Apart from my politically correct IG captions - it those count - and utterly grey SEO-compliant content at work, I haven't written anything much for my inner child in a millennia. Don't know what I've been busy with but since my last post I've lost people, lived through a pandemic, ran a bake shop, worked with my hands, dabbled in B2B writing, and moved to another continent. In between these, I might have lost that perky voice I thought I had on here. The inner kid has retracted deep into her Cancerian shell, and now will you help me smoke coax her out?
Lately, specifically in the last 4 years, I've been feeling detached from that side of me that writes. Sure, I've been distracted by life, but writing for myself has been an escapade ever since I could read. It began with a diary. Her name was Amanda. She was a pretty hardcover in pink and pistachio with a golden lock on her. When unlocked with a matching golden key, her A5 pages came lined in pink. I'd fill her on the latest happenings of my life in blue ink with fat, beady handwriting. Since she also held my deepest thoughts, I placed her alongside my coin bank amongst the clothes in my little wardrobe.
Words on these pages offered me a sense of security and even a greater sense of freedom. A place to have my voice out, it doesn't matter if anyone heard them. A space to clear my head in the chaos of my words. I guess this took me to my vocation later in life as I ended up in media/publishing where I wrote for others. Even then, I retracted into my world of words, lost in the many diaries that followed Amanda. This blog also began as an outlet for my voice, to have some fun away from work, though on a public domain.
Fast forward to now, I'm not feeling it but I miss this; being here and sharing stuff I chose to share. So after a long morning walk yesterday, I took a peek into this space. Still here. Some old posts are cringeworthy for sure, but so are diary entries from mooooons back. It's also a record of how much I've grown and come into this person in her midlife.
Guess that scared off the inner child. Midlife!
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| A view from my morning walk |
That's the JJ we've missed for so long.
ReplyDeleteDid you say you moved to another continent?
Oh don't even think about being middle aged. I'll be turning 53 come June and the grey hair left and right mean my loved ones have started calling me Mister Fantastic (you know, that guy from the Fantastic Four).... O darn.
But it's good to have you back. No doubt about that.
Blue
Yes! Much closer to Bora Bora now :p
DeleteMister Fantastic is a compliment! Now you need to share a pic! And I, 44 come July. But ageing is also many other things. I don't want to think it, heck I may not even look it but i feel it, Blue. Those things they say about hormones are true.
I'll try to write more. Need to get my mojo back!
Well I think it's fantastic to have you back. It's OK to come and go, and leave and grow, and dip and sip and ...OK, I need to stop now. I loved the tale about Amanda. I'm currently reading the diary of a 17 year old girl in 1904; I have no idea who she is but by the end of January I was already traumatised. One day, people might find Amanda and these here blogs and also feel terrified but hopefully inspired. Big hugs!
ReplyDeleteHey Jules! Thanks for the kind words! I'm happy to find you and Blue here. When I started this blog in 2010, I didn't realise how small the world really is. I know better now. On that note, I need to start reading. Again. In a literature slump and it isn't helping me to write. But I did buy a book, a non-fiction, about how animals make it in the wild, and now I have a deeper appreciation for the crabs on Christmas Island. Much love.
DeleteYou’re a story teller and always will be. Looking forward to reading more from you babe ❤️
ReplyDeleteWhat if I told you that mojo is waiting in Bora Bora?
ReplyDeleteWhere do you reckson your mojo's been hiding? :)
ReplyDelete