Wednesday, 1 June 2016
I'm writing this sitting on a permanently uncomfortable no-amount-of-cushions-seems-to-help sofa, singing along to retro Britney songs. I cling to moments like this. Moment of frivolity. Unconstrained silliness. Because I've been doubting myself. A lot. And it's becoming a bit of a problem because it's now at the point where I talk myself out of doing anything before I've even started. I'm sabotaging myself and potentially the new dreams I didn't really know I had.
I've been thinking a lot about hope, and how intrinsically it's entwined with hopelessness. Without one we wouldn't know how it felt to experience the other. But it's impossible to get anywhere when I find myself talking myself out of doing something before it's even a fully formed idea or concept in my mind. And that's not letting myself hope at all. That's pure hopelessness when there's no need for it. So I may naturally find myself drawn to melancholy, but I'm vowing to at least let myself try. After all, if I never try it's impossible to know what could have been.
As I've been writing I've been thinking of all the things I thought I wanted to do over the years, and there are a small handful of things I feel regret for not having started already. And I suppose that's the best indicator of which way to start walking, to begin clearing a path through the overgrowth of indecision and uncertainty, and to make a start - even if I'm not quite brave enough to tell myself that I fully believe in myself. But just because I haven't been able to make anything significant happen just yet, doesn't mean there isn't time. And maybe, just maybe, I have stopped myself from wandering down entirely the wrong path for me because it was the most convenient at the time. Convenience, in my experience, has many a wrong decision made.
So here's to hope. Sometimes hope is all there is. A sliver of light in the distance. A belief, no matter how squashed and buried underneath a thousand other thoughts, that making something happen isn't impossible.