1. Live in London.
2. Be in fluent in Portuguese and French.
3. Go to India.
4. Laugh everyday.
5. Get married/don't get married. Do what is right for me (and him).
6. Get paid for my published work.
7. Travel as much as I can.
8. Have a hammock in my garden.
9. Have a big, cosy, reading room with a chez lounge, blankets, and lots of books in a townhouse.
10. Make out with Alex Turner.
11. Send Frank a secret.
12. Bunjee jump.
13. Go hot air ballooning.
14. Dance more - perform more.
15. Learn to cook.
16. Be my different, kooky, self everyday. Never let anyone stop me.
17. Don't let anyone defeat me.
18. Go to New York.
19. Study more.
20. Never settle for the ordinary.
21. Carry on my amazing shoe collection.
22. Eat well, laugh lots, and drink lots of wine.
23. See Radiohead live.
24. Read and write always.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Words Do Matter
Robert William Service
The Men That Don’t Fit In
There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.
And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.
He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.
The Men That Don’t Fit In
There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.
And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.
He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.
Monday, January 17, 2011
My Best Friend
My best friend;
her name is Daisy,
She's one of a kind,
And sorta crazy.
We met at uni,
Studying news,
And soon bonded
Over cheap booze,
Goon bags and OJ,
Passion pop,
Oh thankyou our juvie friend,
Mark Scott.
The three of us,
We formed a crew
That greatly grew
By semester two,
We hated class,
And presentations,
But somehow pulled off
Good relations
With tutors who
We phoned up drunk,
And others who
Rambled of phallic junk.
Then I bailed
On my journo-babes,
To do the writing
I'd always craved,
But I was still part of the brat pack,
Catch ups
Were never slack,
Tav Tuesdays,
Filthy nights
Where me and Doops
Just might
Have ditched the party early,
To go home and watch
Something girly,
Massages,
Shared PJ's,
Sex and the City,
Or Grey's,
Party animals,
All-nighters,
Kidding, rather
Sleep tighters.
I know we were close
When 3 months in,
She proposed,
I plan her ending,
Over pie,
She detailed
The ins and outs,
Of her goodbye.
We've been there
For boyfriend break-ups,
Make-ups,
Support to say "get fucked",
Tears and
Daily breakdowns,
Hourly calls
And drowns
Of alcohol
In filthy bars,
Or takeaway
In our cars.
We're not that much different,
Me and Doopy,
Sure I'm poetic,
And she's loopy,
She's classy, yet crude,
Together we're rude,
She's clever and funny,
Makes my day sunny,
She's loving and kind,
Can read my mind,
Somehow we fit,
'Cause we're both kinda sick,
We balance each other,
Quite literally at Clubba,
Not really, I lied,
We just got some fries,
We're pasty, but tasty,
Are always hasty,
To fill each other in,
On what's occurring,
My friend,
My sister,
Good god I will miss her,
When she's down in Bunbury,
And I'll be near Bloomsbury,
Going to theatre,
And reading books,
She'll be learning how to cook,
But we'll talk,
All the time,
That friend is mine,
Til the end,
Always there to lend,
A laugh or a smile,
And 12,000 miles
Won't mean a thing,
To us girls that sing,
Really bad,
Don't be sad
'Cause the best is yet to come,
We have years left of fun,
My best friend, my Dais,
You truly amaze,
Me day by day,
So this is just to say
I love you.
x
her name is Daisy,
She's one of a kind,
And sorta crazy.
We met at uni,
Studying news,
And soon bonded
Over cheap booze,
Goon bags and OJ,
Passion pop,
Oh thankyou our juvie friend,
Mark Scott.
The three of us,
We formed a crew
That greatly grew
By semester two,
We hated class,
And presentations,
But somehow pulled off
Good relations
With tutors who
We phoned up drunk,
And others who
Rambled of phallic junk.
