Too little sleep, too much nagging, a lingering sense of guilt and a vague feeling of discontent- perfect recipe for a witching hour blog.
I don't really expect any one to read this- except perhaps the people I am going to write about. I have been a self proclaimed 'writer' from the wise old age of 10. But this, here and now is the first time I have ever felt the tug to write about something- for an extended period of time, that is. To keep a chronicle as it were. Maybe it's the city, maybe it's the people around me and maybe it is a painfully cliche coming of age at Uni kind of a thing. I just feel, that if we ever to live to be old and bald - there should be a memory of us. Who we were and the wonder that was us. Or at least the wonder we thought we were.
I am writing about them, you see. And maybe I am writing about you. And maybe about me. Maybe I am writing to reconcile the maybes in my head.
This. Here. Now.
I am writing about some awfully big adventures. What else matters, but that?
I don't really expect any one to read this- except perhaps the people I am going to write about. I have been a self proclaimed 'writer' from the wise old age of 10. But this, here and now is the first time I have ever felt the tug to write about something- for an extended period of time, that is. To keep a chronicle as it were. Maybe it's the city, maybe it's the people around me and maybe it is a painfully cliche coming of age at Uni kind of a thing. I just feel, that if we ever to live to be old and bald - there should be a memory of us. Who we were and the wonder that was us. Or at least the wonder we thought we were.
I am writing about them, you see. And maybe I am writing about you. And maybe about me. Maybe I am writing to reconcile the maybes in my head.
This. Here. Now.
