It has been a while since I have written about the snow globe. At the moment, it feels like the snow globe is in a constant state of thawing and refreezing. Sometimes the glass is as thick as ever and so frosted I can barely see the world outside through it. Other times the glass is more of a shimmering bubble and it’s all too real, too intense, too much. Sometimes, the river running through my snow globe swells, overflows and crashes over me. My skin starts tingling, my throat closes, I feel sick. The tears I haven’t shed over the last five years have finally found my eyes. On the days when the snow globe walls are thin, I am constantly on the edge of tears. The tiniest things tip me over the edge. I am either utterly detached or constantly a breath away from meltdown.
My library is going up haphazardly, the shells are built, the interior is empty. I’m upstairs in the Creativity block, the ceiling is a glass dome. Some days I feel like hiding in here and letting the world disappear. Some days I am so afraid that depression is returning. Some days I want to sleep and hide and dream and do anything to avoid having to be. Maybe I’ll leave this room bare, have a role mat on the floor and an assortment of blankets, so that I always have somewhere to hide.
When I fainted a few weeks ago, something very odd happened. I suspect that it was my half-conscious brain misinterpreting people talking around me, but I felt like I went somewhere else. I was here, then I was not here. It felt like falling through a window into another world. The only thing that stuck with me was that I didn’t want to come back. I think I need to write more. Even when I’m tired. Even when the blank page or the blank screen is terrifying and turning on my laptop or picking up a pen is too much effort. Sometimes that helps. Even if it doesn’t help to trap the dreams words, there’s always hope that one day I’ll write something that has enough potential that I can get it published. Then maybe I will let the world outside the snow globe go, for the most part, and live in a shed in the garden and write. At least then I would feel safe. I wouldn’t have to rely on the fragile glass of my snow globe to keep me safe, I would have real walls to do that. I would have a pass to be as eccentric as I please.