“Why?” Is the first question I’m asked when I tell people that I want to start blog.
Closely followed by: “What will you write?” or “How will you find the time?” or my personal favourite, “Can you actually write a blog?”
They’re fair questions-and I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a grammatical mess. Anyone who has received a letter from me knows how quickly my ideas turn to shambles and then the ease at which those shambles explode into topsy-turvy, upside down, philosophical disasters.
But I love to do it – to write. Even though it’s at times difficult and clumsy, if I didn’t I think I would implode. It’s part of how I think, the way my memories live on the best. I’ve always been a lazy photographer so instead I try to capture things in sentences, locking them up safely with full stops and holding onto them like that.
My friends I keep with the waves that fizzed like champagne on the shore. I see them in the box of letters on my shelf and borrowed clothes strewn messily around my room. They’re the breathless laughter crowded onto a postage stamp blanket; A tangle of limbs screaming out songs untunefully to the sky; The feet slipping ungracefully on the rain wet grass as we dance.
Home is the place where jazz beats flow unbridled through the streets and laughter pours out from underneath layers of coats. University was a couch: the seat where we ignored our study notes to drink bitter tea from oversized mugs and watch the city disappear in a haze of rain. Summer, as always, I catch in sun-kissed shoulders and the empty blueberry cartons piled messily in the corner of my room.
Then there is all the other moments I don’t want to forget:Broken down cars under pink morning skies. Chins resting on our hands in the gutter to watch the sunrise. The taste of sunblock and sugar melting on my tongue at the game.The way she laughs, her whole body curled into it as she shakes. How soft his face curved in the shadow of the streetlights. The sudden frightening impermanence of her when she folded inwards to cry. My places, my people, my moments.
It’s all important. So I while I don’t really know exactly why I’m starting this blog, or what it is or how it will work – I do know that I love to write. I love it in the way I love everything important in my life – everything I capture in those memories. I love it without cause or reason or sense. Passionately. Unconditionally.
And as for my favourite last question – Can I write? I’m honestly not sure.
But I’m going to do it anyway.
Thank you for bearing with me.