Then I bailed
On my journo-babes,
To do the writing
I'd always craved,
But I was still part of the brat pack,
Catch ups
Were never slack,
Tav Tuesdays,
Filthy nights
Where me and Doops
Just might
Have ditched the party early,
To go home and watch
Something girly,
Massages,
Shared PJ's,
Sex and the City,
Or Grey's,
Party animals,
All-nighters,
Kidding, rather
Sleep tighters.
I know we were close
When 3 months in,
She proposed,
I plan her ending,
Over pie,
She detailed
The ins and outs,
Of her goodbye.
We've been there
For boyfriend break-ups,
Make-ups,
Support to say "get fucked",
Tears and
Daily breakdowns,
Hourly calls
And drowns
Of alcohol
In filthy bars,
Or takeaway
In our cars.
We're not that much different,
Me and Doopy,
Sure I'm poetic,
And she's loopy,
She's classy, yet crude,
Together we're rude,
She's clever and funny,
Makes my day sunny,
She's loving and kind,
Can read my mind,
Somehow we fit,
'Cause we're both kinda sick,
We balance each other,
Quite literally at Clubba,
Not really, I lied,
We just got some fries,
We're pasty, but tasty,
Are always hasty,
To fill each other in,
On what's occurring,
My friend,
My sister,
Good god I will miss her,
When she's down in Bunbury,
And I'll be near Bloomsbury,
Going to theatre,
And reading books,
She'll be learning how to cook,
But we'll talk,
All the time,
That friend is mine,
Til the end,
Always there to lend,
A laugh or a smile,
And 12,000 miles
Won't mean a thing,
To us girls that sing,
Really bad,
Don't be sad
'Cause the best is yet to come,
We have years left of fun,
My best friend, my Dais,
You truly amaze,
Me day by day,
So this is just to say
I love you.
x
Thursday, January 13, 2011
All The World's A Stage
“All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” – William Shakespeare.
Shakespeare's famous words are perhaps more becoming than ever before. Love and attraction is, after all, a performance - a scene played out on the stage of human chemistry and nature. These movie style scenes we strive to live within are dictated by narratives stretching back to human creation. As technology, communication and media's impact continuously dictate the way we live our lives, it also dictates our ideals and fantasies.
We all have a vague idea of the roles we are meant to play, enacted through stories and films that recycle the standard narratives of our cultures. Whether you're a damsel in distress or a hero there's always a set standard to what role social ideals push you into, and therefore, what you aspire to. While we've moved to greater independence, high flown careers and better choices these days, perhaps behind this mirage of contemporary life, we all have a deep need to be loved, though not necessarily in the conventional way.
I suppose I've been there - playing the role I'd idealised. Maybe the sweep of first love will always propel you to act your best and give it your best shot. First experiences and new feelings are foreign, and generally all we have to relate to are films and stories that capture what you're feeling. It's no wonder we try to re-enact our favourite love scenes and stories with people.
Perhaps I've always likened myself to the Carrie Bradshaw type, a writer, with a fetish for shoes, and an affair with the "What's shakin' baby” swoon-worthy Mr Big character. I'm not quite an optimist, anymore, and I'm not desperate to become a wife, or a mother, or even a girlfriend, but I have been bound to trying to perfect the movie style narratives I've wished for.
Though, I've been pushed into roles not right for me, by a director pointing his lead into the role he needed me to play. Maybe on some levels, you will always have a director in the relationship, someone trying to shape their partner into the star they fantasise about, and create the perfect script for a life with no limits. From my dancing/drama days I’d learnt that not everyone has stage chemistry and you won’t always adapt to someone’s directing style; and it seems to go the same for relationships.
I broke away from the bad movie scenes of my life only to be replaced by a new actress all too desperate to jump into my role, my costumes, my ways, the understudy who'd been lingering in the curtains of love long before my final bow was taken.
