I write to you today from the depths of my snoopy notebook in a corner of my room that smells distinctly of moth balls. My room in my parents house that takes residence in inner city London, as the first term of the second, first year of university has drawn to a close I’ve migrated back towards Casa de Shaheem for the winter holidays. Having done this, I find myself in a familiar stage of contemplation and disconnect, you know, feeling generally just a bit lost, the Holden Caulfield of my own reality. Perhaps it’s just disorientation, but I find I can no longer remember what my dreams are anymore, I can remember that I definitely wanted to be something, someday, and that’s a start. I’m also certain that I’d like to stay young for as long as possible. In a way, I want to put off being something for as long as I’m able.
From this we can deduce that I’m an oxymoron.
I reckon I’m at a pretty weird stage of my life, sort of halfway between the ever angsty teenage years and a quarter-life crisis, but then I’m always looking for an angle on things that make me look unique. In the old days, interesting people would turn to their opinions for a fresh take on things, but times are hard for opinions, everyone has them nowadays, and economics 101 states that they’re starting to lose value, a person has to make themselves using other ways now. But perhaps, I just say that because I think I lack any true opinions of my own, or maybe you might think that because you’ve not a unique thought in your head? Maybe. I’ll be honest, I don’t know about you.
Anyway, back to this weird stage of my life, It’s like a photograph taken from a moving vehicle, it could be a tree or it could be a bird, it’s less than a object, but more than a blur, if you squint, it starts to have features, definition is upon me. It’s time to work into my ethic as many analogies and profound quotes that I can find to help me be the maker of my own mess, the pilot of my own life. I don’t know, I’m full of bullshit today. It’s late.
The only way I know this differs from when I was younger, where I was also full of bullshit, is because, when I was younger, I wanted to be a cat, and now, I just want to sleep, stretch and purr all day.
I guess that in itself is the fundamental difference between Mayme the child and Mayme the, uh, halfling, for want of a better phrase. Cumulatively, both versions of the person I am today have withstood quite the beating these past nineteen years, but, all they remember is the rewards they’ve reaped. A good way to live life, but it doesn’t lend to any lessons learned, as a result, we find we have to make a mistake at least three time for it to hold any weight, and three times consecutively to put us off it for life. I guess we travel through time sinusoidally, not the most efficient way by any measure, it’s like nomadically wondering from peak to trough longing to be where my heart is home. But, self-pity for a moment or two can be a sort of comfort to yourself an indulgent ten minute break in which you visit every emotion across the spectrum: start off with a smile and then cry until you’re laughing again, or at least until it seems insincere. No one cries beyond insincerity, it just seems silly. Essentially, what I’m trying to say is that you’ve got to be kind to yourself, it’ll help you keep your feet on the ground.
As of currently, I’m not crying, sincerely or otherwise, I’m sitting in my parents house with too much time on my hands, and having been given reprieve from the pretty relentless workload of University I plan to spend the next month: counting down the days until I can renew my railcard, 18 as of Monday the 13th of December, starting a crochet project, which entails learning more than one type of stitch, and of course, the endless, endless, endless lecture note sorting, retaking, filing, and other general tedium generated by revision and The Fear of falling behind. My fight or flight receptors are off the charts.
It doesn’t get better than home now, does it?