The week was hectic.
I am rather tempted to make the post out of this sentence alone. Only, it would serve no purpose – I would continue to feel guilty for not writing.
But, how could I write when I haven’t been reflecting on anything worth writing about. Too occupied with work, with packing, with all the friends I had to see before the trip – there was no significant difference between myself and a robot.
The forthcoming two days of not going out of the house will not be enough to restore me to my own self.
I wonder to which circle of introvert’s hell would this kind of punishment belong – the situation of being too active and, at the same time (or, precisely because of that), not being/feeling alive. Everything was happening too fast for my brain to process. It all seemed just a wild succession of events… Even when I was having a good conversation, reading a (somewhat bad) book or solving problems with disinterested pupils, my mind was only partially employed – the other half always thinking about the thing that awaited me next (which, alas, was never a much desired time alone) thus creating an additional dose of unnecessary pressure and dissatisfaction.
Meeting friends felt, to a great extent, like completing tasks. Five done, two to go, two on repeat (!). What is of a greater importance, at least when this blog is concerned, I could not write about Don’t Tell Alfred. I still can not and it’s aggravating. There was no time for thinking about what I’ve read on today’s schedule. There will be no time for it tomorrow or the days after it… So, all the questions that popped out and danced around during the reading – why do I consider it weak? what is the problem with the story / its execution? what has happened to the characters? – will, unfortunately, have to be left unanswered.