I'm not an actress, or a director pointing their star into what they see fit. I'm the writer and producer of my own life, choosing my own ending and never letting anyone dictate me. Too many people follow their lives and relationships on the beliefs that they should, due to the narratives that style convention into a guide to life and love.
I’m not going to fall into a predetermined script of life that the next Jane Doe or girl next door is also living, I’m going to edit out my scenes and live life as an improvisation – we all know that’s more fun.
I suppose, if we are all subconsciously living our lives and dream lives through pre-scripted tales and films, give me a kooky indie flick with a hottie for a lead, rather than a soppy chick flick with too predictable an ending.
Shakespeare's famous words are perhaps more becoming than ever before. Love and attraction is, after all, a performance - a scene played out on the stage of human chemistry and nature. These movie style scenes we strive to live within are dictated by narratives stretching back to human creation. As technology, communication and media's impact continuously dictate the way we live our lives, it also dictates our ideals and fantasies.
We all have a vague idea of the roles we are meant to play, enacted through stories and films that recycle the standard narratives of our cultures. Whether you're a damsel in distress or a hero there's always a set standard to what role social ideals push you into, and therefore, what you aspire to. While we've moved to greater independence, high flown careers and better choices these days, perhaps behind this mirage of contemporary life, we all have a deep need to be loved, though not necessarily in the conventional way.
I suppose I've been there - playing the role I'd idealised. Maybe the sweep of first love will always propel you to act your best and give it your best shot. First experiences and new feelings are foreign, and generally all we have to relate to are films and stories that capture what you're feeling. It's no wonder we try to re-enact our favourite love scenes and stories with people.
Perhaps I've always likened myself to the Carrie Bradshaw type, a writer, with a fetish for shoes, and an affair with the "What's shakin' baby” swoon-worthy Mr Big character. I'm not quite an optimist, anymore, and I'm not desperate to become a wife, or a mother, or even a girlfriend, but I have been bound to trying to perfect the movie style narratives I've wished for.
Though, I've been pushed into roles not right for me, by a director pointing his lead into the role he needed me to play. Maybe on some levels, you will always have a director in the relationship, someone trying to shape their partner into the star they fantasise about, and create the perfect script for a life with no limits. From my dancing/drama days I’d learnt that not everyone has stage chemistry and you won’t always adapt to someone’s directing style; and it seems to go the same for relationships.
I broke away from the bad movie scenes of my life only to be replaced by a new actress all too desperate to jump into my role, my costumes, my ways, the understudy who'd been lingering in the curtains of love long before my final bow was taken.
I'm not an actress, or a director pointing their star into what they see fit. I'm the writer and producer of my own life, choosing my own ending and never letting anyone dictate me. Too many people follow their lives and relationships on the beliefs that they should, due to the narratives that style convention into a guide to life and love.
I’m not going to fall into a predetermined script of life that the next Jane Doe or girl next door is also living, I’m going to edit out my scenes and live life as an improvisation – we all know that’s more fun.
I suppose, if we are all subconsciously living our lives and dream lives through pre-scripted tales and films, give me a kooky indie flick with a hottie for a lead, rather than a soppy chick flick with too predictable an ending.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Addiction
Below is a piece of writing I wrote when I was 18, in an attempt to lay out and untangle all my thoughts associated with the idea of addiction. Severely chopping, re-reading and editing three years later, not too much has really changed...
Upon reading a book that was brutally honest and eye opening, I've spent some more time trying to comprehend the lives of people with addictions, and in turn, some of those close to me who have at one point been wrapped up in this lifestyle.
It's tragic in the social concept; emphasising and incorporating illicit drug use, jail time, life long diseases, neglected children, a incessant state of poverty and a constant demoralisation of your world and values. These issues are endlessly written and questioned, endlessly judged and endlessly misunderstood. Like anyone else foreign to the world of addiction, who am I to cast my naive thoughts into the world?
Through times in my life, I have dealt first hand with people who have some form of an addiction, in a variety of forms, on a variety of different levels. Perhaps some people would feel it too dramatic to stretch their lifestyles to that strong a word, but I've certainly seen people at their worst, and just how dependent upon their addiction they have been.
