around my heart. Giving the feelings a place to breathe and escape. Not necessarily looking for absolution or comfort or a return, but a chance to let go. Let go and let be.

There is a degree of anonymity on the internet. While I am not in the least assuming that people who what to know who I am can find that out, there is still a vague notion of separation between the in-person me and the digital version of me. Both true. But different forms of that truth. And under that thin guise of anonymity, sharing becomes easier. It is with people that I may never see or know, but still out there for others to find. To share. A chance for my voice to reach beyond my own bubble. It is speaking softly, but still speaking.

Lately, days have been mostly work, with weekends spend antiquing and doing bookish things. Sometimes I wonder if my reinvigorated love of vintage shopping and antiques is tied to a need to hold on to some part of the past as time marches continually onward. Part of it is also me finally learning that I much prefer old and worn and loved and full of character over complete minimalism and clean lines. I want cozy and lived-in and eclectic, damn it! Not clutter for the sake of clutter, but layers of treasure and art and small things that make me smile. I’ve started collecting Wedgwood Jasperware, and real wood furniture. Not that I’m getting rid of my IKEA bookcases anytime soon, but I want less that is forgettable and more that is memorable.

A phase of life, perhaps. Or a response to everything that I have lost so far this year. A mix of both?

One of my favorite new finds is a little secretary desk, that I got to replace my old, big IKEA one. This tucks away, yet when opened has plenty of room for writing or using my computer (which, honestly, gets used more at the dining table anyway). I still have intentions of writing more actual letters to people (I have sent some!). My home is starting to look like an antique store library all on its own.

While my own reading may not be at the volume of recent years, I do still love the bookish community I’ve found. Silent reading groups and events, finding new bookstores, reading physical books again instead of just ebooks… books are still life. I am trying to be more mindful of the ones I buy (there is only so much space for them at home). And I regularly go through the shelves to find some for donations or to sell. These are usually ones I’ve read and didn’t completely love. Or books that have been on the TBR so long they don’t sound like something I want to read anymore.

Life continues. I continue. Maybe with new priorities and hobbies and diversions. But everything is a way to find connection to the world and the things that ground me. Give me peace. Connect to community. Honors the past while shaping it into something new, bringing it into the future so that it isn’t irrevocably lost.

In going to therapy, we’ve talked about how I am very much an internal processor. I use the music and words of others to give definition to my own emotions. My own brain can be very analytical and overthink. But letting the words of others wash over and lend themselves to my own struggles and worry and hurt… in them I can find my own way to let out what is inside. To feel and connect and know that I am not the only one that is or has or will go through these things.