Every time I begin writing something like this I feel self-satisfied in the same way you do when you've let yourself eat the entire XL bag of chips: it seems like such a good idea at the time because You Deserve It but then you really just feel sick. I seem to have come to a point where the post-summer high is gone and rejections are piling up around me, cluttering my work space and making it hard to breathe. The Norwegian winters are also remarkably colder and longer than where I've spent the past few years (and I live in the south), so melancholy is easy to come by and then cradle and nurse through hours and hours often spent inside trying to work.
It's an exquisite feeling and I'm telling myself every day that this is gold, this not knowing, this fear of never succeeding, this I don't know where to go only what I want to do. It's silver streamers shot out across an abyss but I can't see if or whether they land or reach any point on the other side at all.
Is every adults life wrecked by doubt? I do not think I've made the wrong choice, but I wonder if I'll feel the same way if I keep getting no and no and no, with few to no yeses interspersed. I guess that's mental strength and it makes me think that's the only thing that matters (in anything).
For the next year, I don't know where to go. I know what I want to do, but there's obvious the practicality. After some months I thought I'd have a better idea, and in some ways I feel like I've begun traversing the landscape of my creativity with greater agility and lightness of breath than before. I move around more easily, I can see the contours, I am like a 3d modeler inside although some of the angles are obscured and the largest shapes are often clouded by mist (I can't zoom out, it makes me too dizzy).
But I'm not a practical person and I am beginning to think I never will be; is this the result of growing up in a country where mostly everyone has whatever they need and so immaterial ails suddenly grow out of journals and doctors visits and afternoon coffees with the neighbor? I don't wish I could do something different, and of course I always tell myself that I could be a mathematician (as in, I could want to) or a doctor.
I don't know how to end this. I suppose I wonder where my borders are. And what will happen.