First off

So I’ve been thinking of doing this for a while. I’ve had days of angst, sadness, joy, sin, and innocence, I figure I might as well make something from them.

A few things you should know:

I’m a South African teenager whose greatest quality is probably that I wholly champion the Oxford Comma. I write poems and draw to make sense of the world.

A few discernible qualities of mine: crippling anxiety, slightly hyperbolised depression, and a desire for some nebulous greatness.

There isn’t much I prefer over a cool gin and tonic, a warm cup of Earl Grey tea, or some good old T.S Eliot. I’m also considerably well-read.

And so begins our story. I’m sure I’ll be able to offer you what the world cannot, through my words, and I’d love you to punctuate your days with reading of my days. I’m excited about finding where I belong with you all.

Do comment and leave suggestions in which direction I should steer. Thanks. Okay, enough of that, now let me tell you of my weekend.

T.S Eliot, in The Hollow Men, said ‘this is the way the world ends: not with a bang, but a whimper.’ I’m not sure of the end, but my 2018 started off in quite the whimper. It was about 11 a.m when I awoke, hungover, and resolved to do nothing. I ginned a lot the night before and that explained the headache, but I felt a deep pit in my stomach and it was something else.

People purchase expensive tickets to drink what they later regret. They party with whom they feel condemned to breathe. I am one of them. The New Year brought not a modicum of change. I still don’t eat enough. I get anxious about how little I eat. I am crushing for a woman, my 22 year-old au pare, and she still won’t give me the time of day.

Thing is, I realised these problems are universal struggles. Moreover, I hadn’t even formalized any New Year’s Resolutions for I find the whole deal superficial. So here I am, blogging up the start of the year, with more circumstance than my grandmother wacked off on sleeping pills doddering her way to bed.

Another idea for 2018: I need to talk more. More about my feelings. More. Why are we so hell-bent on destroying the modern man’s ego? I guess I’ve stopped growing in height and pubic hair, and redoubled in adolescent insecurity. I encourage you, reader, talk too. I’ll give it a shot, but I don’t want to get shot down all by myself.

On that token, I’ll let you be. Look out for my poems, daily writings, and artworks. Laugh and enjoy the silence of not being laughed at.

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