On the weariness of waiting

I realised today that we’re three months into the year and I’m still waiting for it to begin.
Because of the way I left last year — incomeless — it feels like the recovery’s never actually begun. I went into the pandemic in a good spot, and through most of the year I was in that good spot; but because of the pandemic it’s been that much harder to get a paying job after my personal gap year than I anticipated.

So, there’s been a part of me that’s still waiting for me to have a solid income before I get moving on anything else.

To a degree, that’s legitimate. There’s a lot of things in 2020 I had to recover from, whether or not I was in a good place or a bad place to cope with things as they happened. It’s just that now I’m realising that I’m tired of waiting.

This is, believe it or not, a good thing. It indicates I’m feeling emotionally and mentally resilient enough to start looking at things I’d put down, despite the fact that my financial situation really hasn’t changed. I still don’t know how I’m going to manage the year; I still can’t see to its end. Or even its middle. But I feel less immobilised about not knowing, if for no other reason than spite.

Well, spite and some measure of recuperation.

I’ve been writing again, in drips and drabs. Nothing formal, nothing habit-forming; but enough that I’ve done it more than once, for no other reason than to write. Relearning passion after having spent a year afraid to commit lest danger come knocking is a worthy intent.

Over time I’ll start adding more things to my list. It’ll be slow, probably, taking things one day or one week at a time. But sooner or later something will give enough that I can start to see further ahead. I’m holding out for that day.