sheep in the (not so big) city.

Plot Twist. I graduated and my time in University has come to an end. I’ve traded sleeping in, skipping classes and late nights out, for early mornings, a solid job and late nights staring at my new bedroom ceiling – contemplating how to make friends in a new city.

I’m not quite sure how I ended up with a job – but somehow I did. A great one. Now, I am forced to reshape the image I had in my mind about how I was inevitably fated to work in coffee shops, play gigs for extra beer money or sell second-hand clothes to close friends or family for the rest of my life. Anyway, the point is: I landed a pretty sweet deal and now I’m a working gal with working thangs (and I’m kinda freaking the fuck out).

New City, New People. Suddenly, your closest friends aren’t around the block anymore. I can’t show up at my best friend’s house at 2 am demanding that she listens to my melodrama about how I don’t know what I’m doing with my life after uni.

Point is; It’s time to grow up, or at least try. This hasn’t necessarily meant that I’ve changed (I mean every time the office phone rings I basically enter some kind of spiritual state – praying someone else answers the phone before I have to). But, it has meant that I need to show up. I need to focus on doing things the best I can. I need to work (surprise). I need to be someone that people can rely on. I need to try. I need to put on some big lady pants and act like I know exactly what I’m doing.

The last one has been especially hard considering I’ve had a few odd encounters where I accidentally get teary-eyed in public and ended up blaming it on hayfever or a rogue onion in the close vicinity.

So, as predictable as it is – things get lonely. Things get scary. You are continuously defining and redefining the person you are and the person you are becoming. But – I swear you will surprise yourself again and again with how much you can handle.

Until then – I’ve been keeping score of the little things around me:

  1. I don’t use Google maps to find my way home or my way to work anymore.
  2. I spent 45 minutes looking for my car in the parking lot – but when I found it, the car guard and I had a genuine laughing/bonding moment.
  3.  The people at work don’t forget my name or call me ‘new girl’ anymore.
  4. Sometimes I gotta skip lunch at work because it’s stress as balls but LOL SUMMER BODY HERE I COME.
  5. Because I’m perpetually lonely I get to eat pizza in bed at 2am with no one judging me.
  6. I answered the office phone the other day.
  7. I am learning so friggen much.
  8. I have a lovely boy in my corner, cheering me on from a distance.
  9. I’m getting better at making lists.

 

That’s all for now.

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A writer with nothing to say.

I was in love with you, Writing. How embarrassing, admitting that we are strangers again. How embarrassing to admit that the way I boasted about you in public, the way I flaunted our intimacy to others – has come to this.

Crumpled up papers. Nothing.

We were lovers once and passionate words burnt in my throat like the hand rolled cigarettes I smoke to avoid you now. Like a passive aggressive teenager, I’ll avoid you when we walk pass each other in the street. I refuse to make eye contact, and when a close friend asks how you are doing, I avoid the question as if we never knew each other.

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D(r)aft Glory

“Authenticity” – That’s a word I like to through around ever so casually. Especially when it comes to writing. I frequently catch myself saying things like “unapologetic, raw, honest”. They roll off my tongue like the lyrics to my favorite song. Easy and well rehearsed.

Yet when asked about my blog, when writing, when socializing, even when getting dressed in the morning, I constantly find myself floating around in the metaphorical “draft” section of life. Just waiting, checking, rewriting, tip-toeing around my flaws until we see ourselves fit for publishing, influenced by our surroundings and the idea of how we think others perceive us.

Proofreading and editing ourselves to make sure we don’t sound too sad, that we don’t act too clingy, that we aren’t talking too much or too little. That we aren’t wearing too much or not enough. That we share too much or we’re too closed off. Ricocheting between what if’s and could have’s and maybes and maybe not’s.

So – Note to self and anyone else who has been keeping up with my incoherent trains of thought and ramblings. Post the drafts. Whatever your draft entails. Cause lately it has been far more terrifying trying to avoid error.

Things aren’t always good, things aren’t always bad either, but I know it’s a whole lot easier when you stop constantly wondering if what you do or say or think or write is good enough. Life is too short to wait until things are neatly typed out and polished, because I don’t think it ever will be. Instead, it’s a dozen papers lying around with a hundred thoughts, ideas, coffee stains and different colors from all the different pens that decide to run out of ink mid sentence.

And if we fuck up – that’s okay. Make mistakes. Let people question what you say. Learn from your mistakes, make them a few more times and listen when people tell you what’s on their minds. Tell them what’s on yours. Change your mind, change your plans and talk about things you don’t understand. I promise you aren’t the only one that doesn’t know exactly what they want or exactly what they are doing, but at least you’re doing something.

Bad at Blogging (and other things).

I lit a candle to ‘get in the mood’. The mood of a ‘writer’. I’m not quite sure what this mood entails, but somehow the closest thing to it, I thought, was a jasmine scented candle, which is now flickering next to the very bright light-bulb-charged bedside lamp.

“I write because, uhm, I can’t not write”. –  This sentence sat comfortably on the blank page in front of me for a fair amount of time. I laughed at how my own lumpy sentence seemed to be taunting me with its isolation, as if shouting “You don’t even know why you write, lol”. Charles Bukowski said, “There is nothing more magic and important than lines forming on paper. It’s all there is. It’s all there ever was”. I laughed again at my sentence and thought of how easy it would be if I could just repeat Bukowski’s sentence to anyone and everyone who asks me why I write (an easy cop out, I am aware).

The truth is though, ever since I can recall, my best days ended with the need to record the day’s events. Be it on the fragrance paper of my primary school diary, or the jotted down thoughts of a confused adolescent on perforated paper. Paper stuffed in the back of drawers and hidden behind a pile of clothes in messy cupboards. So, that’s what I do. I write, and my stories are messy and unpredictable and boring and happy and depressing and sometimes ordinary. Sometimes so beautiful I am left in awe.

I don’t know how to say the right words, my sentences are awkward and long, and I ramble about sadness too often. It’s senseless. Confusing. Grammatically incorrect. Awkward. Real.  Dwelling in every single emotion, saying things I don’t mean, being confused and feeling it and dealing with it. Whether the stories to follow are from personal experiences or about people halfway across the world. I want to write them and I want you to read them.