And.. annual visit to the ancient blog begins. It has almost become a tradition now – to go through all the drafts from the past, reminisce about the feelings I had at the time of writing them and then squeeze out some shitty tweets to commemorate the occasion.
And it is a depressing ritual, this. You see.. these old ideas can be roadblocks, they inspire this morbid fascination where you feel compelled to address them but once you attempt to do that, you realize time has mostly stripped them of their substance and you can’t do much with hollow husks, can you?
It is interesting how many of these drafts linger on the topic of feelings. In one particularly angsty piece, I find myself railing against these abstract-somethings and their unreasonable hold over my life. Ha, that one is never seeing the light of the day.
The most recent draft – a clumsy attempt at sappy fiction – makes me smile though. I can see it being longer, something that can be published. Ah, who would have thought I still churned the hope of getting published in some abandoned corner of my heart.
And most importantly, of course, there is something different about this year’s ritual – yes, my non-existent readers, we are writing this draft with the intention to press that publish button.
Gasp. Seems unreal, right?