It always takes me by surprise, like a schoolgirl caught napping during French lessons. One minute it’s Halloween, and November stretches out before me with the promise that there is enough time to get things done. But, before I have the chance to blink twice, Thanksgiving is looming and, after that, the fairy lights of Christmas won’t be far off. Everything is rushing towards the final curtain and I am not sure I am ready for Auld Lang Syne just yet. The pace has started to quicken. I feel weary. Weary of all that remains to be done. Weary, like a traveller who has walked a thousand miles but now needs to sprint through the final hundred.
November. It’s such a melancholy month. They call it ‘the month of the dead’ here and, even though the sun shines nearly every day, it fills me with a strange feeling of sadness that I cannot quite shake off. That, coupled with a restlessness caused by certain local events, have not been very conducive to writing. I wish I did not feed so much off of the emotions of those around me. But that’s the way I’m wired. From time to time, I still stop to wonder whether I’ve found my voice yet; whether I should be writing for myself or for an audience. So many questions; so much to think about.
November will soon be a hazy memory. A month of dying days, impossible deadlines, sweet melancholy, Downtown Abbey (yes, I have finally given in), Tommy Lee (I’m sure you’re all thinking that Downtown Abbey and Tommy Lee make a strange combination, and I agree) and soul-searching. Perhaps I have stayed in my cocoon for too long. It’s time to spread my wings and fly. Maybe November has served its purpose after all.
Art Recycles Art Exhibition, Strait Street, Valletta