This is my first official blog post in about ten years and “rusty” does not even begin to describe my erstwhile literary skills. This is one of those moments I wish I could use the trite yet effective “it’s like riding a bike” expression…except I can’t, ha. I am confident I will be able to get back to writing nod-inducing posts. So in the meantime, please bear with me.
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I miss writing. Not having been brought up in a ‘hug and kiss’ culture has shaped my introversion and as such, taught me introspective avenues of expression: the written word. I write for the same reasons wanderers find validation through materialism, substances, exercise, and suchlike. It is only in this realm that I dare to dream, dare to romanticise idealism – a realm where principles have no place to stand. I relish moments that are truly my own. Reading has taught me analysis and empathy by allowing me to momentarily borrow another’s mind: It is good for the soul. Over time, however, I betrayed my first love and left it for the façade of calculating rigidity. Perhaps my having studied Politics was my own version of a compromise to marry my closeted idealism and some semblance of pragmatism.
Solo travel soon became my next great love. Walking around Montparnasse and standing in the exact spot where Hemingway and Fitzgerald met for the first time could only be described as transcendental. Those moments spur my desire to return with somebody dear to share with him just how passionate I am about the things I am passionate about. Again, it is only in writing that I will admit to such romanticism for fear of judgement.
Rekindling with my first love today is putting me at more ease than I have been in years. Perhaps I am more romantic than I tend to lead on.