Today,

She sits in the large beige chair and taps the pen against her thigh in time with the clock on the wall. The sun is slanting into the room at a more drastic angle now, her eyes are unfocused and far away.

Something is disturbing the surface of the milky tea which is balanced on her chair. It distorts the image of the window frame. As she focuses in on this the pen continues its beat on her thigh.

She has not opened the notebook in her lap yet. She went to retrieve it upstairs but it has been put to not good use. It is frighteningly empty of her writing. All she has collected are thoughts on the History of Islam and some scribblings which she thinks are meant to be probability equations. But she is so empty of words.

She finally cracks the notebook. The notebook she hates because it is large and bulky and no good at all for these things. She turns it in her lap so the lines are horizontal. She takes the pen, pressing down hard, willing the words to escape her. But all she can muster is this -

I am so empty of words.

This frustrates her, the mere appearance of these dreaded hated words on the page. She grabs the tea from the arm of the chair and takes a gulp. It has gone still and cold and she can taste the sugar on her tongue. This does not help and she grimaces as she swallows. She returns her gaze out the window and now, her pen beats its rhythm against the white paper.

The Day of Doubt

It is 12:16, and I have been in bed all day. I have been in bed all day reading my way through every book that could possibly capture my attention. I have started (and not finished) approximately 12 crossword puzzles. I drank seven cups of tea and I ate three pitas. I started knitting a new scarf, I expanded my amazon wishlist, and I drained the battery on my Ipod.

About a half hour ago I went into hyperactive panic mode as I downloaded maps of Heathrow airport. My room is dark and I am huddled over the screen on my computer like some kind of crazy person in my sweats because I still have the chills. Sex and the City is on right now, and that is only increasing the steadily panicking pace of my heart. Sex and the City is something familiar which I will soon be leaving behind as well. Its also not helping that I now have to live with the knowledge that Carrie Bradshaw comforted me in my hour of need and, my God, I am actually THAT GIRL.

It's so ridiculous to be afraid right now. A part of my head knows that, and that part of my head is congratulating itself on being rational enough to know how ridiculous the other half is. Especially because of this one strong truth - I have done this before.

I suppose this gives me the answer to a question I have pondered. Sometimes, your comfort zone doesn't stretch to certain areas, and as long as you keep stepping over that line you will still panic.

It's good though, I have been comfortable for a long time. Now I will go back to bed, and probably not sleep. I will carry my stack of papers with me on Thursday and I will look like a loon juggling them in my arms. But I will be uncomfortable, and isn't that what stepping outside your comfort zone is all about?