Crippling social anxiety aside; I have always been drastically inept at 'starting things'.
It's possibly some lingering after effect, a residue of the hopeless romantic I once was, that causes me to cling so desperately to the idea that if a 'beginning' isn't preceded by a series of suitably grandiose omens then it's not worth the effort.
The strange occurrences of today have not been of a heavens opening or choirs of angels variety but were - to my older and wiser self - of no less significance and it is by their persistent hand that I come to be sat here at my computer.
It starts, therefore, with a particular scent.
Patchouli oil.
Quite possibly the Marmite of incense - I personally wasn't able to stand the stuff until late 2006 and have never been known to burn it in my own flat (despite the remarks that my room "Smells like a ponce's boudoir".)
Yet today, as though greeting an old friend, I welcomed its assault on my nostrils and revelled in the cloud that accompanied me throughout the entirety of my lectures...
Those with their wits about them will not hesitate to point out it likely originated in the copious number of New Age stores that line my route, or the hoards of their patrons shuffling in my shadow but regardless of this, the memories invoked are more than enough intervention to spur me into getting off my arse and putting my internal ramblings to a more secure medium.
You see, patchouli oil will always be associated with the aforementioned year; I was 16.
A mere few months out of Oriel Bank School for Girls and into college sporting my shaven head, inappropriately high New Rocks and a perpetual roll-up behind heavily pierced ears. It was the time during which I reigned over 'smokers wall' with a sharp tongue and open legs, the occupant of the latter being one Zakk Nuttall.
He was the college bad boy, but to this day I think he was simply cute as a button.
A practicing Pagan, like myself (I was raised that way - this is not a bandwagon claim), he was older, with a mohawk, drink problem and a leather jacket which he treated with Patchouli. He ticked all the boxes laid out in the rapidly expanding mind of a would-be goth girl.
In those six months he reconnected me with a spirituality I had lost respect for, introduced me to drugs, kinky sex, sitting academic examinations drunk, tried to give me an exorcism (seriously) and taught me that fucking over peoples [ex]girlfriends is fine so long as you're wasted.
In short; the man made me a total bitch. He broke my heart. I got over it.
To the point of the matter, however...he was boyfriend number two, only four years ago and genuinely that brief description is about the extent of my immediate memory.
Sure, I could dredge up some anecdotes from the recesses of my mind after a drink or twelve but these day I'm never quite sure if I'm getting my dates right, hell, I'm not even convinced it's the right boyfriend most of the time.
You see, these moments that I swore I would never forget, could never be topped, will never be relived...they're slipping away from me at a disturbing pace and as I hurtle forwards into a future I'm not ready for it's that trail of breadcrumbs I'm going to need.
To starting something, or finishing something - I'm not sure.
Annie.
<3
It's possibly some lingering after effect, a residue of the hopeless romantic I once was, that causes me to cling so desperately to the idea that if a 'beginning' isn't preceded by a series of suitably grandiose omens then it's not worth the effort.
The strange occurrences of today have not been of a heavens opening or choirs of angels variety but were - to my older and wiser self - of no less significance and it is by their persistent hand that I come to be sat here at my computer.
It starts, therefore, with a particular scent.
Patchouli oil.
Quite possibly the Marmite of incense - I personally wasn't able to stand the stuff until late 2006 and have never been known to burn it in my own flat (despite the remarks that my room "Smells like a ponce's boudoir".)
Yet today, as though greeting an old friend, I welcomed its assault on my nostrils and revelled in the cloud that accompanied me throughout the entirety of my lectures...
Those with their wits about them will not hesitate to point out it likely originated in the copious number of New Age stores that line my route, or the hoards of their patrons shuffling in my shadow but regardless of this, the memories invoked are more than enough intervention to spur me into getting off my arse and putting my internal ramblings to a more secure medium.
You see, patchouli oil will always be associated with the aforementioned year; I was 16.
A mere few months out of Oriel Bank School for Girls and into college sporting my shaven head, inappropriately high New Rocks and a perpetual roll-up behind heavily pierced ears. It was the time during which I reigned over 'smokers wall' with a sharp tongue and open legs, the occupant of the latter being one Zakk Nuttall.
He was the college bad boy, but to this day I think he was simply cute as a button.
A practicing Pagan, like myself (I was raised that way - this is not a bandwagon claim), he was older, with a mohawk, drink problem and a leather jacket which he treated with Patchouli. He ticked all the boxes laid out in the rapidly expanding mind of a would-be goth girl.
In those six months he reconnected me with a spirituality I had lost respect for, introduced me to drugs, kinky sex, sitting academic examinations drunk, tried to give me an exorcism (seriously) and taught me that fucking over peoples [ex]girlfriends is fine so long as you're wasted.
In short; the man made me a total bitch. He broke my heart. I got over it.
To the point of the matter, however...he was boyfriend number two, only four years ago and genuinely that brief description is about the extent of my immediate memory.
Sure, I could dredge up some anecdotes from the recesses of my mind after a drink or twelve but these day I'm never quite sure if I'm getting my dates right, hell, I'm not even convinced it's the right boyfriend most of the time.
You see, these moments that I swore I would never forget, could never be topped, will never be relived...they're slipping away from me at a disturbing pace and as I hurtle forwards into a future I'm not ready for it's that trail of breadcrumbs I'm going to need.
To starting something, or finishing something - I'm not sure.
Annie.
<3
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