I sat down to start this post in my usual fashion; with misery, cynicism, and a little self-loathing. But then I remembered that negativity begets negativity, and the last thing I need is another reason to beat myself up. So, I’ve picked the next closest thing: honesty.
I took yet another break from writing in general. People have told me and continue to tell me they love my blog posts, my copy, my short stories — whatever it may be — but I just… don’t believe them. Imposter syndrome, I believe they call it. Feelings of inadequacy that block us from ever proving to ourselves that we are better than we think we are. It’s a vicious cycle that I often struggle to break out of.
We create art to express ourselves and resonate with people, so when they tell us they want to see us or hear us, why can’t we deliver? Why do we feel like frauds in our field –surely I’m not meant to be in this club? You’ll find that this club is filled almost exclusively with people who are, in fact, very good at what they do. Conversely, there are a lot of people who produce ridiculously sub-par work, but because they believe they can get to the top with it, they soar. Right to the very top. Read more
Truth be told, no famous persons death has affected me.
When I was younger, I thought I cared that Michael Jackson died, but looking back on it, I really didn’t. It was just a shock that someone so familiar, so universally famous and loved had died.
After that, it was weird to me. Being upset at a famous persons death was weird to me; they’re a normal person. I wouldn’t be so affected if another normal person died. I wondered how people cried, screamed, ripped their hair out and locked themselves away when a famous person died. It was so weird.
Whitney Houston died, and I didn’t care about her.
David Bowie died, and despite being a huge fan of his, I was shocked but I didn’t care.
Prince died, and, whilst I was a fan of his music, he was kind of an asshole, so I was shocked but I didn’t care.
George Michael died and I was admittedly a little upset because Wham was played pretty often in my household and at family get-togethers…that and because after his death emerged stories of all his charitable work. I still didn’t care.
I have just never cared.
On May 18th 2017, however, Chris Cornell died.
Today’s prompt: What is home?
Home is walking through the doors and leaving all pressures, all standards and requirements at the entrance. It’s being free from prying eyes and worrying if you’ve accidentally pulled your socks over your leggings. It’s being free from dreading another human being talking to you or asking you a question when you’re just trying to get home please leave me alone.
It’s taking off any fancy clothes, it’s taking off the uncomfortable shoes and it’s changing into baggy sweatpants and a hole-ridden hoodie. It’s giving yourself a head massage and tying your hair back up, washing your face of grime and pollution and freeing yourself from the worry that there’s lipstick on your teeth, or that your foundation is sliding off.
It’s grabbing all the snacks you can find and falling down onto the sofa in a blanket. It’s turning on the tv and watching cartoons whilst stuffing your face with sausage rolls, crisps and yoghurt after a day of carrying yourself with an air of dignified wisdom. It’s whinging, howling with laughter and burping out loud after a day of stifling your sneezes and being careful not to laugh too loud.
I’m just trying to find a friend that I can kick back with.
Maybe listen to Fleetwood Mac for hours whilst getting shit done. Write music. Sing songs with so much passion at the top of our lungs and convince ourselves we wrote them.
Or take some mescaline (thanks, Kurt) and see who can come up with the wildest stories (whilst listening to Jeff Buckley) and draw. Stare at the ceiling and talk about literally everything. Rant and talk shit about the people we hate. Tell them my struggles and not be judged or ridiculed or ignored. Someone who will be there whether it’s 4pm or 4am.
I want to be high as hell when I tell them something that’s bothering me, and they’ll be high as yike defending me to the death and coming up, in the utmost seriousness, with an elaborate plan to kill whoever pissed me off. And we’ll both believe it’ll happen even though later on we’ll laugh about it. But they weren’t joking and I’d have to stop them from doing something insane.
Reserve Sundays for formula 1, obviously.
It’s me. I’m describing myself.
Wow, a whole month. I am sitting here with a headache, an eye ache, a neck-ache, a backache, leg pain, ringing ears, depleted motivation and a blow to my energy. I’ve been off uni for a good few months now and I would love for someone to give me a fat kick up the ass and tell me to get my shit together. Alas, my ass remains comfortably seated on a sofa. In front of Netflix. Where it always is.
However, some clouds have a silver lining. In my dissertation research, I’ve had difficulty in finding a novel that contains ALL the things I need, and finding a critic that shares ALL the same views as me. I have found nothing so far. But you know what the silver lining is? An increase of motivation by approximately 0.005%; if it hasn’t been written, you gotta write it.
Yeah, I lol because it took me a whole month to summon the energy to write another post and here I am slapping a few photos on a page and calling it a day. As you can tell, I throw all my energy and talents into my words, leaving none for my photography skills. But sometimes we don’t take photos for artistic purposes. Sometimes it’s for memories, and sometimes it’s just to show you the shit I’ve done. We got our old photo albums down from the loft, dating back to the 50s/60s? And I realised two things. One, to spend as much time as possible with those who are important. And two, that it’s the real and in-the-moment shots that we appreciate. Not the artsy ones that took 12 different takes in perfect lighting. This is memory lane, not a gallery.
Ridicule is nothing to be scared of, girls and boys.
Ramadan is almost over, and what are these blues?
Although I’m finally on top of things, academically, I still feel swamped in other things that I have yet to do. Perhaps the feeling of inadequacy and impending doom is embedded within me now? I’ve been off uni for so long and the only place I’ve been to is a drive thru at 2am. Once. Amazing.
Anyway. The reason I’m not being productive where it matters most is because I literally cannot function properly when my mood is too low. I am like a sim. I cannot work, play or talk when I’m not at an adequate level of happiness. Unfortunately, however, we humans do not have a magic llama and must suffer fairly through this game called life. I have, therefore, compiled a list of things that I feel might help provide temporary relief for that red plumbob hovering over your head. Bear in mind that I am the most miserable person in the world*, so if any of these work for me, they’re bound to work for you.