- My current notebook began over a year ago (October 2019, another time / another life) but it is only recently that I have started to write in it again.
- Someone in my writing class asks: Do you ever read your old notebooks and realise you’re still writing about the same things? I think about this for weeks.
- This was called notes on turning twenty-five before I realised there was no definitive uncurling of a new leaf.
- I come back to this months after and call it notes on turning instead because yes, I am still writing about the same things. A different shape, a different weight, but at the heart, yes, the same things:
A kind of yearning.
Then, a doorway.
- The years that led me here do not come to me in chronological order. I write about my open desire for my younger self but, in truth, it is a relief to wake up with a sort of clarity.
- The feelings are clear. But now, I wonder, what does it take to be a writer? (See also: what does it mean?)
- I delete instagram off my phone and recognise a calm that washes over me when there isn’t hands and bodies and texts reaching for your attention.
- (To exist in the echo of an inside voice.)
- Sheila Heti writes, Alone, one feels the whole universe, and none of one’s personality.
- I make a mental note on my yearning: To want is not enough. To act, is perhaps the beginning of another story.
- Over the phone, a friend tells me, Writing is the most important thing.
- These words, a liquid, solidifies.
- The changing of states.