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End of Summer Blues 

I’m struggling with endings. 
I hate finishing books - that awful feeling when there’s no more story left and you have to return to your own world. 
I hate the end of holidays and visits with friends or family - when you know your own life is waiting and the people you just left behind won’t be able to be in it much. 
I hate the end of the summer, when you know it’s going to get dark and cold, and you realize you haven’t made the most of the sunshine - and the year’s almost over and you haven’t achieved as much as you told yourself you would have by now. 

But actually, this year I’m alright. Externally I don’t seem to have moved an inch from where I was at the beginning of the year - but internally I’ve travelled thousands of miles,  survived many adventures, and am a completely different person than I was when I started out. 
It makes it feel easier to give myself some slack for not having made the most of life this summer. 
It makes it feel a little less painful not to be able to be with all the people I miss so very much. 
It makes it feel easier to close the book entitled 2018, and start the next one.

New Rabbit Holes 

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I’ve been pretty quiet. 


I’ve been looking for life’s pause button - since I haven’t found one, I reckon it’s time to slowly emerge again. 
Here I am, still feeling a little quiet, but very much alive. Reassessing, scheming, planning, working on new projects… although still a little unsure which new rabbit holes to jump into. 


I guess not knowing is what makes life interesting.

What I Do When I Disappear 

Painting: A Parisian Cafe by Ilya Repin

A Parisian Cafe by Ilya Repin

 

I never tire of sitting in cafes watching the world go by.

Listen to the humming of the coffee machines, the clinking of cups, the chatter of people. 
Especially at busy times when it’s swarming with people, colourful and diverse, each person a world to themselves. A world hidden from me, and yet I’m trying to peer inside, by observing, by listening, by filling in the blanks with details and trying to extricate their stories. 
This is one my favourite past times, listening to stories … but not the obvious ones, the ones you passively consume, but the ones you have to unravel, you have to pay attention to, you have to decipher.

I can’t say I’m good at it. I forget to practice. After all, I’m living in a world that seems to demand of me to permantently assert my existence by talking about myself, taking pictures about myself, vlogging about myself. To prove that I’m still here and have no intention to fade away. 

Truth is, there are times I’d happily fade away.  To stop making noise, and just listen. Listening is so much more interesting than talking. Sometimes I think I’ve forgotten how to.

Living Outside the Box 

My past is a country I'm glad I'll never have to revisit. 

I grew up being taught not to think outside the box. Unfortunately that’s usually where the good ideas hang out.  
I remember one day in my late teens, sitting in a cafe with my Mum, pouring my heart out to her. I was desperate to figure out what to do with my life, the difficulty being that it had to support me financially as much as emotionally.  
It was a choice between doing something that would make me miserable or … doing something that would make me even more miserable. Utilizing any of my talents or passions was out of the question. At the time, that simply was no option.  
I probably was nearly crying. A few tables from us a woman got up to go, and on her way out she suddenly stopped at our table to address me.  
“I couln’t help overhearing your conversation.”  
I looked up at her in anticipation. I forgot to breathe for a moment. I was sure this random stranger had stopped to offer me the answer to all my questions.  
And then she simply said, “ I really pity you.” and walked out.  

I remember sitting there, feeling utterly rejected by the world. Rejected because anything I had to give, the world didn’t seem to want.  
Looking back now, what pains me most is how conditional my self love was. How much I considered my own value dependent on how much value “the world” saw in me. How much I thought it neccessary to distort myself just to survive.  

I’m done with that. That’s what I truly like about the present, in spite of all the challenges.

If Life Isn't a Cabaret, Something's Wrong 

It’s hot. It’s a Sunday and I’m sitting in a friend’s beautiful garden, sipping tea, and looking out onto a spread of summery fruit and toast.   

Summer’s pretty much passed me by. I’ve literally just returned from a small festival I performed at, and am still covered in glitter and camping dirt. I trust that over the smell of the foxes my friend is accomodating out here, any smell of my own will be covered up. 
Life’s pretty much passed me by. I’m enjoying this moment. I don’t want it to pass. I don’t want to continue down the direction I’ve been heading. Over the last year I’ve been so busy, carrying way too much on my shoulders,  that I didn’t dare rest and enjoy life even for a moment. Time to put something down. 

Yesterday I woke up, my head full of crazy ideas, and I knew they’re the answer to my problems. 
I tell me friend about them. I rejoice in the fact that she can see that one person’s madness is another person’s sanity. I’m grateful for the sunshine, I’m grateful for the cherries, I’m grateful for the encouragement. 

Reluctantly I leave, drive home, wash away the stale remnants of the weekend, then head off to do some recording. But those crazy ideas won’t go away. They mean business. They’ve won me over. I know I won’t be able to resist. 

Time to start a new chapter. Time to let go off things. Time to choose freedom. The choice is mine. While this means I have to so something that scares me a little - it means my life might be more of a cabaret again. And seriously, if it isn’t - what’s the point?