Author's Note: I wrote this nearly two months ago now, more specifically on the 2nd of September. It's the 23rd of October now, and even though, logically, a lot of time hasn't passed, it has felt so to me. The difference is, I am in a better place now than I was, for reasons I won't share, but personal ones; I've decided to publish this both for myself, and since I don't have anything else. I don't know. It won't mean much to a lot, maybe any of you, but I feel its release is significant to its, now, lack of relevance. It's completely un-edited, so I apologise in advance. It's not focused, it's a mixture of rawness & stupidness, it doesn't have pivotal points, no subject matter...It's not some account that'll cast light on people, it's probably not relatable. It's pretty boring, but that's my brain, that night at 23:48; sorry if you expected more. Sift through it if you will.
I'll be producing better blog posts soon enough! :-)
It's currently 23:48 at the time I'm writing this sentence. MIKA's "We Are Golden" is a low hum in my ears (the nostalgia), and my eyelids are halfway to heavy. The time itself doesn't seem so late - normally titles of this esque are creeping into the 3am. But I'm not an insomniac, and sleep is preying on me as it normally would. I'm not a night owl, and usually I welcome it.
By the time I've finished this, it'll be far later; maybe early into the morning past midnight, the witch's hour as it's infamously called. The timeframe between eleven and half midnight is arguably my most productive time-space at times like these; times when I'm compelled to write. Perhaps it's because the day is done and so I can freely write without the burden of wasting time or wasting day (if my brain so permits it). I am done for the day. My laptop is on lowest brightness, I am sat in bed, typing, typing, typing. I speak of nothing poetic presently, just my reality - it bodes quite a lonely circumstance, doesn't it? However in this moment I really yearn for no one's company. It is one of the rare, blissful moments I have entirely to myself. It feels as if the world is asleep, in the small fraction of my brain which has not succumbed to rationality. I know that there are singletons dancing the night away or people yelling at their televisions, the night's game recorded and replayed. But it is a small world I am considering. It is my room and my house, silent and stocky in the darkness, and my very small window alit from outside.
I don't know really what I expect to come from this. It's an unfiltered account of my late-night musings. How terribly dull. Though if I gained the fever to come here in the first place, which I obviously did, then it must relieve me of something.
It feels like autumn, finally. The weather has been a mixture of heat and drizzle and, ultimately, humidity. Whilst my tortoise has revelled in the majority of it, I certainly haven't. I haven't backspaced or re-read a single sentence of this - that's staying true to the purpose of this, I suppose - so I apologise if it's barely understandable. I wouldn't be surprised. I don't know yet if I'll publish it, and here I am talking (*typing) as if I'm talking to someone. And I said I didn't want company, but for some reason the blogging language pursues it.
[The Killers' "Mr Brightside" plays, now]
My favourite season has always been autumn, mainly because of its colours. I'm trying not to talk about the weather benefits, because God, could I be any more obviously a Brit. I find every aspect of it pretty, from the golden hues of the leaves, progressing to burnt orange, turning crisp underfoot. I find the concept of the trees quite literally turning over a new leaf (new leaves?) all too corresponding with my own humanly cycle. The Christmas run-up begins. After that, a New Year, a new start as I always fathom and always puzzle at - of what should I start? Who shall I be? Is New Year just a fanciful notion of change that sets us off on an easily-altered course? All I really think of at the time of New Year is all the rest of the New Years where I made similar promises to myself and perhaps to others. Not to be depressing or cynical, which I am, to clarify, about to be, but the majority of them not kept.
It's far off yet. Sort of.
Nevertheless. There are endless beginnings with no endings. They just tail off and fade into, well, nothingness. The insignificant pile of thoughts, a rubbish bin for the brain. Resolutions often end up in there or in the recycling.
You may be expecting this to end with some sort of motivational message to suppress these feelings and plough forward, power through; I'm telling you now that's unlikely. Like I said before, this is for myself, and myself doesn't crave that motivation. I know it's probably wise to give it. But that's humane, isn't it? Positivity is sometimes out of place. In times like this I don't have the energy; I am practically connected to my laptop. A small percentage of my brain is functioning. My fingers move without my comprehending it.
[Tom Odell's "Another Love"...]
00:15. Just like that, it has been nearly half an hour. This time-space is so narrow to me before the night really descends and I surrender to sleep, which is all very good in itself. Let me be clear that this isn't a particularly good decision. I shouldn't be up or, quite frankly, having my eyes on a screen. How the criticism beckons. Years-old scolding from family and friends dares to arise.
I'd like to philosophically ponder life now, inches from my window, open to the stars. I cannot to a great extent, though; I am barely awake. Plus I hardly have a right to do so. I'm young, I know nothing.
I'll call it a re-evaluation. It feels as if I am moving in robotic movements currently, my fingers are stiff yet they don't stop. It feels as if I am passing through life, letting it run through my fingers, and yet, again, what am I saying? I'm young. I have barely experienced life! I haven't! I am speaking as if I have decades upon decades of things to regret, and yet I don't, so why am I thinking these things? I am so incomprehensibly small, insignificant, in the great span of the Universe. I have no pressures, no real woes worth pouring over, not when you compare me to the hardships faced by so many. Why am I thinking these selfish things? Should I feel guilty for feeling such a way about something which quite possibly acquires no depth? My mind condemns me to such, I suppose. I feel like days go by and I can't recall what I did, what I felt, how that will change.
I know I will wake up in the morning and adapt a different outlook, a different nature; a healthier one. But this is the timeframe where rationality falls out of the window. Quite literally, mind; there is a breeze, it's bringing goosebumps to my arms.
People, lovely people, people who probably didn't expect this when they asked for a writing post - well, they asked me for a writing post. They probably expected poems. Why didn't I conjure a poem? A mediocre handful of verses? In hindsight, maybe something like writing tips, something of some substance. But instead I'm pouring out this drivel. The hard work really begins, the substance, tomorrow morning when I reflect and consequently see what was written here. An automatic-publish would be most dangerous right now. Not dangerous - that was the wrong word - just regretful, the same way drunk people do things like phoning people and wish they could hit the rewind button once they're sobered up. Though that's a poor comparison. What's the worst that could come out of this? Someone thinking I'm terribly odd, which is probably accurate.
I'm completely sober, of course, just making excuses. Just, babbling.
What did I say at the beginning? "Way past midnight". Does twenty past constitute? I think my yawns constitute. "Bittersweet Symphony" is playing which is arguably suitable to the slow and inevitable ending of my post, here. It's bittersweet. I'm cutting off, signing off, but I'm about to lie down and close my eyes and that's, I imagine, the better option.
So, I guess all I can say here is goodnight. Good morning, technically.
I'm timing the end of this satisfyingly with the end of the song, because even in states of mind like this, pedantic-ness never fails.
Thank you, too. For maybe reading any of this, if it ever publishes.
Olivia
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