Try as I might to shift it, there is a big black cloud looming over me that has nothing to do with the typically grey bank holiday weather. I think I am letting things get to me, and I should be able to rise above everything – I usually try to stay buoyant as much as possible, but at the moment I feel like a sinking gull that has too much oil on its feathers. It is such an annoying feeling – you want desperately to get on and ‘do’ things – yet all that lies in wait is apathy.
It probably doesn’t help I have had to collect a lot of my past life recently from my mum’s – tons of photo albums, diaries, odd scribbles (throw away ‘words’? Never!) and have spent much of today staring in despair at years of accumulated memories. I do try and prune them, but photos? Diaries? And although there is nothing there that would shock anyone, I still don’t like to think of folk potentially settling down for a read, mostly as I wrote my diaries in the style of the girl I desperately wanted to be, rather than I guess who I really was at the time. The thing is my diaries generally need a translator, and unfortunately only I can fulfil that role, but the likelihood of me sitting beside someone reading them is fairly remote. So why write them in the first place?
Reading them again is an odd sort of pastime – I am very good at meticulously recording my most embarrassing moments, it feels! Some things are nice to remember – but there is a sort of brutal honesty going on that especially in the diaries that cover me from 16 to 20 years old that I would hate anyone to read – John, my mum, friends – anyone! So what do you do with these things? As if the worst suddenly happened, well then people inherit this sort of crap, don’t they? In a weird sort of way, online blogs can be probably the most private form of journal keeping. Strange old world…
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