|Run! Run for the hills!|
Do you ever feel like someone else has your life? I look at others and think – hey! How come you’re living my life? That should be me over there, doing those things. Instead I’m here, doing... well, not much. Not much at all.
‘How can she say she doesn’t do much when her blog details amazing nights out?’
Yes, it’s a conundrum, but easily answered. Those nights are the rare stars twinkling high in a sky the texture of a course scratchy blanket. I arrange things to do because otherwise I’d bury my head under the blanket and never come out. I know my tendencies. I like to hide away.
The rewrite continues (well, I like to think it does. In my head it gallops. In real life it snorts steam and stares balefully from the stalls.) However, I fear it’s the wrong rewrite. I think perhaps there is a third, better, way to tell this story, which would mean yet again grabbing the edges of my Word document and giving it a shake, letting the sentences settle down again in a new pattern. I don’t want to do this. I’d rather lick the road, go on a five-mile hike on a hot day with a pail of defrosting fish, or ride a home-time bus surrounded by shouting territorial schoolboys with moustaches. But it’s an idea. A thought. A nasty, prickly, jabbing sort of thought, true, but it’s there all the same.
(I believe in the story, but don’t trust myself in the way I'm telling it.)
I know what’s wrong. The core of me is desperately unhappy, despite me shoring it up with bent lollipop sticks and cheap Primark jumpers. This is reflecting in my health, which has been annoyingly whiney of late, and feeling low is impacting on my focus. I know it’s all connected but still can’t seem to do what’s needed to make a change. It’s because dem big things, life-changes. But it’s getting closer for me to make some decisions and, really, it should be a simple one to make.
I have to choose to be happy.