09. What I can see
Facing the end of my undergraduate experience, I’m facing burnout. All of my creative hobbies are taxing; I’m burdened by not knowing my next steps. Work and academics are more demanding than ever; I have no motivation to consume, to become inspired, to interrogate media. This is in deep contrast to the standard of productivity I hold myself to. Productivity is heavily intertwined with my self worth. Bad, I know. But I’m only human. This part of my life is supposed to fun and hopeful and sentimental but that could not be farther from my reality. I hate it.
I love to drive. Something about the physical motion is freeing. One of my favorites is to and from my therapist’s office an hour away from my college house. I know the road from Starkville to Tupelo intimately; I could make the journey with my eyes closed. My quarterly appointment was successful, however, the most damming lesson was taught in my car.
I was comfortably warm wearing black athletic shorts and an extra large white Lizzy McAlpine t-shirt in November. I was wearing my glasses; I more commonly wear my glasses than my contacts but have been more courageous lately by placing the plastic in my eyes. My glasses are a form of protection rooted in my middle school hatred of my round face. My glasses are constantly dirty and smudged, because I have to push them onto my Asian nose bridge consistently and I never clean the lenses.
Music was playing, and I was stuck in my head. I can’t remember what I was thinking about. It doesn’t matter. I gave myself permission to let my mind wander because the feeling of unending doom has rested its hands tightly around my neck for the last month. Doom never squeezes the air from my lungs but the pressure is heavy and constant. I told myself I needed to think on my own—no podcasts, audiobooks, or videos. That would loosen its’ grip.
The overcast, muted blue sky was still bright enough to make me squint. The light contrasted two floaters in my right eye—one a small, dark dot, the other resembling black cigarette smoke. I have never noticed them before. I called my dad worried there was something wrong with my increasingly worsening eyes. He told me they’ve probably been there for a while, I’m just now seeing the little spots.
I heard some artist talk about what it takes to create a project in relation to self-promoting creative endeavors on social media. It clicked. Those little spots made me conscious of the boredom required to spark creativity. This week, my media diet is nothing to note. I am learning how to become bored again, how to describe the mundane. The next logical step is questioning and analyzing. Why am I consuming this specific piece? What purpose does it serve to me, the public, and the creator? Is there value in this media? Only then, will I be able to consume media well.
This week, I wanted to go back to a writing fundamental—writing things as they are, noticing my surroundings, and describing them in uninteresting detail. I’m excited to make note of what I can see. This is not a clever tactic; it is simple. It seems I have to continuously relearn the basics. But now, every time I notice my floaters, I will force myself to put my phone down.
Madeline’s Weekly Favorites
In no particular order and for no particular reason.
