Once a week since the age of ten I’ve promised myself I’m turning over a new leaf, as though suddenly that will make everything better and I’ll stop being a certain way for whatever reason.
This week I have decided to try and stop being untrue to myself. It’s quite a big one but I spend far too long inking my height against that of other people and it’s not done me any favours. I think what I really need is to get away for a couple of days and think, but that isn’t really something that’s possible to me or anyone else is it? Whenever I read Lonesome Traveller I think about how I would deal with Kerouac’s existence in the Californian mountainside, three months of pure solitude but there I go again comparing.
I don’t really know what I’m getting at, all I know is that something isn’t sitting right and I need to sort it out.