Fate

Dear friend,

Today I had a lucky escape.

And it got me thinking. My mum has always said to me “everything happens for a reason”. But, to be honest, she only ever says that in order to console me when things are not going the way I had planned them.

Sometimes I say it. Sometimes I believe it. But only when it’s the only thing that is holding me together. It’s better to think that the universe has a plan for you than to continue with no hope.

Today, I narrowly missed some falling branches.

Was that luck? Was that “meant to be”? The idea of fate is unfair. A woman was killed by a falling tree today. Was that fate? This mere question is wrong and disrespectful.

As the whirring storm steadily rips England to shreds, it is clear: fate does not exist.

Essays

Dear friend,

Lately, I have been writing a lot of essays. And by essays, I mean staring at a blank sheet of paper hoping and longing for the words to write themselves.

Loneliness

Dear friend,

Lately I’ve been feeling lonely.

I am not sure if it is the overwhelming stress of my studies enveloping me, but I cannot seem to shake off this feeling that I am lost; wandering through an empty abyss with no one to confide in.

Yes, I have my family and for that I am endlessly grateful, but sometimes you need a friend. It’s not that I don’t have any; it’s just that it is not the same as it used to be.

That’s the thing about friendships; they’re like those claw grabber machines you get in the arcade – there is only a slim chance you’ll win something, and an even slimmer chance that you’ll get something good.

Everyone around me seems to be winning whilst I’m on a relentless losing streak.

I am tired of this empty void.

I am tired of wandering through it.

Moments

Dear friend,

Today I have been organising a photography exhibition.

Gazing down at the photographs, I realised how many things I am missing in life. Yes, I may be looking at them, but I am not really seeing them. The simple things that are so under appreciated.

There is a book by Ernest Hemingway, Big Two Hearted River, that describes -to the minutest detail- everyday activities that, ordinarily, we see as “mundane”.

“He smoothed the uprooted earth. He did not want anything making lumps under the blankets. When he had the ground smooth, he spread his three blankets. One he folded double, next to the ground. The other two he spread on top.”

I want to appreciate life in this way. I want to see life methodically; appreciating every action that leads to that final outcome.

If you think about it, everything has beauty in it. When you put a tea bag into the mug and the bottom of the cup is lightly dusted with fine, brown specks. When you let the water flow from the nozzle, leaving a delicate rising path of steam. When the tea bag is engulfed, slowly transforming the water gradient by gradient from a weak yellow to a pronounced orangey-brown. When the swirls of milk create a series of minuscule bubbles that gather around the centre or line up like soldiers around the rim. I heard that that has something to do with the pressure in the air but I am not certain.

Life is a series of moments like these: simple, forgettable, and memorable.

But nothing is too insignificant to be missed.

18

Dear friend,
I turn eighteen in 18 days.

I cannot help but wonder if I am where I am supposed to be.

When I was younger, I used to idolise eighteen as an age. I saw eighteen year olds and I envied them. They were so laid back; their world was transforming around them and all they did was embrace it. They seemed so content and thrilled with life. They got drunk, had sex, and engaged in long philosophical conversations. They had long surpassed the stupidity of sixteen year olds and were more responsible; they made wise decisions and they knew about politics. They were simultaneously pretty and sexy and smart.

Eighteen is the last step to adulthood. From then on everything is possible. I cannot believe that this is it. Surely there is another milestone to reach. Surely this cannot be it.

So here I am: seventeen and 347 days old. I am on the brink, yet I am not even close.