Taking back space

So. We’re a bit further into the new year.

I have accepted that I’m moving on from this part of my life. But I still want to retain the memories that I’ve acquired over the years.

I’ve been watching almost every fashion and aesthetic blogger that I follow talk about minimalism. I read all the articles on the KonMari art of cleaning. I watched the documentary on netflix. Researched the appeal of this lifestyle change.

The freedom that comes from not relying on possessions and purchasing to create happiness in you. It’s something I can totally get behind. So…

I’m embracing the minimalist movement into my life.

It’s kind of like, reclaiming the space in my house and making due with what I have. When I moved to cheshire for my undergrad, my brother moved everything in my room to the attic and moved in, painting over it and leaving me to sleep in his old (still cluttered, and yes, smaller) room when I came home for the holidays and reading weeks. Over those three years away from home, I accumulated so many things that for two summers I would only return to London with suitcases of my clothes and my personal electrics. Moving back home… These things take up space.

My room at university was bigger than my current one. Everything was a bit cluttered, but it didn’t stress me out. Having half of these belongings in my room, and the other half stashed around the house for over two years however… it does stress me out. I feel suffocated in stuff. Or I used to.

I am slowly beginning to take back my space. My room is in the process of being refurbished. My possessions are currently being evaluated on usage, sentimental memory and aesthetic- then being sorted and either gifted, donated, recycled or thrown away.

There is a bit of a rush in getting rid of things in this manner. And in the planning of what my room will eventually look like (and by proxy, what clearing the house of my other unused possessions will do). In between job applications, it’s a project I can work on.

I’m funnily reminded of studying Virginia Woolf’s “A room of one’s own” just because, well, I’m crafting a room of my own. One that helps me stay inspired, relaxed, creative and focused. A place, specifically carved out and designed for Fayola, to just be Fayola.

It is finally coming to fruition.

& then I broke my hand…

I have had such a good few months. I levelled up successfully to 23 years on Earth, started my internship, managed to get along well at my part-time fundraising job, finalised my dissertation title and topic, attended the London Book Fair, gave the last of my presentations and started to work on my last 3 essay assignments.

And then I broke my hand. (23 years of my life gone without serious injury, until Friday 15th April 2016)

My left ring finger to be exact. A spiral fracture. I actually can’t use my pinkie finger because the two are taped together, and every time I try to use my middle finger in any way- I hiss like a cat being lowered into a flea bath (it hurts like hell). Oh, and my injury is now in a plaster cast so I have a greying Zoidburg claw instead of a left hand.

Do you know how hard it is to type with literally seven fingers? I never realised how much I used leftie so much, until it was gone from me. Washing my hair by myself is no longer possible (I guilt my mum into helping me), I have to wear a strange rubber thing over the plaster so as not to get it wet and ruin my body’s attempt of healing.

Exam and deadline season have been a right mess to deal with.

Yesterday was the date of my (only, and hopefully last) exam. Normally I would be excited at the prospect of enjoying summer evenings in the park, sipping on cider in between job applications . Now?

I just can’t wait to wash and moisturise my hand when the cast comes off…

To be able to type at full speed again because I have a dissertation coming up…

To take off the nail polish on the fingers obscured by plaster and bandages.