Today is one of those days in which I can’t think of anything to write about. One of those moments the mind feels stagnant. But I write everyday, there can be no excuse, 365 days won’t reach itself. Incidentally I’m definitely over six months now, maybe even seven or eight if I could be bothered to count. I just know come October I’ll have to start checking the exact date I started and try to avoid writing endlessly about how close I am to completing a year and how nice it’ll be not to have the constant thought in the back of my mind that I have to do something. Some days I enjoy it, some days I just can’t be bothered and some days I wish I had written something earlier as I’m tired and want to go to bed. Rarely I don’t enjoy it though.
I’ve still not written a poem, that was one of the things I thought would be interesting to try. I’ve not written a short story either. I can’t remember the other things I excitedly thought I may do. I think I misunderstood how my writing would go down. I don’t take the time to write creatively like that, life can be busy and I generally just give myself an hour to bash these out. I suspect this will be a little less but that’s because it’s one of those filler pieces. Yet I’m still writing.
I thought about mentioning Covid-19 and the political implications of todays relaxing of lockdown rules but I’ve been talking too much about that already recently. I even checked RT.com to see if they had anything outlandish I could talk about. They don’t seem to think too highly of Meghan Markle and I’m not entirely sure why. What ever she did to piss off the Russians is beyond me. Maybe I should have checked Al Jazeera, I could have compared their stories, RT’s stories and the BBC’s to create a balanced version of the days events. I’m sure you could add all their stories up and together they would create a reputable version. Either that or the average of what total bullshit could look like.
In personal news I’ve been fantasising about living on the canals again. This is not a new one and I nearly did it about five or six years ago until I realised I wasn’t quite ready for such a sedate life. Sounds lovely now though. Nothing against the village, but I suspect small insular communities don’t quite have enough to hold me. Not that I’ll find the opposite all along a canal. It’s times like these though that I remember how being oblivious to the same type of thing but in foreign countries and therefore foreign languages, made places seem so much nicer. There’s something lacking in forever being on the periphery though. I wonder if people come here to the white sandy beaches, castles, monasteries and walks, and think how lovely the locals are, unaware to how they really feel about outsiders. Perhaps they just resent them because they know they depend on them.
But I shouldn’t be too unfair because I don’t know everybody and I don’t know they all feel. Also nobodies really done anything directly to me it’s more that I just feel sadness at witnessing such a beautiful little area stifled by idiots who can’t see outside of this tiny little whole universe of theirs. And I’m judging people I don’t really know again which I shouldn’t be because it’s unfair and that just makes me a dick. It’s just the frustration that’s all. This place just isn’t the best version of itself it could be. But then what and who is.
Observations and Misunderstandings 