Change

    I'm not going to ask you if you've ever felt the need for change. I shall take it for granted that you are a normal human being. At some point in one's life, one yearns for something different. That's all. Most of us aren't too fussy about what it is. In essence, almost anything we do in the way of 'escapism' all comes back down to wanting something about our lives, our person, or our existence, to change.

    Alternatively, or rather, I suppose, conversely, when one's life is in a state of constant flux, it's a rather nice change to have a steady job, a stable life, and some rest. Some entropy.

    I should like to suggest, instead, that what we enjoy, as members of the peculiar homo sapiens sapiens subspecies, is difference.

    Perhaps I shall elaborate on this theory at a later time. Perhaps not.

    Why?

    Why write? What's the point? Noone's ever going to read it; there's far too much useless text out there on the internet anyway.

    Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe we write not to be read, but simply for the sake of writing. To put out these thoughts we have in some sort of semi-permanent format, where someday, somwehere, someone might stumble (or Stumble) upon it, and find some sort of comfort, usefulness, or even enjoyment in it.

    I honestly couldn't tell you the first time I wrote something. Likely it was some fanciful story in primary school about a witch who had ridiculous jeweled earrings (the drawing of which i derived great pleasure from) or some kind of space-creature who was indecently friendly, said "Hello" and promptly exited stage left.

    I do not remember feeling as a child. I remember specific events, and bizarre circumstances that have no logical link to any of my other memories, but i never remember feeling a strong emotional reaction to anything in particular. My written accounts of family holidays are bizarrely void of sentiment, and follow a fairly linear structure of report-style journalism. I'm sure I did feel, I just don't remember it, and neither do my only written records.

    What I do remember about my life is everything from the age of 10 onwards. The standard youthful recollection of the deifining formative years. Joy, sorrow, guilt, anger, helplessness, grief, hunger, desire. It was at this point also that my writing became more... alive. At 11, I wrote down a memory. It was for a school assignment on anecdotes and folklore, but I wrote about my great grandmother, and the smeel of freshly-baked scones on waking at her house. This is the first instance I can recall of actually recording how I felt about something, someone.I wrote of the sadness of her passing, and the fondness the memories held for me, bringing several attending mothers to tears. But as always, that which was left out of my story is much more interesting, and far more heartfelt.

    I remember much more than what I wrote. I remember the strange, cold liquidity of her wrinkled, sagging skin as I kissed her on the cheek. I remember the strange, familiar, musty scent of her house, and the polished wooden television-cupboard she had in her sitting room. I remember the firmly tucked-in sheets of the double bed in her guest room, and the bird-bath in the back yard in which we constantly stuck our poky little fingers, despite repeated admonishment. Most of all I remember the stones of her driveway, which we were never to touch, until she died, and we kept one each as a memento.

    Rarely do I feel brave enough to write my true feelings out. For fear of something, perhaps. Fear of sounding like a whining emotional teenager again, of being boring, of the wrong person finding the evidence, and using it against me in some sort of quest to ultimately ruin my life as everyone around me so obviously is. Maybe it's just laziness. Or forgetfulness. A dreadful combination, those two.

    Whatever the reason. I start, here, an endeavour to write. Whatever, whenever, but most importantly whyever. My reasons needn't be grand, as long as my writing actually happens.

    Sentiments distinguées,

    N. Disposition