february - thank goodness you are short.

I may have put too much thought into my frontal lobe.  Although I do realize that the years go faster, the weekends are shorter and my heart has got bruised, bigger and bolder. If this is what growing up feels like, then sure, I think I can handle.  If there is one thing I have learnt recently you cannot will anything or anyone to become or do anything if it is beyond your control, beyond exhaustion of efforts. You cannot claim you had the power to bring the subject to your willed position if it in fact was inevitable either. I'm not waiting for explosions, on the Chernobyl scale, I'm giving it back to the fates now. This, is growing up. Not giving up. Instead of being dead in the water, I'm gearing up for an arctic swim. It's going to be challenging and it'll go against all my habitual survival mechanisms. To change focus with blinkers on, to brake at full speed and to swallow the knives of stubbornness.

This blog is titled "A dream is the place where a wish and a fear meet" The fear is consummately the thing that can destroy you. "When the wish and the fear are exactly the same, he said, we call the dream a nightmare." When you are at the crossroads challenge of wish and fear and the latter loses the battle. That is the dream. It's not the ideas you get when you're asleep, it's the feeling of being most alive. Seeing it for what it is and can be in many crippling forms and disregarding fear. Everything I've done up to now has set me up for a pretty sweet quarter-life crisis.

Hold the crisis. 

I once tried to impress a boy, at the age of eleven. It ended in a rather ridiculing ride in a toddlers pram to the car and four stitches. The scar is healed but it's there, it's small but it's to the bone. Over time, I forget about it but occasionally the tickle of something across my shin and the disappearance of that feeling reminds me. You can't balance on innate objects, you will get hurt. Whether the object is a stationary boat trailer or an inert human.

So no more blog posts of love lost or stolen and forgotten. I'm fighting the blinkers. I'm ignoring the intermittent tickle. I'm done speaking my mind, you're not being a nicer guy. If you tried.