Morning 1/1/18

Eight is one of my favourite numbers. I’m not altogether sure why, but the fact that it is must mean there was once a reason for it. So while the logic, the explanation, is lost, I know it’s somewhere, existing, and I can attach meaning to it, the number eight.

Wanting a year to be good is strange. 2017 was not easy, difficult indeed, but in its complexity, I found parts of me I thought were gone. A “good” year feels dull to request in the wake of such intense experience and personal progress. You’ll forgive me for not being specific. Some truths can only be felt anyway. While I’d like to think my words carry weight and the ability to convey what I feel, much of this still feels new and not yet cemented, or ingrained. I’ve laid firm foundations and started to build. That was 2017.

So 2018, what will this new year bring? At this stage, I only know what is certain, the basics; work and university.

Now I can feel possibility, flounder in excitement for the yet-to-be-decided. The unknown is far more exciting when you feel it from a place of security. Unexpected opportunities presented themselves at the tail end of last year, I can only hope that this weird, terrifying, upward spiral continues.

What 2017 taught me is that it’s all ambiguous. And that’s more than okay.

***

To return to the here and now. Linear time is overrated and not something I fear that much anymore, privileged I am as a 20-something.

I slept in this morning. Woke up feeling too hot for comfort. Threw open my window and breathed in the familiar scent of my neighbourhood; trees, warm bitumen, fading humidity.

What I’m saying is that it’s all good. The number eight will mean everything if I want it too, or nothing at all.

 

Happy new year, everyone! Here’s to another year of incomprehensible rambling and mutilated writing. All the very best. 

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When to let go?

It’s 36 degrees Celsius today and I’m spending my day off indoors with Netflix and airconditioning. However, now that I’ve reached a pause for the first time in a fortnight, I’m subsequently left with some thoughts, feelings and ultimately decisions that I need to confront.

Something that I have always struggled with is making the call of when to hold on to something or someone or when to let go. I always sit somewhere between head and heart when it comes to decisions, aware that I don’t want to fall too far on either side of that spectrum. Yet, I’ve always been a person of strong reactions and opinions. I have, like most people, a ‘gut’ reaction. But when that instinct renders a negative response to a person or situation, I’m not always sure where to proceed with that information. Fight or flight, wait and see, ignore or deal? What is the right thing to do? Here is where my head comes into play, desperately trying to see the logical and responsible path, one that may not necessarily correlate to what my heart wants, or what my gut thinks is right.

It’s like walking a tightrope, trying to balance the two on either side. No, it’s more like being the scales. Yes, that’s how it feels, as though I have to embody the balance. I can feel the weight on either end. I’m stuck, standing still, not moving forward in either direction.

I suppose having control is not always easy. Though, it’s those moments in life where we don’t have it, that we crave it.

Either way, do I let go? Move on?
Stay?

The most likely option is to let myself be pushed to the edge. If only I can bear to look below, knowing that I could fall.

Quiet Love

I’ve finished my first coffee of the day. Warm, not scalding. Just now taking effect, so my thoughts are hazy in a way that’s only pleasant on days when I don’t have to leave the house or attend to anything particularly time sensitive. How lucky I am for that to be my reality, even if it is only so for a few more days. Continue reading Quiet Love

Univeristy Woes

Highly relatable and topical post coming at you now my friends.

Okay, so I love university. Learning and researching, reading and writing, the marvellous people I get to meet and know, it’s all wonderful. Really, I’d recommend that anyone wanting to go should. Yet, right now, nearing the end of the semester and academic year, things are getting intense. Major essays are now due and despite the fact that I’m not behind on anything, I am panicking. Continue reading Univeristy Woes

Late Afternoons

Spring is here. I can feel it seeping into my skin, crawling up my bones, a warm tingle spreading from once cold fingers.

I am a winter person, or autumn, to be more accurate but I’ll deal with extremes. What I mean is that given the choice to live my last day in either excessive heat or cold I’d choose the second. For heat is stifling. Spring means summer is on the way and that reality leaves me conflicted. Eyes looking constantly forward are bound to be disappointed.

So to make a cringe-worthy metaphor, to find positivity, to spring to a spring cliche, I can pluck a small flower of optimism and let words like renew and re-birth cloud my formerly pessimistic vision.

Eyes wide open.

This change of season and late afternoons spent outside in the fading light. The buzz of insects and the rumbling purrs of my cat and the smell of grass and growing humidity lets me breathe a little deeper, a little longer.

Change is in the air.

Exhale hope.

Over a Bridge

Confused, conflicted, what’s another word that begins with C? Alliteration is more effective when it comes in threes.

I’ll ponder that for a moment.

Today felt like a dream. Not a nice dream though, not dreamy, but not a nightmare either. Rather, it was a slow, sluggish daze. Today was hazy and heavy, like that moment when you wake up from a deep sleep, only partially conscious, your head like a cement brick.

I drifted from each class and through each hour. I didn’t notice much. I was terribly unfocused though I managed to go through the motions; contributing to seminars, taking notes, raising a point or two about postmodern literature, etc. But nothing really stuck, nothing landed, solidified in my mind. I felt, in one word, disconnected.

I’m in a fog. And it goes on for as I can see, as far as I can look ahead. Which, albeit, at this stage, is not very far at all. I figure if I was not outwardly present then maybe I was too inward, too internally focused.

Regardless of my ‘haze’, I walked home in the chilly September wind, happy that summer hasn’t made an early appearance just yet. I wrapped myself in a long scarf, looping it around twice before tossing it over my left shoulder. It blew in the wind, flailing behind me as I walked across the bridge, over the Torrens, which, surprisingly, didn’t smell too bad today. Earlier I walked over another bridge where couples, people, people in love had inscribed, initialled, engraved, fastened locks and assumedly, thrown away the key.

Thinking about bridges I should probably get over it.

Perhaps alliteration is overrated.

 

Captive.

Directionless

Forwards, backwards, two steps to the right and back again. The weight of the world does not rest on my shoulders alone. It’s weighing us down together.

That morning, I decided to go for a walk. A slow walk, not at my usual hurried, gangly pace. I slowed and noticed. I noticed the clichèd sounds of wind rustling through trees as my feet sank with every step, disappearing into the mud.

I had laid awake, listening to that 2 am rain. 

I watched tiny birds hop over puddles and absently wondered if they’d forgotten their wings. I walked on, sure of my direction, yawning and squinting into beams of early morning light. Shadows crept into view. 

I strayed off the quote unquote Beaten Track. I was drawn into the wild shrubbery, taken in by the allure of the moss covered rocks, twisted, fallen branches and gum trees that seemed to be giving up. Further and further from man made suburbia I strayed. Away from the distant views of empty driveways and laced kitchen windows I ventured.

I am lucky to live where I live until living becomes a conscious effort. The physical place does little to make up for a mental space that’s becoming smaller and smaller. Lucky is now a synonym for acceptance, an expected social nicety and empty consolation. It even sounds hollow, clicking on the edge of my tongue.

The outdoors is nice. Beautiful. Even though I’ve dressed it up in manufactured subtext by romanticising the trees, moss rocks and birds, and needlessly describing the squelching of hiking boots.

Do I ever just walk?