Quick-fire back-and-forth single-thought texts. Emojis as an adequate response to heartfelt declarations. Shopping (and even library) trips, where I hear only the beep of machinery…
Sometimes I feel I am living in the twilight zone.
And sometimes I feel sad.
There is a deep sense of life spinning too fast and me, flailing behind, holding on for dear life to a strand of reality so thin it might slip through my fingers at any moment. There is a real and physical ache in my heart; a longing.
That longing is for slowness. For easy conversation with a friend over two coffees without the ping of a notification to pierce the bubble of bliss.
That longing is for simplicity. For a time when the life I lived was here—in this moment; in this place—not in some imaginary ether.
That longing is for deep connection. For long letters written from the heart and read with a cup of tea, instead of chats tapped out at speed whilst simultaneously cooking dinner, listening to a podcast, and liking posts on five different platforms.
Heck, I even reminisce about heartfelt emails! And feel gratefulness for the small group of friends with whom I still know to grab that cup of tea when their name pops up in my inbox.
Life can feel so quick, so instant. Yet there is never enough time. Life feels like short sentences, when I’m certain it should be long, dreamy, poetic paragraphs.
Sometimes I wonder, “how can I live in this world?” constantly juggling the wonders of technology (and they are there!) with the need to step back, slow, reconnect.
But then I remember, in those moments of complete apathy, the power of pen and paper. I close my eyes and bring notepad to nose. Breathing in my heart smiles. I turn my phone on silent, close my computer, make a cup of something warm. I take myself away from everyone to chew on my pen and ponder. I write a word, something to spark a thought. I look out at nature and allow myself to be inspired by the plethora of life that goes on in front of my eyes that some days I forget to notice.
The conversation with self comes back slowly, a little unnatural in the beginning, but then it begins to take pace and settle into a comfortable rhythm. It’s full of surprises, too—those thoughts I hadn’t had time to contemplate when lost in the constant quick-step of life. My heart eases, I begin to breathe and somewhere, lost in the in-between of nature and paper, I come back to myself.
I remember who I am.
The one-line to-and-fro chat taking place in my restless mind—mirroring the pace of this world—sinks into the background as I fall into deep conversation with myself again. Meaningful. Caring. Thoughtful. My truest self revealing unspoken dreams.
I breathe.
Life makes sense again.
I am reminded of what it is to slow, simplify, connect; to be in the moment.
But mostly, I recognise that I am talking to myself with the time I deserve. And that I’m listening, without thinking about all.the.things this modern world both gives, and takes from us.
If you would like to find the way back to yourself, then I invite you to join me for Dream Into Spring 2023. I would love to open our journals side-by-side.
How do you talk to yourself?