Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud

All last week, when I had to catch up on relating a week's worth of adventures, I was complaining about how much time blogging takes out of my life. I was feeling guilty that I spend so much of my limited time in Sevilla writing about my life here (both on my blog and in personal letters/e-mails to people) rather than being out there living it; that I waste away the beautiful days in front of my laptop in the Universidad's Sala de Lecturas instead of basking in the numerous parks and plazas the city has to offer. Now I'm finally caught up on blogging, so I should feel like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders, right? Instead, I feel empty. Yesterday I submitted an entry for a writing contest, the first writing contest I've entered in years, and it felt so, so good to get those creative juices flowing again. And that's when I realized, I like to write. Well, I had always known I enjoyed writing, but I hadn't done it in so long (papers for school don't count) that I wasn't sure if my affinity for it had faded. I mean, I didn't really miss writing when I wasn't doing it because my life was so busy with schoolwork and such, so it was hard to tell. But now that I've done more writing this semester than probably during any other period of my life, felt guilty about said writing, and taken a break, I realize I'm addicted to it. It excites me and fills me like few other activities do.

After much internal conflict, I've decided not to feel guilty about spending so much of my time in Spain in the world of words, because if that's what I enjoy, what's there to feel guilty about? In fact, coming to Spain has been the catalyst for my rediscovery of my passion for writing. I know I didn't need to go to another country to rediscover this (that would be a pretty hefty start-up cost) but I truly believe it's because I'm here that I have the time and the fodder to write. Even if I had stayed at Penn State this semester and taken easy classes so I'd have lots of free time, there would always be some exam I should be studying for or some friend I should be hanging out with or some voice in the back of my mind pressuring me to read ahead for med school. Here my biggest priority is to take in everything around me, and with a goal as vague and non-quantifiable (lacking a defined way of measuring) as that, I don't feel guilty letting other equally non-productive goals interfere. For me, taking in the world around me goes hand in hand with reflecting on it and writing about it, and I'm okay with that.

Earlier when people asked me what I'm going to do with this blog after my semester in Sevilla ends, I figured I'd obviously stop blogging. After all, as much as I like writing, I'm not presumptuous enough to assume that anyone is going to want to read about my ordinary life in the U.S. of A., and plus, I probably won't have time to write as a med student. But now I'm not so sure. I still tell myself that those reasons to stop writing are 100% true, and yet that doesn't make them relevant. I'm afraid this may be a similar situation to that of the sweet tooth I developed at Penn State, that after indulging myself so thoroughly in the addiction this semester, I won't be able to go back.

Even when I have a designated audience such as in this blog, I write selfishly. I write because I like how I feel when I'm doing it. I like when I re-read something I've written and am truly satisfied with the way it sounds. I like capturing the thoughts and emotions of a moment in my life and preserving them between the pages of a website or a notebook for eternity. I don't care if my blogposts become so long that I lose my readers one by one, because in fifty years when my memory's going I want to read them and relive every detail of that epic trip or chuckle at my naivete or show my grandchildren that I was young once too.

You could argue that most of my writing isn't selfish, that it's a way for me to stay in touch with the people I love. True, I have a Word document entitled "Messages from Sevilla" that's 96 pages (and counting) of my e-mail exchanges with friends. Yes, I've written letters and postcards in English, Spanish, and Telugu this semester. Most notably, I've poured hours of effort and love into letters to my grandparents and great-grandparents in my childish Telugu. But I consider that writing selfish too. I do it because I like receiving long e-mails in return and feeling like I'm a part of my friends' lives, because I feel accomplished when I write a 3-page letter in Telugu, because I like feeling close with my relatives.

I've been told I think too much, feel too much, write too much, and none of it is very productive. No, I'm not out there protesting global warming or taking care of sick puppies or even bettering my own future in any way. I'm in the Sala de Lecturas, the heat of my laptop warming my thighs, and it feels good.