Masochist.

I heard something amazingly liberating today, or rather I read it.

“Care, but don’t let it limit you. Notice but don’t let it stop you. Accept, but don’t let it dictate who you are.”

I guess living in this world where you have your own ‘world’, you have to at one point realise that it’s not really yours.

Life isn’t a movie, happy endings don’t exist. We have to keep on living – through the sad, the happy, and the frustrating. It doesn’t just end when you get together with the person you love. Life goes on, and things happen. I seemed to have forgotten that somewhere along the way, imagining that I was in fact a character in my movie. That the bad will somehow turn into good.

It seems that because of this line of thought, I’ve turned myself into a masochist.

Enjoying the hardships and pain that I put myself through.

Subconsciously placing myself in situations where I will become hurt, or exhausted – just to enjoy the high that comes when I pull myself out. Oh the kick that I get out of it. I guess that the highs just taste exponentially better when the lows are low. This is the logic that I apply to my condition.

So as any sane person would – I’ve made the conscious decision to pull myself out of this horrifying pattern of self-destruction.

It’s just the beginning.

November

Sometimes I find myself wishing I had faith.

Faith in a higher power. 

It seems as though faith would help me carry some of this weight.

What do you do when you become tired of being disappointed?

 

Do you keep trying?

What do you do when you can’t trust people anymore?

 

Do you still believe?

an ending.


The year spent in London, retrospectively short and dream-like. Without photographic proof I could swear that it was all an extremely long and vivid dream. My last holiday in the UK to the Bath Spas was relaxing and peaceful. Clean air, greenery, delicious food, live music at the pub, fighting cats and one last drink before heading home.

Here I am now, in Sydney, back in my old room, on my old laptop, feeling lost and inadequate now that the buzz of being back has worn off. Hoping that things will go back to the way they were is, foolish I guess. Waking up to solitude, feeling restless over the fact that I must now accept the difference one year has made.

A gap year. Now understanding why the word ‘gap’ is used. The ‘gap’ which separates the transition between student and adult. The year which we will look back at when we are older and think of how much fun it was to be young.

Gap Year Complete.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Your Always,,

I have asked you all to gather here as to show my appreciation and gratitude. Today I had a thought ‘What if I hadn’t met you all?’
I came to London, most uncomfortably socialising as a means to prevent falling into a pit of patheticness. Meeting you all, and looking back, I can say with certaintity that fate does in fact exist.

Dear Krystyna,

A note to everyone who don’t know her. Krystyna is, I guess best described as a Charlotte character. If you heard her speak, in combination of her high pitched voice, and of course the blonde hair – you would have passed her off as someone who might say things like “Is my hair to shiny today?”
But occasionally, she would say things that would shame the Dalai Lama.

Thank you Krystyna. In times of confusion and difficulty, you have always shed light on the situation and provided me with things to be considered. As a result, I have come to understand so much.

Oh sweetie, I will miss your moves on the dance florr that make me question your ethnicity. You can’t hide it when you dance like you do ;)

I’ll miss you, but you better hold up on your offer to take me camping.

Dear Rhiannon,

First a roommate, and now a friend. I am a firm believer in luck, usually I am blessed with the shit end of the stick, however this time around it would seem the ‘luck-god’ if any, have decided to smile in my favour.

It has been a pleasure serving with you through the usual discomfort, annoyances, and awkwardness in roommatehood.

Recently I realised something that I wish I hadn’t – the loneliness that will haunt me at home in my room. No longer coming home to a friend to bitch and moan about a co-worker, asshole manager or peak hour trains. Having the reassurance of another presence when you awake mid-night from an unpleasant dream, regular conversations with Andie about our bowel movements or lack thereof and seeing your face writh in discomfort/awkwardness.

Our regular visits to the Wetherspoons and indulging in the 2for10 cocktail pitchers which contained too much sugar and not enough booze.

I will miss you. But look forward to our Perth/Bali trip in the future.

Dear Andie,

You know how they say, if your relationship can withstand the stresses of travelling together, you can handle marriage.

We ought to be married three times over. We’ve been through not one but two trips together. First Paris where we embraced public urination, and disgusting men – the Cologne. So many fun times, times when I thought “This is perfect” despite the bickering and fights we’ve experienced, we always laughed it off.

I will miss you. If you ever come to Sydney to pursue your Vet studies, just shout out ‘Kwon’ like you do and I’ll be there.

Dearest friends, I miss you already. Thank you all for being the source of most of my precious and happy memories of London. I’ll end this cringe-fest of displaying emotion in public now.

Love you and goodbye for now.

Yours always,

Clare

Holiday Depression Syndrome – A Cure

A belated post, yes I know. This Brighton trip took place straight after Cologne, it was I guess my attempt at countering the infamous holiday-depression syndrome (Those of you who’ve experienced it first hand, you know how absolutely Shite it is). Anyway, never mind if it worked or not – those pink Mary Janes make my heart flutter like  a little girl seeing her crush after the school holidays. Of course absurdly expensive, all I could do was try them on, fondle them and moan. Naturally, the sales reps’ glares were too much to bear and eventually we left.
Brighton beach was…not exactly what I was used to. Usually equiped with 30+, a beach towel, magazines, and girlfriends when making trips to get skin cancer at the white sandy beaches of Bondi. Brighton beach, was decorated with not sand, but pebbles the size a child’s fist; fully clothed people (not including the occasional crazy); and of course stalls after stalls that sent out wafts of oily goodness, ice cream, and seafood. In the distance, Brighton Pier was visible – somewhat resembling Luna Park, but of course – better.
The day ended with drinks at the local pub, which accomodated an intoxicated, obese old man who drooled and yelled out incomprehensible things in frequent bursts. Beer, Scrabble and strangers who try to join in.

What more could you ask for in life?