I am sitting on the fourth floor of the extended infinite, between buildings 56 and 66. It’s my favorite spot at MIT. All of campus is quiet and empty in the dark January 6pm air. I sit with my computer, in the window, thinking.

I love these moments. The times in between: after one thing has ended, before another thing has started. I need these moments. They help me come back to myself, ensure that I am doing what I want to do, that my life is still going in the direction I want it to be going in, and that I achieve a balance between work, friends, dates, art, reflection, adrenaline.

It’s sort of a handicap. Every few months I just desperately need these days: days that go to waste, both productivity-wise and socially. I sometimes wish I didn’t need this recharging time, that I could just go on and on, from one thing to the next, like everyone around me seem to be able to do. On the other hand, perhaps the point of these hours is precisely this: precisely to figure out that I actually need these moments, and that without them, there is no way I will be able to be the person I want to be in all other moments.

Sometimes these moments make me sad. They are, fundamentally, a solitary exercise: a deeply personal look into who I am. And often I realize that perhaps I spent the past month working too much, sacrificing close friends, or perhaps that I spent too much time socializing with people I didn’t enjoy being with, sacrificing both work and close friends. And then I wonder if it is truly worth it — being sad when I could’ve just gone along with my life, without reflecting, without being sad. Theoretically, I know that these moments allow me to course-correct, and that I shouldn’t be sad because it means I will improve myself, and while this is what I tell my rational brain, it is hard to convince my emotional brain of this fact.

Tomorrow, life will start again. I’m grateful for the life I get to have.

I’m excited for tomorrow.