Today while driving back from lunch I listened to a report on All things Considered about the events leading up to fall of the Soviet Union. For some reason it took my mind back to 1989 and those early years at university.
It’s what you can get nostalgic about. For no good reason I looked up the website for my old university. I was hit with flood of memories, stronger than they’ve been in years (decades). For some reason I recalled the vague sense of ambition we all had. The fun we all had. The learning, the conversations, the carelessness of all. The summer holidays which were almost identical to regular class weeks (for me at least) except I carried I change of clothes in my backpack and not my class notes.
I remember our writing club, each week you brought a piece of writing and handed it around for some peer review (which was always meant to be constructive and amazingly I found it was). I wanted to be a writer, badly. Perhaps it was the only strong ambition I ever had in those days. But I never applied myself to the study of being a writer. To be honest I don’t think I ever knew where to begin. Or perhaps I just liked the idea of being a writer without putting myself to bother of actually writing something.
I’ve looked up from my desk and I see my work colleagues engaged in ‘work’. Something I need to get back to, though I wish just for a moment I didn’t have to.
