I have high expectations of life, and I think that my family does too. I can’t help but believe that maybe I was born with a sense of malaise, only because there was so much expected of me, as the first Grandchild, the first Niece, the first Daughter. Is it enough that I am alive? Is it enough that I haven’t completely blown myself to pieces?
I write rarely now, from blogging everyday, an online diary of trite words and miserable diatribes has given way to, well, more trite words and miserable diatribes. I’m nothing but consistent. To be nearly 30 and still sprouting words out into the internet-space feels daft and oh-so silly. I have nothing new to say, I am nothing special. My life is just like everyone else’s, mix of good and bad, unrealised hopes and dreams, and a whole crate of regrets.
A pervasive feeling of dislocation and divorce of the world around me is ubiquitous to those of my age - we were promised gold and ended up with nickel, which half of us appear to be allergic to.
It’s a wonderful time to be alive.