Can you believe it? We made it through another year and it is January again. The older I get, the quicker time passes. (and the more impatient I become). This morning, I almost had a fit because of OneDrive and stuff not working the way I wanted it. You see, I don’t use any cloud services and after a Windows update, everything automatically backupped on One Drive. I can’t remember giving my consent to this and I hate it. I am one of those who saves the important stuff on the Desktop for quicker access. So, I went to investigate it all and stop this madness. It almost made smoke come out of my ears and flames out of my eyes. I am not that savvy when it comes to technical stuff. I get by, but I never take the easy way. (Simply because I cannot find it). Anyway… I seem to have found the issue and fixed it.
Sometimes, I wonder “how did I get here?” and then I remember it is because of words. Many many words have left my fingertips over the years. Many different words. And stories too.
Yesterday, I had a message telling me that stories about this author are better or more interesting than fiction. I don’t know. I mean, I consider myself to be rather boring. I don’t do much in my daily life. I like music and films and reading. But after the pandemic, I stopped going to the movies and I haven’t been at a big concert either. I work a job, do a little bit of parenting here and there and I try being a wife for my husband. That’s all there is, really. And yet, there is more. There is also a rich inner life. Dreams and fantasies for the future, a past that is tightly woven in with my mental health. There is poetry in me, and the want to share that part of me with people who appreciate it. You see, there are still very many people who make fun of this writing thing. The stories, the poetry – why? It’s time consuming and in a foreign language. Well, the language is the language of the music that shaped me. The songs that inspired me during my formative years. Yes, yes, I know. My formative years are way in the past. I will be 41 in almost 5 weeks. Am I even allowed to express myself this way? With poetry? With fiction of all kinds? And the line between fiction and reality is not always visible for the readers, what does that make of me? A liar? Someone pretending to be someone they are not? The truth is between it all. There is more to the words you read and there is less too. The way you read them is often a reflection of your own experiences, wants and dreams. And isn’t that the magic of words, of reading, of songs, of listening to stories and music?
I used to be afraid. I used to think that I need to be something/someone special. But now I know, that I don’t need to be anything. I am me. And I am special. In my own right. In my own write. There is a voice on this blog. My voice. Can you hear it? Is it clear or is my lisp too pronounced? Yeah, I am not perfect, not by a long shot. I have a lisp, I snore, I am obese and some days I don’t take a shower and don’t brush my hair. I refuse to do any ironing and I am clowning around too much. Sometimes I am aloof and distant and sometimes I am flirty and demanding. I can’t write without typos or bad grammar and I long for things I am unable to give. My house is never silent. My mind is never silent. And when I get sick, I am the worst patient, complaining all the time.
I worry that writing this blog is pathetic, at the same time, it is something I enjoy doing immensely. And while I gave up many social media sites and channels, this little blog here, this journal of sorts is still active and it has been for many years now.
This turns into a real stream of consciousness – but it is what it is. And I am who I am. Never pretending, always real. There are many people who say this but do that, I am not like that. What you see is what you get. I even stopped putting filters on my selfies – because, let’s be honest, I am an adult. A woman who lived and experienced this or that. I am allowed to have wrinkles, dry skin and bags under my eyes. My grey hair is earned.
But my oh my, time flies. I can’t believe that it’s already January again.
Will you stay at my side while I keep writing words? Will you walk the line with me? The line between fiction and reality?
I am here. Where are you?
reflections of an unquiet mind 