I feel guilty for resting.
It makes me uneasy because I feel like I should be productive, like I should get something done that I know needs to be done. And I sure have a list.
When someone asks what I’m doing, and I happen to be doing nothing, I feel caught. Like I’ve been doing something wrong. Like it’s a sin to have moments where I do absolutely nothing at all.
But I must rest.
We have to rest our weary souls.
So I’m creating.
I’m writing. I’m recording. I’m building.
The world I’ve created continues to be my escape. What started as procrastination from nursing homework turned into me fervently writing chapters on a cracked phone screen from my bed at the homeless shelter, and now has became the place I disappear to when my reality is too ugly to look directly in the face.
Maybe one day I can finally free myself from this guilt. Maybe one day I’ll allow myself to rest without needing to scrounge up an excuse for why I deserve to.
Maybe one day I won’t need a world to escape to.