It’s been a while since I’ve written anything on this blog. I’ve been quite busy working on finding a part-time job after I lost my last one and, of course, writing as well. Then there’s the fact that I sometimes feel like whatever I write isn’t good enough, no matter how hard I try, including what I write here, so sometimes, I can’t even bear trying (which is bad, I know).
I was thinking a little about how patronising people can be to me sometimes (never on this blog, but in real life). I don’t know if it’s an INFP thing, but the people I meet can be awfully patronising occasionally. I once met a young woman who told me that I shouldn’t write this blog, that I’d be better off keeping my private thoughts to myself in some “diary”. It kind of enraged me because I thought to myself, well, why should I? Why should I write my thoughts in my diary when I can share it with other people and form connections with individuals all around the world through my words? Another time, in an interview, as an INFP is wont to do, I started rambling. I was nervous, and some of what I was saying didn’t make much sense, but the interview was so patronising and mean, it was just awful.
I wonder why that happens. It’s as if people sense a weak link in your armour or something – or, in my case, sometimes I have no armour at all. Sometimes, I’m puzzled as to the everyday cruelty and meanness of others and at other times, I’m not at all. I think it’s because certain people get a kind of sadistic pleasure and sense of power from hurting you. I can understand that because I’ve hurt people in the past before too when I was in an extremely hurt and bad place myself. These people – they don’t seem to be particularly in a bad place, which can kind of make the motivation behind their behaviour puzzling, but then, who am I to judge?
Alright, enough with the random rambling. Let’s see. It’s 6:12 am at the moment and I’m sitting in my room when it’s still dark outside, typing on my laptop. I have been working on a book but, as always, I am not at all happy with it and it’s probably best we stop talking about it before I have a small meltdown. How are you are all, folks, since we last spoke? I hope you are keeping well. I hope you are healthy, safe and sound. I feel so terribly bored of life sometimes, which is an incredibly privileged position to be in. So, keeping in mind the fact that it is privileged to feel this way, why am I bored? Reality just has a habit of being dull and uninteresting, that’s all. Don’t get me wrong, I do love to read and write, and I still find dawns magical for some reason, but I nevertheless feel a certain malaise and lassitude lately the cause of which I can’t seem to quite put my finger on. Would I be happier, I wonder, if I was jet-setting around the world? If my book got published? Somehow, I don’t think so. I think everything, no matter how good, brings with it its fair share of problems.
For instance, if I got published and I was lucky enough for my book to do well (although right now, I feel as though the chances of that happening are nil, nil, nil), I would have to do all sorts of author interviews and join events, speak at schools. All the kinds of things I would actually prefer not to do. Strongly prefer. I really don’t much like having to do any public speaking and much prefer the written word to communicate with people. You know, I was thinking back to when I was a teenager in high school. This is off tangent, but I was thinking about how, when walking home from school, I would be surrounded by all these trees in this suburb, and it would be autumn, and the dew would be on the grass and the spiderwebs and the sky was overcast and gloomy, and I remember thinking to myself, this is magic. Where has that feeling gone? I feel like it has been sucked away by certain people, by the evil and ugly nature of those people, because it is people, after all, who run this world, and people who do the ugliest of things. The moment I became aware of the ugliness of this world, it became hard to hold onto the magic. Because holding onto the magic meant I was living in denial of just how bad this world and its people could be, that I was deluding myself.
Of course (and I can imagine the comments I might get from you, lovely dreamers), just because the world is a horrible place sometimes doesn’t mean you shouldn’t live in your bubble of magic and wonder. And you’re right. And I still do live in a sort of bubble. Not so much of magic and wonder anymore, like I used to, but a bubble nonetheless, where I block out all the base, horrible things people can get up to on this planet I live on. But enough about those base and horrible people. Let’s think about what’s magical in this world, shall we, before I end this post? Hmm. Feel free to mention what you find magical in the comments, as I would love to hear about it.
Dawns. Owls for some reason (probably because of Harry Potter). Books you read at dawn. Anything you do at dawn, especially if you go out, is a little magical. Autumn and dew. Music, especially ethereal pieces by artists like Phildel. Cloudy, overcast days where it feels like something mysterious and out of the ordinary could happen, a sudden storm blow in carrying fairies or something. Childhood. Childhood is magical. Teenagehood, as bad as it can sometimes be, is still quite magical. Not adulthood – adulthood is the least magical place I’ve visited so far, would definitely like a return ticket sometimes. I grew up in a bakery, and for me, that was definitely quite magical. Books for me, as a child, were magical (they still are, just not in the same way). This blog, for me, is magical, because I get to talk to and connect with all of you from all over the world. Raindrops and roses, and all my favourite things …