I am a fan of lists. Whether they be to-do lists, grocery lists, or just-for-fun lists, I enjoy them. They organize my brimming head and my jigsaw of a day. Too many times an errand, object, or most disappointingly, and inspired musing emerges in my thoughts, lingers for a moment, and promptly floats out into the abyss, never to be seen again. So I’ve taken to writing it all down real quick to keep up with myself. Needless to add, crossing an item off of a to-do list is at the top of the Most Satisfying Feelings in the World list (#1? Getting to pee after holding it in for too long with superhuman endurance). I can happily announce all the items on my list for the day have been crossed off. I’ve got my crumpets and a terribly British postcard is on its way across the Atlantic.
What is beginning to concern me is a certain item that keeps showing up at the bottom of my list more and more. There’s not much I can do about it but look at it. It reads as follows:
- something I’ve already forgotten
The lists start defeating their purpose if they continue to become merely a count of how many things I already forgot to do/get/remember. I realize I am a little young to be showing symptoms of dementia but I can’t be too bothered. Perhaps this is just a sign I need to take up meditation or something equally mindful to slow down the clockwork in my head. Or else, write faster.
Then there are the things that are not on the list. These usually end up being the most exciting part of the day. Take, for instance, the morning I left my friends apartment, turned the corner, and realized I was staying directly behind the Tate Modern Art Museum. With my large hat and ukulele in hand I figured I looked artsy enough for the place. I only picked at the surface of the immensely extensive collection, but managed to be fairly impressed by all the Picassos and such. This is how I’d sum up my experience of modern art:
I don’t understand much
I can’t say I even learn anything
I continued my walks along the river and slowly came to realize I was constantly talking to myself. Not just a little bit, but full-blown conversations. I definitely looked entirely mad, and began wondering if I actually had lost it when it hit me. I’m not talking to myself because I’m mad, I’m talking to myself because I can. I got my voice back! Being sick is honestly not fun in any way and I can say I feel about 101% more like myself again. Things have indeed been looking up in London, more friends and beautiful places turning up.
Now I’m on my way back to Finland. My only pair of shoes broke and I took that as a sign that I’ve been away long enough. Honestly I have mixed feelings about this right now, and it will be interesting to see what I’ve missed in little old `Finland since I left two months ago. What I like to remind myself if anything ever seems unsure is that wherever you go, there you are, and wherever you are, the same sun always rises.