In the drug sense; for many it starts with a group of friends, and most people who have reached my age would have considered, if not tried something. Perhaps experimenting isn't being an addict, but seeking for some understanding, but it's turning those experiments into full blown dependencies that becomes a frightening reality for many people.
My family has been exposed to the ways drugs can destroy relationships, and through devastating experience, lives. Perhaps I'll never completely understand the life of someone who wakes up everyday needing their next fix, or sells their body or steals to secure the next hit. Then it all begins again, the next day, when their next score of money is just as unpredictable as the last; an ever demanding battle of what you will sacrifice - and really, what you'll have left?
It’s heartbreaking. It’s supposed to be full of concealment and sensitivity, and can often lack empathy from the ignorance of society. Perhaps, I too, am ignorant to such a life, angry by people's need to follow that life without ever really experiencing it myself, but by no means would I see such people as filth, as people often can.
I want to know who defines the difference between addiction and socially acceptable behaviour. I want to know who casts such judgment, and what their motives are. I’d like to know who judges me, and what I’m judged on, and note the levels of severity people will tolerate.
We all have addictions. Some noble, some feeble, some that will rip you apart. Being in love is an addiction, we’re incessantly pushing to achieve a notion of fulfillment from the thoughts of another; and perhaps, such a void is filled with other things. Addictions can be trivial or turbulent, but they’re all valid to the beholder. We may know something is dragging us down, but it doesn’t always give us the drive to squander it. Sometimes, it’s sickeningly the drive to cast us further into the realms of the addiction, overjoyed by the way it makes us feel, even if it’s infrequent, but powerful enough to exceed the pain of the lows.
And really, we’re all people, We’re all born to parents who generally love us, and hope we live a life full of love and laughter. We’ll all be tempted and swayed to toy with the persistent trails of addiction that will incessantly linger within our lives, but some remain conformist whilst others are displayed as reckless. Whatever, and whenever, an addiction controls you, you’re subject to the rush of it, and the obsession within your minds. You can’t blame anyone, really, for obtaining an addiction, when we all have them. We’ve just got to hope that, along the way, addictions that shred our lives away will be complimented by ones that will celebrate them.
Upon reading a book that was brutally honest and eye opening, I've spent some more time trying to comprehend the lives of people with addictions, and in turn, some of those close to me who have at one point been wrapped up in this lifestyle.
It's tragic in the social concept; emphasising and incorporating illicit drug use, jail time, life long diseases, neglected children, a incessant state of poverty and a constant demoralisation of your world and values. These issues are endlessly written and questioned, endlessly judged and endlessly misunderstood. Like anyone else foreign to the world of addiction, who am I to cast my naive thoughts into the world?
Through times in my life, I have dealt first hand with people who have some form of an addiction, in a variety of forms, on a variety of different levels. Perhaps some people would feel it too dramatic to stretch their lifestyles to that strong a word, but I've certainly seen people at their worst, and just how dependent upon their addiction they have been.
In the drug sense; for many it starts with a group of friends, and most people who have reached my age would have considered, if not tried something. Perhaps experimenting isn't being an addict, but seeking for some understanding, but it's turning those experiments into full blown dependencies that becomes a frightening reality for many people.
My family has been exposed to the ways drugs can destroy relationships, and through devastating experience, lives. Perhaps I'll never completely understand the life of someone who wakes up everyday needing their next fix, or sells their body or steals to secure the next hit. Then it all begins again, the next day, when their next score of money is just as unpredictable as the last; an ever demanding battle of what you will sacrifice - and really, what you'll have left?
It’s heartbreaking. It’s supposed to be full of concealment and sensitivity, and can often lack empathy from the ignorance of society. Perhaps, I too, am ignorant to such a life, angry by people's need to follow that life without ever really experiencing it myself, but by no means would I see such people as filth, as people often can.
