I’ll never stop marvelling at the version of myself I think I am. Can never quite identify with the person who wrote my ‘to-do’ list at the end of the day before. Blinking at it in the morning - it looks like an awful lot to fit into the roughly 12 hours of ‘active’ time I muddle through before settling in for Love is Blink UK on the sofa.
Today is a perfect example of this. I am writing whilst wearing the swimsuit I put on at 8:30 am after I dragged myself out of bed, chastising myself for not going for that 7 am swim and promising myself I would get to it later. Reader: it is now, later.
Exercise is the main victim of my numerous failures. But it goes beyond this. The list of hobbies I have started and failed to see through since 2020 includes: cycling, open water swimming, watercolours, playing the recorder, playing the piano, learning French, learning Norwegian – you get the jist. In fact the only thing I have stuck to with much gusto is the farm I built in the Sims 4, born from evenings spent hunched over a laptop, my brow furrowed in concentration.
And while it is nice that my family of Sims are thriving (their children will be born into generational wealth, such is the success of their farm), it hasn’t gone unnoticed – by myself and my boyfriend Fred – that they are living out their wildest dreams at the expense of mine.
Part of the problem is that I’m not sure what my dreams are. Even that bit of legwork (brainwork?) feels like too much of a hill to climb when I can instead let re-runs of Four In a Bed occupy my mind. But didn’t I commit to a Summer of writing? Of creating art? Another version of myself I can barely identify with as I stare at my empty morning pages, or down the barrel of another blank Google Doc.
In my writing class, somebody – it might have been Annie – said that writing comes TO you. And it flows out of your pen, or onto your laptop, sent to you by a voice without a body that has something to say. I like that idea. In fact sometimes I’ve felt it myself, my hands flying across a keyboard or scrawling at a notepad. But after the initial rush and flurry of ideas I’ve failed to keep the writing going. Coming too soon to a conclusion to ‘finish’ or just walking off, leaving a sentence hanging in mid-air
Of course, I never come back to it. Sometimes when I read back over paragraphs I wrote just days ago it feels as hard to identify with the person who wrote them as it does to identify with myself in high school. The girl who 48 hours ago was writing so vociferously about one specific memory from university is as unreachable to me as the girl who used to make apple crumbles in Food Tec and drink banana Yazoo for lunch.
If I wanted to romanticise it I could argue that I’m just not a linear person that sets one methodical foot in front of the other, or slowly builds up the walls that form their life brick by brick. I prefer an organic route, meandering without purpose, randomly shedding the identities of my past because they’re too heavy, or maybe they just don’t fit anymore.
But if I am being honest, I think it might be that while I am ambitious (it feels strange to admit this, even to myself finally), I am lazy. And not even just physically lazy. Which I am, by the way. I will always choose to lie down rather than sit. Am always looking for a bench, or an escalator to skip the stairs.
But my brain is lazy too. Sometimes I stare into Victoria Park from my flat desperate to go outside but I can’t even be bothered to decide what to do once I get there. Lie down? Amongst the elements? Knowing that once I arrived I wouldn’t be able to identify with the version of myself that decided it was a good idea?
And so I go back to battling between my heart and my head. I’m not sure which one wants what, but one is making lofty plans while the other is expertly cancelling them, hours, days or months down the line. After the adrenaline high of imaging what the new version of me, who can speak Norwegian and play Boy Genius on the recorder, will look sound and smell like.
There is a song in Cabaret that Sally sings called ‘Maybe This Time’. If you haven’t watched it, Sally Bowles in Cabaret is a bit like Charlie xcx in 2024: she’s the ultimate party girl. Occasionally, Sally wrestles with the gigantic questions that creep up on you and suddenly jolt you into consciousness during your morning shower. Should I have kids? Am I failing at my own life? Does anything mean anything at all?
In the song, Sally sings “It's gotta happen, happen sometime. Maybe this time, I'll win” and it's become a bit of an earworm for me. Melodically narrating every new hobby, job idea or foray down a metaphorical garden path. But – much like the audience knows for Sally – I too secretly know that the odds are not in my favour. Knowing myself the way I do, this time, it’s unlikely I will ‘win’.
And I don’t mean that in a self-pitying way. I just know it to be the truth. It is what it is. I am what I am.
Anyway. I’ve just realised this is probably the longest piece of writing I’ve ever done. Funny that, considering the subject matter. And now I’ve realised, I feel the familiar itch in my tummy to get up, walk off, make a nice cold drink. Maybe I’ll watch some Piano tutorials on YouTube. I could haul out the old electric keyboard from the cupboard. Why did I ever put it away? I can’t imagine making a decision like that.
Love this!!
BRING OUT THE ELECTRIC KEYBOARD!!