January
Nothing really happened this month.
I suffered through the usual contradictory, post-travel sensations of relief and restlessness; it felt nice to not live out of my suitcase anymore, but I still couldn’t shake the restive desire to leave as soon as possible.
One Saturday, my friends and I spent sixteen hours in Valencia, hanging out in a park during the afternoon before going to a bar before going to a club before wandering the streets before getting the first train back the next morning. It was miserable, and all we had to show for it was a dud of a night and a prolonged encounter with severely unpleasant Dutch boys, whose only value as entertainment was being the target of my derision.
My weekdays consisted of waking up early, going to work, coming back, and entertaining myself in ways that didn’t require money. I danced to some English songs at a Erasmus event with some friends at one point, and at another I went to meet a boy I saw a couple times before winter break. None of this was particularly fun, but fun enough to make it feel like my life had started the process of familiarizing itself to me, who had taken a break from its routine when I went on vacation. It’s like my life here was on autopilot while I was gone, but now that I was back I had to reacquaint myself with the driver’s seat.
The mundanity of the month made it easier to accept the positive result of the COVID test I took during the last week. I, unsurprisingly, felt like shit and hated the world and at the time of writing not much is different. The only solace I have is I don’t have a fever anymore. It looks like I’ll be wrapping up the month in quarantine, increasingly becoming more and more irritated with the minutiae of my apartment, much like when I was in quarantine in 2020. At least that time I didn’t have this headache and hacking cough.
Like last time, though, I am re-reading Conversations with Friends for the umpteenth time. It feels nice to be sucked back into the emotionally placid narration of Frances and feed into her affected apathy by easing more into my aforementioned irritability. As much as I align myself with Bobbi, sometimes I fear I’m like Frances in that my personality isn’t real but rather a grab bag of different qualities that have been proven to be useful in various social situations, like how I present myself isn’t an accurate reflection of who I am but is more a derivation of characteristics that I know appeal myself to others. Then I get even more frustrated because everyone feels that way. Then I remember I’m in quarantine and spiraling into existential despair is a symptom of stir-craziness. Then I think the best version of myself was when I was traveling and strangers found me charming.
Then I put the TV on to stop thinking the thoughts that I only give a concrete element to when I’m feeling self-pitying and angry. Let’s hope February brings the sedative of routine and distraction–– and (dramatically) freedom, of course.
