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.

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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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