I write all the time. It's a disease. When I was in Europe, I had to buy myself a little notebook because I missed jotting things down and turning my silly thoughts into silly words. I have so many exercise books in my room (mostly robbed from the Languages staff room) filled with endless description and unsuccessful metaphor. This is why I will never be able to do anything else with my life.
I was looking at graduate jobs earlier. Just for a laugh. A lot of them, although not requiring a particular degree stated that 'money driven' candidates were required. Funny then that I would rather eat a leper than consider myself to fall into this category. I am always poor. I gave up my part time job when I started being given a pension around a year ago. Had I continued to sell my soul to a supermarket, I could have been quite well off. Had I not spent so much time being self sufficient this summer, I could have saved up quite a sum. Had I any sort of entrepreneurial skills, I'm sure I would never have to scrape every ten pence piece in my purse together just to buy an ice cream from the village shop.
The thing is, it's all bullshit, isn't it? To become 'money driven' is to sell your soul to consumerism. I think we all do this to a point, but surely it's best to earn just enough to scrape by in life, going on as many holidays as possible and working as little as we can get away with? If we spend all our time at the office, we spend all our time away from our friends and loved ones. If my short life has taught me anything, it's to spend as much time as possible with the people who matter most, and I don't care how lame that sounds.
Perhaps my bohemian attitudes reflect my age and there are more experienced people reading this right now marvelling at my naivety, but that's okay, because this is my idealist manifesto, and things never turn out quite like the business model. I guess my point is that we are all so rich in comparison with the rest of the world, and that should be enough. Those who strive for millions have very little sense of self. Money can't buy me love, etc.
Goodnight.
P.S. the picture is a letter from Virginia Woolf. Just because she was a writer. And I like her handwriting...
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