It seems that everyone is blogging these days. Blogging about what they see on the streets, what they're eating, what they're doing - the list in non-ending. For a laugh, we even considered blogging about my dog's fantastic life. I do tend to look at her and think, hey, she's got one hell of an awesome life. She sleeps, cuddles, plays, eats and then gets to do it all again. Never once having to worry about her hair (which is always brushed for her), where she's getting her next meal or treat from, or bills. Or what she wants to be when she grows up. She's just cute. That's it. As fascinating as this might be for me, I do realise though that it might not be for others. Hence, no blog about 'a day in the life of a little Yorkie'.
So now I've started this blog - and the first bit was easy - I got to write about my travels through France. But then, then question came as to what now? What does one write about day after day? I find myself wishing I was taking a sabbatical travelling and living in France or in a countryside village in England - where I'm experiencing new things, smells and inspiration each day to gush about and share. It's not so easy when you're in your hometown simply trying to figure things out. Not riveting reading I can assure you.
I recall my angst-filled teenage years - that continued well into my 20's. I wrote reams and reams of poetry. I wrote on anything that would take a pen. No notebook or diary? No problem, whilst waiting for a drink or a train to arrive, I'd simply write on a receipt found in the bottom of my bag, or a napkin. I would write so fast and would get so frustrated that my hand couldn't keep up with my pen - that the next morning or week, I wouldn't even be able to read what I'd written. Not that I ever really went back to read what I'd written. It was more about the act of writing. Of putting all that was swirling around in my head and my heart down onto something. To get the thoughts and words out of me. I was so desperate to get them out of me. To stop the noise inside of me.
I sometimes stumble upon some of the writing from my 20's, put down onto surface during my travels in Europe, and try as I may, often I can barely make out the ramblings that I'd put down. When I do make out some of the paragraphs, it's like I'm instantly transported back there: in that moment where I'm writing it, feeling all those emotions. Remembering what brought them on and the sheer vitality or sense of desolation that accompanied them. It's Cathy and Heathcliff rolled into one - and all that was missing was the swirling mists on the moor.
When unpacking some boxes at my family home to bring back to my current life, I came across my old file that I had meticulously kept all my teenage ramblings in. I have yet had the urge to relive those emotions.
So - after all that, I'v decided to use my blog as a visual diary, where I get to post any photos I take, simply to act as a visual source. Forgive my occassional ramblings that might take over the visual aspect at times (such as this post) - but as I live in a world of words, images and textures, it's hard at times to seperate them.
So let me be off to go and capture some images to post - else I'll be forced to prattle on.
i.
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