save as draft

i’m not going to write you an e-mail.

there are things we tell ourselves in order to consider that they may be believed, or adhered to, or filed away under “n” for new year’s delusion.

we all strive. don’t we?

i hope so.

some for perfection, others for easy sleep. the kind that comes and stays. easily.

perhaps we drive to be driven, and are flawed to be floored. take an imperfect body. or an imperfect body of water.

take a name misspelled.

i had intended to tell you about an article i read yesterday morning in the financial times about choice. that we are given too many. as a result we are forever searching and eternally questioning.

restless. not choosing. obsessed with opportunity.

destined to forever be foraging in the undergrowth of personal development at the expense of commitment to any one thing at any one time. so ultimately, at the expense of living, we don’t... choose. i.e. ironically, experience and existing are as much or more about choice and choosing, as not choosing and not having the choice to choose.

but it feels less relevant now, so i won’t.

and then i thought to tell you that sometimes when i am typing my name i write emilt instead of emily and sometimes i even write e-mail. stoopid, but funneh.

or maybe that i just got all excited because a stationery order came through that i ordered this morn and i quickly unwrapped the box and realised that i had only ordered fax cartridges and a highlighter.

nothing can prepare you for something you are not prepared for.

i really love that.

but that's a whole other short story...