“Tell me about yourself,” my date asked. His jawline was sharp, gaze sharper and so I was blunt.
“I’ve got such trapped wind right now.”
Yeah. Yeah. He’s not my date anymore.
There are so many things I could tell you about myself. That’s true of all of us. So where do we begin? How do we choose? What defines our most notable attributes? What makes certain things more worthy of knowing than others? Where is our value derived?
And that got me thinking. A book is valuable not because of a single page, but because of the entire story…
Honestly, I tend not to reference myself in the third person — as though I am some omnipresent narrator observing myself from a faux leather recliner somewhere, a bowl of sweet and salty popcorn perched in my lap. To me, that would be like commentating the life of a parallel version of myself. And I’d like to think she spends a lot less cash on jars of peanut butter and Rick and Morty merchandise (only because that means there’s more left out there for me!).
But anyway. In the words of one Joseph Francis Tribbiani; how you doin’?
On the third floor of the library, that’s where I am.
There’s a girl with a mohawk and books in a pram.
I can hear escalators churn and a hand dryer blow,
But all else is silent — until my heart steals the show.
I’m here to hide from distractions and yet my brain is the beast,
That I’m battling to the death just to give me some peace.
Not in a bad way, though. Quite the opposite, you see.
For the first time in forever, I’m the happiest me.
And alongside this joy comes the images of you,
I sent this to one of my best pal’s today:
“I have a physics degree. Never used it lol. Then I worked at Jaguar Land Rover for two weeks. Quit and did a Masters in Publishing. Not used that either. Worked at a hotel for a year. Hated it. Left. Then finally allowed myself to do the one thing I’ve always wanted to do despite it being something most people steer you away from (because of it’s competitive capacity as a career choice): writing. …
A verbal slap. An emotional dropkick. An intangible war zone. Saying no is a cataclysmic concept. It stings, it scars and it’s friggin’ scary, right? And yet, we’re all faced with the need, the desperation, to say it.
But we just don’t know how.
It’s weird when you think about it because it’s probably the one thing that binds us as a species the most: the autonomous desire to refuse. To deny. To turn down. Most of us, most of the time, want to say no to something for some reason. …
So you’re a writer. Right?
You’ve probably got a pen in your bag as you read this. Own a couple of fancy ass journals you’ll never actually utilise for fear of tarnishing their pristine aesthetic? Bet you like coffee. And the universe. And people watching. You definitely have a favourite font. And book. And you’re still emotionally torn by the existence of the Kindle. …
The most beautiful eyes I had ever seen were heading straight towards me, attached to arms wielding a tray full of paninis and coffee. There were customers sat at the tables outside the coffee shop where he worked and as I stood there in the queue, him about to walk past and out the front door, I knew that this was my opportunity.
*Sultry voice* my moment.
So I leaned outwards, pulled the door, propped it open with my elbow and tried so desperately to time it in such a way that I’d be able to move my…
I’m a slacker.
I take things for granted.
I’ve been sober of workaholism for my entire life. Never even sipped at the rim. I rarely reach maximum output because I’m only 5 foot 5 and the bar is way too high. You feel me?
I don’t push because I’m afraid I’ll fall over. I don’t climb because I’m scared I’ll fall down. I don’t stride because I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t want to end up in the wrong place — you know?
And because of this, I’m not one of Medium’s Finest™. I don’t write…
No seriously. A mental illness versus my existential purpose and still there were no winners. Just a loser. Just me.
I won’t go into exactly how — only that I was swarmed, daily, with paralysing thoughts that if I dare set pen to page in certain ways then yeah, people were going to die. It was irrational, I knew that, that’s what OCD is. But it was also debilitating, and I knew that harder.
So I gave in to it.
Now let me ask you this; you’re a writer, right? Me too. We’re…
For once in your life, just say it. Say it. Stop holding back. Stop keeping it in. Stop containing your thoughts and restraining your emotions. Talk about it. Chat with your friends. Discuss things with a therapist. Strike up a conversation with a store clerk in a pet shop. Natter to the fish in an aquarium. Rap your feelings. Sing your journal out loud. Say what you have so desperately always wanted to say to the person you have so desperately always wanted to say it to — and say it now.
Forget the consequences: you can’t possibly be punished…