I find myself desperately making notes of things I like. It sounds weird and maybe it is weird. The need to nudge myself and remind myself of the things that make me feel alive. The things I need at the forefront of my mind as I co-create my life. I say co-create because I do not believe we are totally in control of our own realities. Some things just happen to us.
Because if we were in control, why would we choose this?
So I make notes. Things, people, places, goals, books, poems, songs, artists. Things that in some way light something in me. I’m not sure what it is. But they give me comfort, as if I have pieced together a very small part of a big puzzle. I’m making note of an important password. A password that allows me further inward.
Marilyn Monroe
Layered haircuts
European history
Old Hollywood glamour
Vogue
Alexa Demie
Elle magazine
Matilda Djerf
Sweden
Winter
Women’s issues
Women’s history
Journalling
Therapy
Dr Gabor Mate
Nassim Haramein
Disney’s Soul
The journey of the soul
The hero’s journey
Story telling
I write endless, endless lists. Desperately trying to not lose myself in the monotonous rhythm of life. I feel like I’ll forget these things if I don’t. I’ll end up forgetting an important part of myself. I’ll go on being insignificant for the most part. Uninteresting. It’s like that feeling you get when someone asks you to tell them a fun fact about yourself. All of a sudden you can’t recall anything note-worthy.
But every now and then I remember.
I stumble on a piece of myself. Of something that resonates with my being. I have been meditating on purpose and ambition recently. Nothing to report yet. No musing of any significance, other than how art means everything to us on the darkest days. I try to bring myself back to the things that I liked as a small child.
Books
Making up stories
Fashion
Movies
Strong female characters
Sticking up for people
I often feel resentful about the fact that in this life I could have been an artist if I wasn't so useless with my hands. So I write instead. In an attempt to tell some kind of story. I go back and forth between fiction and non-fiction, hoping that the story of a lifetime will reveal itself.
But the story I want to tell remains out of reach. I only have small pieces so far. Frustrating little pieces of nothing much.
I think in another life I would have been a designer. A fashion designer in one. An interior designer in another.
A therapist and an activist in the other.
I would have found a way.
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