I want to know who defines the difference between addiction and socially acceptable behaviour. I want to know who casts such judgment, and what their motives are. I’d like to know who judges me, and what I’m judged on, and note the levels of severity people will tolerate.
We all have addictions. Some noble, some feeble, some that will rip you apart. Being in love is an addiction, we’re incessantly pushing to achieve a notion of fulfillment from the thoughts of another; and perhaps, such a void is filled with other things. Addictions can be trivial or turbulent, but they’re all valid to the beholder. We may know something is dragging us down, but it doesn’t always give us the drive to squander it. Sometimes, it’s sickeningly the drive to cast us further into the realms of the addiction, overjoyed by the way it makes us feel, even if it’s infrequent, but powerful enough to exceed the pain of the lows.
And really, we’re all people, We’re all born to parents who generally love us, and hope we live a life full of love and laughter. We’ll all be tempted and swayed to toy with the persistent trails of addiction that will incessantly linger within our lives, but some remain conformist whilst others are displayed as reckless. Whatever, and whenever, an addiction controls you, you’re subject to the rush of it, and the obsession within your minds. You can’t blame anyone, really, for obtaining an addiction, when we all have them. We’ve just got to hope that, along the way, addictions that shred our lives away will be complimented by ones that will celebrate them.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
That Girl
That Girl
Funny girl,
Lovely girl,
Flowers in her hair,
Pretty girl,
Clever girl,
Just wanted them to care.
Happy girl,
Kooky girl
Giggles everyday,
Dancer girl,
Pin up girl,
Sultry in her way.
Cultured girl,
Poetic girl,
Professional writer,
Traveled girl,
Strong girl,
Always a fighter.
Lightweight girl,
Caring girl,
Can't hold her drink,
Kind girl,
Daring girl,
Will stop and make you think,
That you lost that girl,
Hurt that girl
Caused her some distress.
But she'll fight that girl,
Smile, that girl,
Untangle the mess
You gave that girl
You made that girl
Lose some of her spark,
But she's grown, that girl,
Shown, that girl
That she'll leap out of the dark.
So you'll miss that girl,
Resist that girl,
Next time she's around.
But she's fine that girl,
Shines that girl,
Won't let you bring her down.
It Hurts, But It Happens.
Your girl is lovely,
And so were you
In your way,
and perhaps you've changed,
Or are trying to,
And if only I'd knew
So long ago
What I've gained
From the pain you gave
Hurting time and time again,
Perhaps it would have left me sooner.
And now -
All I've left,
Is pity
For your girl,
As I overheard
Your lines used on her,
Just as with me,
And the others,
She'd have felt as we all did,
Well rehearsed and less impressive,
Second and third time round.
Your one man show
Led my feelings astray,
Swept my sadness away,
So a thankyou is due,
You made me stop missing you.
Funny girl,
Lovely girl,
Flowers in her hair,
Pretty girl,
Clever girl,
Just wanted them to care.
Happy girl,
Kooky girl
Giggles everyday,
Dancer girl,
Pin up girl,
Sultry in her way.
Cultured girl,
Poetic girl,
Professional writer,
Traveled girl,
Strong girl,
Always a fighter.
Lightweight girl,
Caring girl,
Can't hold her drink,
Kind girl,
Daring girl,
Will stop and make you think,
That you lost that girl,
Hurt that girl
Caused her some distress.
But she'll fight that girl,
Smile, that girl,
Untangle the mess
You gave that girl
You made that girl
Lose some of her spark,
But she's grown, that girl,
Shown, that girl
That she'll leap out of the dark.
So you'll miss that girl,
Resist that girl,
Next time she's around.
But she's fine that girl,
Shines that girl,
Won't let you bring her down.
It Hurts, But It Happens.
Your girl is lovely,
And so were you
In your way,
and perhaps you've changed,
Or are trying to,
And if only I'd knew
So long ago
What I've gained
From the pain you gave
Hurting time and time again,
Perhaps it would have left me sooner.
