Uneventful-ness

Dearest Friend,

There are people who write at the start of a new year, and there are people who write at the end of one. I’ve never yet been able to belong to the former group, as I’ve not been the type to look forward with optimism for quite a long time now. I belong, very much, to the second category – forever caught up in looking back, and wishing that I can find moments of happiness in an otherwise uneventful year. An uneventful year in an uneventful life so far.

This sounds almost like the opening of a tragic autobiography from the 1800s.

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The point of blogging to me has always been to have some place to record one’s thoughts at certain points in one’s life. You go back to a sappy entry you wrote in March of 2007 and almost recapture what it’s like to have your heart broken for the first time. You read a short story you wrote after the first of many years in university, and you’re struck by how brilliant you had been at the age of sixteen – where has that brilliance gone? You skim through movie reviews you’ve worked on, and it’s almost like you’re watching that movie again. I’ve been writing journal entries since I was eight, but the appeal has still not worn out.

Perhaps, however, the struggle to make sense of my feelings and to find the right words to express them has intensified – if only because I now have an emotional range that is more than that of a teaspoon.

I have many resolutions for the year 2016, among them to take at least one selfie daily so that I’ll get used to seeing the face I’ve always shunned away. Now I’m going to add another one to my list – it’s to blog once a week, even if it’s just to say that I had a nice cup of coffee with a childhood friend, or that I won’t be blogging properly this week for one reason or another. My days, this 2015 – and really, many years before that, for a while now – have been meshing into each other in a sad cycle of uneventful-ness. I’m sick and tired of this uneventful-ness, just as I’m sick and tired of writing blog entries that sound like openings to tragic autobiographies from the 1800s.

Perhaps 2016 is the year to break the habit.

A.

Photo (c) StockSnap.io

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