The Great Gap
I just stumbled over my thoughts and found out that perhaps, perhaps I don’t want to write spectacularly intellectual stories. Perhaps it is okay to just write the girl-meets-boy tensionfilled stories I love to write. Perhaps it is okay to not be so hard on myself at times, because if anything, I don’t like things that are perfect, or symmetrical.
The Great Gap is ahead of me: I will be done studying in February and there’s nothing planned for the rest of the year, or the next. I have big plans for my gap year, most of them having to do with either modeling, writing or traveling. I can picture myself doing some kind of volunteering work with animals, I long to visit Vancouver Island and its orca community, I could perhaps go to some country or city for a while and do some modeling there, I could go back to Thailand and travel without rushing (I went to Thailand for two weeks this April, I will tell more about this later), and the best thing: I can write everywhere. All the time. After that I could do maybe a writing internship somewhere and then move on to the Creative Writing Masterplan.
But. People are harsh and already giving me their realistic views of my gap year. “You are going to have to work daily to pay for your rent, food, clothes,” they say, “how will you save up for traveling? Or an expensive master’s programme abroad? How?”
The fact is that I can see myself working a lot and be happy about that. The kind of daily routine that scares me more, is doing nothing at all. I have had a gap half year before, which was fuelled by hopes and dreams: these outed themselves in me lying on the couch all day because I was on a crazy diet and had no energy to do anything. My mind was in New York, because someone had casually offered me that idea.
Also, what do I do today when I have a day off? I certainly don’t write all day. Or go making crazy traveling ideas. The scary part of dreaming is not pushing yourself to realise them: when anything seems too hard or too out of my comfort zone, I’d rather crawl to my bed and sleep all day. There, I’ve said it. I’m scared of my dreams because they make me feel like I am a lazy bum, and this works its circular ways. I am scared of writing down my bucket list because what if I can never cross out anything?
The answer is so easy, you would think. Just do it. I feel like there is an almost undefinable line between pushing yourself to do something and not pushing yourself to do something. Wanting to be a perfect twenty-something or going with the flow and appreciating anything that comes my way? The first option is risky because I can’t be perfect. The second option is risky because I might not experience anything.
Is this the clichéd coming-of-age?