After last weekends depressed tirade a few friends naturally sent me concerned messages. I’ve re-read what I wrote and yes it is melodramatic but to me it is not overly unhappy. It was a reaction to leaving somewhere and then feeling the jarring shock of returning to that same place.
Sticking to my plan and not wanting to out stay my welcome anywhere I’ve now moved to staying with a friend in the suburbs of Leeds. Instantly there is less ‘hustle and bustle’, less people and I feel calmer. Nothing has really changed though it’s the same environment just less in your face. Easier to block out.
Blocking things out is almost as dangerous as caring too much. I dislike apathy but it is a natural psychological reaction to the world that presents itself to us. Orwell is cited with saying ‘happiness can only exist in acceptance’. So I personally find myself treading a fine line between unhappy and discontent because I can’t accept the world I was born into and yet trying not to becoming exceedingly depressed because ultimately I can’t change that world.
So writing is a pressure valve for me. Draining a bit of fluid from the wound to ease the pain and discomfort. It’s been my companion and outlet for a long time. I have been criticised and commended for it but I’m afraid that I write for me, when I need to. There is a Tim Barry lyric I can relate to about how he hates songs about writing songs, so I apologise for having resorted to the literary equivalent. Hang in there, I hear there is talk of riding bikes soon.