The following was written by my wife Eve and republished here due to Posterous shutting down.
Inspired With Not Enough Outlets
I have been feeling increasingly inspired. I recently started singing again — I hadn’t noticed
exatly when but I stopped singing somewhere along the way. I'd also stopped laughing and living.
But now it’s all coming back. The music is back (oh iTunes must love me, Santander less so), the singing is back,
laughter crept in when I wasn’t looking, I get the sore facial muscles from smiling too much again, I can see the
world in colour again. Exactly how or when this happened, I am not sure. I feel intoxicated with life again. I know
what the cause of this is, but I honestly didn’t see it coming until I woke up one day and realized the transition
has been completed.
I am finally me again. I am back to what I used to be before. I have just brought a Strongbow from the kitchen,
seeing as I am up and the whole town is partying while I am home alone, I decided to open it and have it as I write
this post. I am not a big drinker at all — I used to be able to hack a lot more when I was a teenager, and on the
very rare occassions that I do go out and happen to drink a lot, I can usually handle it. I have a friend who cannot
handle spirits, but will happily drink 6–7 pints of Guinness and not be drunk. Now I'd be catatonic after that,
but would be fine after 6–7 shots of pure spirits. Must be something to do with conditioning when young? I cannot
handle beer or wine, they make me drunk quickly and in the case of wine, uncomfortably. I think I am the only
28-year-old in Brighton who has never been sick from drinking.
This is what a big drinker I am: the Strongbow has been sitting in my kitchen since July 2010 when my friend Sarah
left it at mine for me to drink. Yep. The same friend, incidentally, who loves to party and go out, and who is right
this minute working a night shift at my work place (she’s missing the biggest Brighton party of the year to work,
yes, very commendable). So, true to my personality, I phoned her to let her know I was about to crack open a can and
made her listen to the sound of it on the phone. She told me ‘I so want to hit you right now’ while I was
laughing my head off. This kind of behaviour would have seemed impossible/unthinkable just half a year ago. First,
it would never cross my mind to wind someone up good-heartedly or otherwise, and even if it did, I would just think
‘what’s the point anyway?’ and not bother. This way I am sitting here, listening to P!nk and laughing to
myself, and I bet so is Sarah at work.
Anyway, this is not what this post is meant to be about. I have felt so inspired lately that I started this blog
which is a nice outlet for the overflow of thoughts I get every now and then. I have also started writing a diary
again. The last time I was writing one consistently (i.e. more than 3× a week) was when I was 16. That’s (scary
thought) twelve years ago (how did that happen??). I used to write and write and discharge all emotional
arousal this way, then go to sleep and have a good rest and wake up refreshed. My mental health, despite being a
teenager and slightly hormone-crazy (nah, totally crazy actually), was excellent then. I believe diaries
are a fantastic tool to keep in touch with myself. I can read back if I feel demotivated, I can laugh at the things
that I used to be bothered by and that have lost importance with the passing of time, I can relive the emotion that
was captured on its pages. And there is something beautiful in words written on real paper, as great as the blogging
is. Plus my diary is private. No one gets access to it. When I lived at home, I used to write my diaries in English
so my mum couldn’t read them. Last year, mum asked me if I was ok with her chucking all my diaries away as they
took up lots of space and for whatever unknown reason, I said yes. I have been kicking myself since then but there
is nothing I can do about it. I would love to read them again, just one last time — gosh, I sound as if one of my
friends died. In a way, it almost feels as if I had lost the 16-year-old me.
So my blog and the diary are two outlets which fulfill the same purpose in two ways — one is public and I know
some people are reading it (why? it’s not like there is value for others in my blog, I write for myself… I
don’t get it), the other one is private and only I can read that so it is brutally honest, showing the full impact
of my feelings, thoughts and emotions on my life. Neither is particularly artistic.
My artistic outlet would be music, I suppose. Again, this is not somthing I want the public to experience as I have
no clue how good or bad I am (I can only be very subjective, I cannot hear myself — and I cannot stand hearing
myself when recorded). Even if I was amazing, I still woudn’t have the guts to share it with the public.
But this is where I wish I had some talent or skill. I wish I had a talent so amazing that I would be brave enough
to share it with the world, to bring happiness into people’s lives for at least a little while. I wish I could
play the piano — is it hard to learn at my age? I wish I knew how to do the crazy computer stuff my lovely one
does, to be able to help people and guide them and create beautiful things. I wish I had a skill I could blog about
and pass on to people who would benefit in some way from it. But alas, I do not have any such talents or skills.
This is something that has been bothering me for years. and the worst thing is that even though I know I could learn
new things, I do not know where to turn. If only I could pick one thing and then devote time and effort to it, to
become better and master it eventually, then I know I'd be happy. But my interests are varied and my brain doesn’t
stick with the same thing for a long time, it tends to jump from topic to topic like a lamb on speed. The worst time
is when I feel inspired to create something and I don’t know what. It is the same feeling as when I am hungry but
cannot think of anything I'd fancy eating, or when I am dying to go out do something but no one to come with me. It
is like an itch you have no means of scratching. And the worst thing is that even though at work, I try to motivate
my clients to do something with their lives, none of my advice works for me. Oh the irony.
I declare myself frustrated.