And now -
All I've left,
Is pity
For your girl,
As I overheard
Your lines used on her,
Just as with me,
And the others,
She'd have felt as we all did,
Well rehearsed and less impressive,
Second and third time round.
Your one man show
Led my feelings astray,
Swept my sadness away,
So a thankyou is due,
You made me stop missing you.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Who's Behind The Screen?
Flustered and anxious, I began to write. Allowing my thoughts that had been stampeding through my mind leak effortlessly onto a word document, I was instantly hooked. An anonymous blog, an outlet where I could dispose of my worries and journal my life through a minuscule corner of the World Wide Web; my secret, my place. It held a different attraction than a diary, it had the opportunity to be accidentally stumbled upon, a canvas of thoughts to an individual who was seeking inspiration. That enticed me. That lingering hope that I could help someone, or offer a part of myself that they identified with seemed to always bring a smile to my face. Perhaps it was the need to feel endlessly connected to people around the world, or perhaps it was the enigma circling it, the recipient of my words wondering what kind of person I was.
That is how it began. I was fifteen, and along with my high school friends who were interested in similar things, I had discovered the world of blogging. This new method of writing, pitched to be an online diary, was a new fad amongst my friends, like the previous ones of emo-music and jokes of sexual innuendos that we naively assumed made us grown up. It was a place we could write, and journal our thoughts, without judgment.
I found myself writing about anything, everything; it almost became a part of my thought process. My method of unwinding and analysing how I felt. So when I met him, a part of my future, and then a part of my past, through a friend online, and after some time I allowed him to read my blog, I had to wonder if my writing showed a different side of me. Did my words reflect who I was, am? Or were idealisations of what I could be grabbed from this forum of hormonal outlet?
It was, really, at first, just that. A place where a typical teenager could seek comfort and pity with complaints of how difficult her life was. A mixture of hormones and heartbreak; with the occasional philosophical wonderings and poetry that arose from the writer within me. But as I continued blogging, and writing my perception of the world around me, it became almost ritualistic.
I did stop, once. My future, then to be my past somehow deferred me from writing. I wasn’t ever told to stop, I just did. I used to write for enjoyment and for understanding, and over some time it had ceased. I felt no drive to document my feelings; I felt as though I had nothing interesting to document. It took me a while to even realise it, but my daily posts had dwindled to monthly ones, if that. This was an early sign of how wrong my relationship was, but it was a sign that would take me some time to realise.
As time progressed, along with blogging, websites like Myspace and Facebook also allowed me to place myself into a corner of the web, though this time, it was a lot more public. Photos were uploaded, brief “about me’s” were written and comments from friends were displayed, linking me to networks of friends in which I was subconsciously self-marketed. Who do I know on here? Without knowing it, this method of connecting to friends around the world, I was placing myself to be represented in a particular way. I didn’t even consider my online persona, or how a stranger or old friend may perceive me. I didn’t imagine these outlets were creating fictitious perceptions of me, or anyone, dependent on comments friends had made, or photos I decided to upload.
I had been included in the era of public profiles that deemed it acceptable, sociable, to post so much of yourself onto a website, for others to read about. I wasn’t protected by an un-named, unclaimed website, my photograph and my name were, and still are displayed.
It wasn’t until strangers began to add me as a friend that I began to wonder about the sincerity of it all. Was the purpose of these profiles to connect friends around the world, or to substitute friends you didn’t have in real life? Or was it simply a popularity contest, where the person with the highest “friends list” was the queen bee of the online world?
Over some time, and after starting uni and meeting new friends, I began to write again. Meeting someone new had inspired me once more, but along with that, the profiles my generation had become so fixated on, addicted to, offered no real meaning of the world. I still can’t answer their ability of how they capture you; but I think it’s a need to always know what’s happening, almost instantly.
