There’s a sweet little irony in only realising where you were going wrong in something, once you come to the end. A kind of long-awaited clarity where, with a deep 'Ohhh', the reason for all that was senseless suddenly makes complete sense. A certain kind of epiphany, I like to think, you only achieve when it's time.
Tuesday, 16 August 2016
Wednesday, 27 July 2016
I suppose it never really occurred to me that 2016 wasn't supposed to be my best year.
Maybe I'm an optimist, or perhaps it's something a little darker; a constant one-upmanship we are driven by daily as if our past selves are our present selves' competitors. Because what's the point in moving if you're not moving forward, right? It's funny how we read back to ourselves a narrative that's a millisecond ahead of our daily lives, trying to piece together what it all means so we might, too, be able to discern meaningful shapes in the mist of a foggy future.
I'd forgotten it was simpler than that.
Thursday, 14 July 2016
"We like recovery stories to move quickly through the dark so we can get to the sweeping redemptive ending."
- Brené Brown, Rising Strong
A curious quirk about the nature of blogging, I've come to realise, is that the story never ends.
As writers, social mediacs, online diary keepers, one day we begin to write our story and we never stop. We start from what we perceive to be the beginning, or perhaps languish in regaling the tales of our childhoods and our former selves which all contributed in some way to make up who we are now, the person behind the fingertips above the keyboard. And while some may quit, give up or just forget they ever started telling it, that story doesn't end until we do.
Monday, 11 July 2016
'I learned that you cannot speak on other people's behalf, but you can share your own truth and listen to other people's. Because there are a lot of young women who need to be listened to.'
- Emma Gannon, Ctrl, Alt; Delete
It's a mild Thursday afternoon. I'm sat alone in a rattling train carriage speeding through a countryside smudged with streaks of amber and olive, and in a passionate flourish I suddenly snap the book shut on the table before me. How, my mind asks, more statement than question. How can she possibly know that?