Serendipity

Sometimes I can be a sentimental fool. I spend more time than is probably healthy just thinking about things and coming to random conclusions that make sense at the time but later on offer little explanation as to why. This is the problem with blogs (I iz down wiv da kidz lingo innit) because there’s no escaping those moments of what you believed was deep philosophy but in the cold harsh light of day turn out to be nothing short of pukesome.

I wrote the following on 20 February 2004. I quite like looking back over my old journal entries despite hating the person I used to be. I’m fascinated by my oblivion to my naivety and self-absorption (although one could argue that any journal is going to be fairly orientated around whoever’s writing it) and I wonder how I’ll feel about the things that I’m writing now. I still believe, without question, that I am always right. I still know that the world revolves around me. These things don’t change. And yet I have. More than I’d ever realise without having the cringeworthy reminders printed in black and white before me.

Below is one of my “profound” moments which I apparently had at 3am around 3 years ago. I have to admit there are still parts of this that I strongly believe in although I’m not sure I would honey-coat it quite as much if I was writing about it now. I’m also a lot more cynical about life and love although regrettably so. I miss the beauty of the innocence that lies in believing in Happy Ever After.

Anyway, onto the chunks-inducer:

I was in bed, and then I had to get out. I’m sitting here as naked as the day I was born. Sometimes I just have to write, even if it means freezing my tits off. That’s just the kind of girl I am.

Sometimes I hear things - words, sentences, speeches - and they mean something to me, enough that I want to remember it for always.

The Greeks didn’t write obituaries. They only asked one question after a man died: “Did he have passion?”

That was the line.

Tonight I watched Serendipity. Weirdly, my brother recommended it to me. He’s a man’s man and a film buff. He likes obscure movies and films I’ve never heard of. Yet he chooses to recommend to me a love story, a cheesy Hollywood production. I don’t know why. Maybe because he searches for passion just as I do. Maybe he feels the same. If it’s worth doing then it has passion. If it has passion, it’s worth doing.

I constantly put things in the hands of “Fate”, putting the decisions in the hands of life. Making things come to me instead of constantly searching. I consider myself a risk taker and yet remain apathetic and aloof.

Risks are about fighting for passion. They’re about giving things up in order to find them again. They’re about going after what you want and loving every minute of the moment you get there. They’re about looking with your heart as well as your eyes.

There’s no need to be afraid. Live.

There are many things in this I would still think although perhaps am wiser about whether to admit to them in public. First of all, I’m still that girl who would get out of bed and freeze her tits off at 3am simply because she has to write. I know this because it’s now 3.29am and here I am. Things still stick in my head too although now I’m less bothered about doing anything with them. I remember having “kissing with direction” tattooed on my brain when I was 17 which remained until I wrote a poem about it. I still quite like the poem now, although the cheese factor is akin to the journal entry above.

Passion. Yes, I’m still a sucker for that. I’m less convinced by the obituary line but appreciate the idea. I’m also still the apathetic risk-taker, bemused by differences in opinion of my friends and family who consider my “spontaneity” to be frivolousness. It has the hallmarks of being an issue I’ll recognise as naivety (on my part) in another 3 years time but I still believe an entirely safe life is a lacklustre one.

I find it interesting that the several definitions of “risk” in the dictionary are all negatively biased: “exposure to the chance of injury or loss; a hazard or dangerous chance: It’s not worth the risk.” It mentions nothing of the possible benefits to be had from it and only goes on to relate to loss probability and hazard insurance. There’s no room in the definition for the excitement of putting your head above the parapet (oh how I love those clichés!) and reaping the benefits of multiplying your opportunities. Instead the definition remains a safe one and is therefore dull. Perhaps that is why no one reads the dictionary. Well, apart from me.

So it appears one thing that definitely has not changed is the need to philosophise over trivialities during the wee hours of the morning. I think that is something that will probably stick with me for some while. If I could sit here and ponder life’s bigger problems then maybe I could really be something.

But that would be too easy.