glued

I don’t like being so addicted to things: my computer (which I have been wanting when I am on the train, in a nice café, when I think of things I want to look up, when I have down time); music (which I want to listen to on the train, or all the time, so much that when I hear songs that I know, my body physically calms); money (which I feel guilty about spending, as if  I am wasting, being careless, but then I have to weigh the amount of care it would take to really save as much as I possibly could, and wonder if the worry of all that saving outweighs the niceness of being able to do and buy things within reason, or occasionally even not within reason); quiet (to just sit and do a mindless activity during which I am not obligated to start a conversation or chatter; I have recently been taking out my book as if to read, but often end up staring at the page and thinking, so I can have time and space and quiet to think without being asked if something is wrong or feeling obligated to speak.  One of the nicest things was when I was in St. Andrews on Wednesday and Nina went to study, leaving me to sit in her room and have some quiet time.  I sat on her bed with my cup of tea and stared out the window, thinking, processing, just being.  And then I felt better. Other activities are good for finding this kind of quiet: chopping vegetables, folding.)

Which is harder: doing something you don’t want to do, or not doing something you want to do?

Lately I think it’s the latter.  And I don’t mean not getting to do it, I mean purposely not letting yourself to do it.

I want to write down what I have done every day since I’ve been in the UK.  But every day I don’t write it, there’s another day to write and remember.  The train would be a good time to do this, but I won’t have a computer.  Reading is good, too, though.   But is there a point to remembering days?  The most important ones will get remembered, I think.  Or else the ones that get remembered will become the most important.