Alright, alright.
It was silly of me to delete my blog while in an excessively morbid mood.
Instead of self-harm I moved onto hurting things I can't get back.
Of course I forget that RSS readers hold onto things and so thankyou Blessi for making me realise I wanted it back and Jess for showing me it still existed. There, I've just thanked 100% of my readership so this should be a new period of popularity and harmony, right?
I made changes. I couldn't not make changes. In some places a title is shorter, in some places I dropped off paragraphs that were good to write but not so good to read. Notably absent; the Adventures of Norman. I haven't decided how to move forward with that so I'll hold off on re-posting until I've decided. They still exist, anyway.
It's something of a coincidence that I restored my blog today. I realised as I was forging the dates of the original posts that it's been almost a year since I started up here. It doesn't feel like a year at all, but I don't know if it feels like more or less. I had my last undergraduate lecture on Tuesday. Hilariously, I skipped it. It wasn't actually that hilarious. I often let style re-arrange what I want to say so that it sounds better. I'm a writer, I'm allowed.
I have an essay due on Monday and one due in two weeks, and I have an exam next week and another a few weeks later. After that I can justifiably add B.BSc (Psych) to the end of my name, well, assuming that I pass. I will do honours eventually. I'm partly writing that so that if I look back in the future, having not done honours, I'll get this little pang of regret, like so, 'pang!'
It's odd, I miss uni already. I guess it's because I remember school and I realise how fun and silly it all was, and I didn't realise until afterwards, this time I am anticipating feeling that way already.
I'm reading James Joyce at the moment. I read Dubliners a few years ago, and then recently I bought Ulysses and A Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man. I was a bit bummed out when I did because I found out that what I was attempting with Norman not only has already been thought of, but was thought of basically a century ago, and resulted in a novel much, much better than anything I can write at the moment. That's partly why I'm disenchanted with Norman for now, I feel as though he was just made into a photocopy even though I didn't know the details of Ulysses until recently. It doesn't mean abandoning it, it just means I need to re-think it and put more of myself in it. Joyce is incredible for infusing his writing with both a great sense of the zeitgeist of Ireland of his era and an amazing ability to get across such nuances of character with such trivial phrases. Stepping back from the writing itself, the structure is amazing. I don't know if he wrote it to a plan or put it together as it went along, but it's really something, it feels like the literature equivalent of singing in harmony.
Enough! Suffice to say that secrets remain claustrophobic.
Peace.