Returning to writing helped immediately and I found myself thinking subjectively again. The comfort of going back to leaking my secrets into a secluded section of the web was almost therapeutic. I read, and I watch films (but not frequently enough), and listen to music, but writing is the way I find meaning in the world. I often wonder how other people form their meaning; their perception of what surrounds them.
I am just one person with ideals of the space I’ve grown up within. I’ve written nothing life changing, but what I have wrote matters to me. And if my online persona, through a cryptic and “who’s behind the computer screen” mystery has meant something to another; I have succeeded in leaving my mark on the world, if only for a moment.
That is how it began. I was fifteen, and along with my high school friends who were interested in similar things, I had discovered the world of blogging. This new method of writing, pitched to be an online diary, was a new fad amongst my friends, like the previous ones of emo-music and jokes of sexual innuendos that we naively assumed made us grown up. It was a place we could write, and journal our thoughts, without judgment.
I found myself writing about anything, everything; it almost became a part of my thought process. My method of unwinding and analysing how I felt. So when I met him, a part of my future, and then a part of my past, through a friend online, and after some time I allowed him to read my blog, I had to wonder if my writing showed a different side of me. Did my words reflect who I was, am? Or were idealisations of what I could be grabbed from this forum of hormonal outlet?
It was, really, at first, just that. A place where a typical teenager could seek comfort and pity with complaints of how difficult her life was. A mixture of hormones and heartbreak; with the occasional philosophical wonderings and poetry that arose from the writer within me. But as I continued blogging, and writing my perception of the world around me, it became almost ritualistic.
I did stop, once. My future, then to be my past somehow deferred me from writing. I wasn’t ever told to stop, I just did. I used to write for enjoyment and for understanding, and over some time it had ceased. I felt no drive to document my feelings; I felt as though I had nothing interesting to document. It took me a while to even realise it, but my daily posts had dwindled to monthly ones, if that. This was an early sign of how wrong my relationship was, but it was a sign that would take me some time to realise.
As time progressed, along with blogging, websites like Myspace and Facebook also allowed me to place myself into a corner of the web, though this time, it was a lot more public. Photos were uploaded, brief “about me’s” were written and comments from friends were displayed, linking me to networks of friends in which I was subconsciously self-marketed. Who do I know on here? Without knowing it, this method of connecting to friends around the world, I was placing myself to be represented in a particular way. I didn’t even consider my online persona, or how a stranger or old friend may perceive me. I didn’t imagine these outlets were creating fictitious perceptions of me, or anyone, dependent on comments friends had made, or photos I decided to upload.
I had been included in the era of public profiles that deemed it acceptable, sociable, to post so much of yourself onto a website, for others to read about. I wasn’t protected by an un-named, unclaimed website, my photograph and my name were, and still are displayed.
It wasn’t until strangers began to add me as a friend that I began to wonder about the sincerity of it all. Was the purpose of these profiles to connect friends around the world, or to substitute friends you didn’t have in real life? Or was it simply a popularity contest, where the person with the highest “friends list” was the queen bee of the online world?
Over some time, and after starting uni and meeting new friends, I began to write again. Meeting someone new had inspired me once more, but along with that, the profiles my generation had become so fixated on, addicted to, offered no real meaning of the world. I still can’t answer their ability of how they capture you; but I think it’s a need to always know what’s happening, almost instantly.
Returning to writing helped immediately and I found myself thinking subjectively again. The comfort of going back to leaking my secrets into a secluded section of the web was almost therapeutic. I read, and I watch films (but not frequently enough), and listen to music, but writing is the way I find meaning in the world. I often wonder how other people form their meaning; their perception of what surrounds them.
I am just one person with ideals of the space I’ve grown up within. I’ve written nothing life changing, but what I have wrote matters to me. And if my online persona, through a cryptic and “who’s behind the computer screen” mystery has meant something to another; I have succeeded in leaving my mark on the world, if only for a moment.
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