Hey, it’s me. Back at my desk to tell you about something.
It’s been a while, but I really enjoy the thought of having a little corner of the internet.

I’m working part-time right now while studying communication design, and I’ve been spending my spare time writing poetry (you know where to go ^). I’ve also put pen to paper for the first time to outline a book I want to write – fiction and romance, of course. What else?

I’m reading Colleen Hoover’s Ugly Love at the moment – because TikTok made me – and it’s not too bad, but I think I’m craving a bit more wonder.

I should really be spending this precious time completing my last assessments for the study period, but let’s call this a form of rest – or meditation – to help me apply myself later (excuses, excuses).

Lately, I’ve been feeling like something’s missing, and I’m trying pretty hard to find the needle in the haystack of my head to figure it out. We’ve lived here for 18 months now. In the past, we moved around every 12. I think what makes it easier to want to move again is that we don’t have our own place yet, so I’m feeling a bit sedentary in this living situation. One thing to note: no matter where you live, it’s so expensive – even in regional NSW, where our family lives. Real estate? More like You’ll-never-live-here Estate. First-world problems, I admit.

Still, perspective helps when I start to spiral about my own small worries. I’m deeply grateful to have a roof over my head, and my thoughts are with anyone experiencing homelessness or poverty. I also want to acknowledge the women and children enduring a living nightmare in Afghanistan, and anyone anywhere still facing the effects of this never-ending pandemic.

I’ll be the ripe old age of 27 in January (two months away), and I feel like there’s an invisible string tugging me somewhere. Yet again, I have no idea where it’s pulling me to – or which direction it’s pulling me from. I just know I’m meant for more: more fulfilment, more joy, more excitement. I want to feel needed, and I know it’s on me to fill that cup.

I want to write things people enjoy reading – novels, poetry, anything that brings them joy, love, sadness, even anger. Something to let them escape their own lives for better or worse.

I’m not a professional writer (yet), so I genuinely don’t know where to begin. But I tell myself that any form of art comes from one’s own self-expression and creativity. Surely I just pick up the proverbial pencil, write, and see if it speaks to anyone.

Forgive my rambling, but I was reminded the other day of an article I saw years ago about how some people think their thoughts only as words. Like they’re reading a teleprompter of their own mind? I’m astounded. How is that a thing? I can only understand having thoughts as images and dialogue, as if I’m talking to myself (not an image of me talking back, just the voice – like a less interesting David Attenborough doco). Sometimes I see words, of course, when I’m reading, but still… I wonder if people who think only in words have a preferred font? Comic Sans for young adults and Times New Roman for older folk who like the paper? Funny. I’d love to know if that affects their personalities somehow. I’ll just assume my image-and-dialogue brain means I’m creative – it’s nicer to think that way.

Well, long-winded and a bunch of nothing, but hey – what is journaling without a little mess?
Till next time,
E xoxo

Nov 22, 2021