There are many ways to
attack the question of how one might live. A couple of years ago, a professor
asked me what my plan was. Disinclined to say I was clueless, I said I was
taking it one month at a time. He laughed and remarked on how ambitious it was
that I did not mean to take it one day at a time. Now trying to convince myself
that I am equipped to work on the doctoral method, I am not entirely sure how I
should answer the question of living. I spent last Saturday mostly indoors,
feelings a weird sense of guilt about not making anything of my weekend. I would
not define it just in terms of productivity; there is, a particular sense of
wastefulness you feel spending most of your time on the phone. If I spent an
equivalent amount of time just staring into space, it might feel less wasteful.
This blog visits and
revisits the idea of running away. A contradiction I have felt in that respect
is how I can define running away if I do not identify myself with a place. I am
running away, among other things, from someone else’s concept of belonging. How
can I explain to myself the profound sense of loss I’ve been experiencing since
arriving in Germany? To describe it as homesickness, while not untrue, would be
reductive. The relative permanence of the move this time – that it must last at
least as long as one doctoral thesis – asks of me to prepare for the kind of
stability that I have not come to expect since the pandemic. For the first time
since, I have a certain idea of where I should be this time next year; and that
certainty comes not without its share of melancholy. If things are not so
unstable and chaotic, it feels more likely that I might get found out.
There are, on the
other hand, some things that I have come back to in a relatively non-deliberate
attempt to feel in touch with my ‘roots’. I spent my two years in the
Netherlands largely unconcerned with what was happening in football and with Manchester
United. On Saturday, however, as I sat feeling a vague sense of guilt, one saving
grace was the incredible sense of joy I felt from watching Gabriel send his
penalty to the Hungarian sky, denying Arsenal the opportunity to win what they wanted
most. Like any self-respecting football fan, I maintain that there is no sense
of joy greater than watching a team you hate lose. I am, despite myself,
looking forward to the World Cup hoping Portugal wins it somehow so Bruno Fernandes
can scam a Balon d’Or. I don’t know if there are conclusions to be drawn from one
of my longest-standing passion being reignited so. If it is a sign of me adjusting
to the idea of something new and hopefully long-term, I think I welcome it. Maybe
I can even look forward to taking it one year at a time.
