Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of my time thinking. Sometimes I talk about these things, but other times they’re too obscure and flighty and sometimes just too precious to be put down in words, either here or in my writing. I haven’t updated since the 21st of December, and I haven’t written for a long time before that. I worry that I can’t call myself a writer because I don’t write any more. I know that I used to be one, but now… if I get an idea, I scribble it down, and I think about it, but transforming all these violent or elegant imaginings into sentences and paragraphs seems irrelevant and, quite often, impossible. I’m worried that if I don’t write, I’ll forget how to somehow. Already, when I do create something it seems trite and like I’ve regressed. I’m terrified that I’ll never be able to create as I did. Perhaps this is growing up- losing all your interest in other people, losing all your imagination, losing all your ‘free time’, losing all your incentives to do something that doesn’t really have a specific or useful purpose.
I’m going to try, though. As I said, I’ve started to think about things again, and by that, I don’t mean dwelling on relationships which didn’t work out or work for an essay. I need to be careful- I need to stop thinking of consequences and do what will make me happy/interesting. Tomorrow, I shall wander by myself, and I’ll leave my iPod’s battery flat, and I’ll let my mind wander, and hopefully, just hopefully, I’ll want to write. I won’t be afraid of writing because I’m afraid that I will be rubbish at it.
I think I’m going to try to update this blog every day as well. I was tempted to start a diary today, but even though I wrote one for years before I started to blog, I’m not sure if I could write a private one for myself, and have a public one here. I am tempted to say ‘fuck it’, and make this my diary. Not making it private, or secret, but writing whatever I want with no care for the consequences, no care for who might read this. Of course, it’s easy to say that, but people who I might be writing about would read this (one person in particular, and a few others who seem to be becoming something fairly important in my life). Sometimes, there are things which one doesn’t want others to know- not only because it may upset them or change their feelings, but also for one’s own protection. I’ve found that leaving yourself open to hurt ends in you getting hurt- it’s simple really.
Oh. I’m all over the place today, and these drinks aren’t helping one bit.
Today, I haven’t really done much. I collected one of the two essays which I handed in before Christmas and ended up rushing, and surprisingly, I got a 2:1 in it. This seems to be the mark I get, however much effort I put in, which is a silly thing to say, considering that I probably ended up doing the same amount of work on each, just with one being pushed into a much shorter time-scale. I’m pleased with it, though, but I intend to work harder on the next essays which I get given. At least now, I hopefully won’t be moping around. Other than that, I have spent a lot of time on the phone today, mainly to Matt. I also went, with my flatmate, Natasha to see the two girls who we’ll be living with next year, Claire and Hannah, to talk about the house, and so on. They seem to be nice people, and I get along with them pretty well, and next year should be fun. It will be nice not to be living in halls, to be honest. This doesn’t feel like home, whatever I do to it, and the temporary nature of living here is difficult to forget. I think it will be an interesting process, looking for a house, and living ‘by myself’.
