There is a feeling I find very unique to Summer that does not have a name. Something in between boredom, heat, curiosity and the withdrawal from productivity that gives me the need to create something. Last year it was poetry, the year before I had become infatuated with drawing. The older I am the more potent this desire is. When I was young(er) braiding daisy chains into friends hair would suffice, now, it is difficult.
This blog is how I am solving this trivial problem this year. As well as that, a boy I used to know had a blog when he was 16 and said he did not regret it as much as me. I hope to emulate that in some way. (The heartbreaking thing was, he never wrote about me. This is already, is different, is self aware, is more embarrassing for a future me).
When I found that blogger was still living and breathing I was surprised. I remember being 12 years old having my dad blog about things I wasn't allowed to read, him slowly losing touch with blogging as his writing and (I presumed) this website was pushed off a cliff some, anti gravity -slowtofall- area in space (my poetry does not often include metaphors).
I tried blogging when I was 12 because I wanted to be like my dad, I'm trying it again today because over the past months I have lost the "poetic voice" everyones always pushing me to hold onto. It was as if, in an act of customary teenage rebellion, having being told I was a good writer with a strong voice, I let it go willingly. This is a desperate attempt at growing a voice in a different genre. Not a lot happens to me, I'm not yet honest enough to say a lot about what is. So we shall see.
I recognise that writing a blog about blogging is ridiculous, and it being this short is just as. At this point in time it is probably just Cu (maybe caoimhe, maybe rowan) reading this. That's okay. Bad art does not want, much less demand audience.
Summer thoughts will come, crying will come, I do not know how much space two months can take up in my life.
Lovely.
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