There’s a book that I’m re-reading from four years ago beside me on a bed I haven’t made since the last 7 hours that I was awake. Further away from that is a messy table that belonged to my sister that I haven’t bothered to clean either. There’s a dusty bookshelf and a sofa with a bundle of unused clothes facing me that I choose to ignore. Even my own table that lies across me isn’t all that great for a person who’s extremely particular with minute details.
That’s me some days. The organized well-kept me who on days like this cannot care to give in more energy than this. My chappals are strewn cause I was in a hurry to get onto my bed and journal. On days like these, typing this is so much more comforting than writing it into my diary. Diary writing is fun, no doubt. I like the different coloured pens I use and the art of highlighting the words I wanna tell myself on that day. It’s like an encouragement from me to me. But screw that today. Those organized and coloured sentences cannot help me today. Today I just wanna write to myself that I’m glad I’m alive and I’m glad I’ve come this far. I’ve been strong and I’ll get stronger day after day. Today I wanna let myself know that it’s okay to have unproductive days as long as you don’t spend too much time on your phone, as long as you explore a thing or two or read a book or talk to an old friend – we all go through borderline burn outs.
Today I wanna tell myself that it’s okay if I can’t go outside anymore. The smell of fresh grass, the sound of a shuttle cock hitting a badminton racquet and the burning ache on my right arm after an hour of playing can no longer happen. But I will learn to cope up with excercises at home even if all the smell I get are that of the cold tiles below me. Well, if I get lucky and it rains that day it will be with the smell of the cold, wet earth. Today I tell myself that my body has missed the smell of old pages. I’m currently reading a book that I read in 2016, two books to be precise, one of which was my sixteenth birthday gift from my parents. I miss running my hand through those brownish edges and measuring the number of pages I’ve read with the thickness of my finger. The excitement I used to have when the number of pages left would equal just one finger and the length my imagination would run to wonder how the story would end so soon.
Today I tell myself that it’s okay to be in a slump. That we’ve all been there, sometimes even longer than we can think. Today I tell myself that it’s okay to not follow a to-do list on some days. That getting things haphazardly done and mentally ticking tasks off your head isn’t as bad as it sounds and neither is it as bad as it feels. Today I tell myself that organisers and planners and fancy pens don’t have to rule my life. That the only power of guilt these lifeless stationary can have on me is the one that I let them. It’s okay if the day is not productive as long as I’m not spending too much time on my phone. I keep telling this while I smell the pages of the book I’m reading. A 2016 book and a word document is the only type of productive I am doing today. And surprisingly, on this day, I’m okay with this type of productive.
23.07.2020
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