That time of the year

Everyone has a time of the year when they want to rip off their clothes, tear out their eyeballs and run for the hills screaming. Granted I feel like that most of the time, but I can usually quell the urges until two dates, Christmas and my birthday, the latter being tomorrow. There is nothing quite as upsetting as having to age. I remember turning 12 and thinking, where did my childhood go? 13 years later I still feel like that, life is slipping through my fingers. At least now I have wine to help me cope with the feeling of impending doom and stifling failure. A quick Twitter snoop, oh what the hell, I was stalking people I used to know, didn’t help this feeling. Other people who are 25 have babies, husbands, are books editors, successful writers, acclaimed scholars, and I still don’t have a clue. I want to be a writer, but I really struggle to write. I get distracted, I get lost, I don’t know what I want to say.
Then there are the driving lessons. Oh dear.
I thought I’d be better when I’m older, but I still seek the approval of my superiors, I still crave validation from friends and family members, I still need too much of everything.
Maybe tomorrow I will run into the hills screaming blue naked murder.
Grahamstown weather permitting.


One thought on “That time of the year

  1. Happy birthday, my dear. You need to stop being so hard on yourself. Your life is like a vista promising such great views. Or a flower about to unfold to reveal a new mystery to the world.

    It will all work out.

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