A new chapter.

nb. This isn’t necessarily the happiest of posts. However, sometimes not everything is happy. And sometimes the way to move on from the unhappy is to write it off.

There are many reasons to write, or not to write. When you’re happy, sad, angry, empty, tired, passionate, hopeful, disappointed. It’s often harder to share that writing with someone, however. I’ve done a lot of the writing this year. Very little that I’ve shared, or even looked at again once pen had left paper. But to burst that bubble, as it were. A few excerpt-glances into the stream of consciousness that is my life.

December.
It is a necessity sometimes to get lost, so that you can get found. Or rather, so that you can find yourself. You are never going to be able to please everyone. It is simply an impossible task. And in trying to do so, you end up only ensuring your own misery, confusion, emptiness. No longer knowing your own mind because so long has been spent appeasing the minds of others.

January.
The truth is rarely pure, and never simple -Oscar Wilde. Can’t breathe. Won’t breathe. Don’t know how to breathe. An inability to correctly operate the organs more commonly known as lungs…Written out of a story I didn’t realise I’d been writing.

Remembering. Nostalgia. Memory. A shiver of recognition that this is what I should be doing. What I’m meant to be doing. Why I am doing what I’m doing. Why the stress, the blind panic, the passion, and the tears. The constant belief of inadequacy and inability to succeed. To create. To direct and aesthetically visualise. Sleepless nights that give way to dream worlds of playful darkness.

February.
Empty.
There is no etiquette…Feel all of the feels. They exist for a reason.
Small talk, the worst kind. Mundanities covering emotional profanities. An inability to express, to confess.

March.
(I had an operation in March. Very little was written about, except the taste of blood. I’ll spare you the taste of blood.)

April.
Destruction of the first passionate, inspired feeling in months. Destruction in seconds. A breath of hope, the first in far too long. Pick your battles. Not all are worth fighting. It is your story – write well, edit viciously. Bloodshed does not always a good novel make. Find your happy. Your dreams, do those.

April is difficult. Season changed, clocks changed. April is about finding, building, sanity. April is not going well. April is insane; self-inflicted alienation.

May.
(May was equally quiet. Maybe I just didn’t spend a lot of May thinking. Maybe I spent too much of May on things outside of my head. Probably for the best, considering how the beginning of the year shaped up inside my head.)

June is so far significantly better. If you were wondering. Less of the writing, more of the living. More of the planning. More of the good kinds of being in my head. July is the new chapter. The chapter that takes me on adventures. Not necessarily swash-buckling, or dragon-slaying. But adventures that have been brewing for a while, all the same.

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