I confess to speaking to a Londoner on the phone one random afternoon and I find it immensely satisfying to hear their enunciation of the word “coordinator” and the cheeky inflections when they bid their adieu. How did this happen?
Well, I’ve been on the lookout for some prospective métier since my return from Paradise Island. The journey has been mostly quiet on the employers’ end whilst I toil upon the hardships of writing cover letters. I mean, I love letters. I love receiving them from my soul sister in Denmark, and I adore the trips to the post office to purchase overpriced stamps. There is a strange feeling of triumph when you do something far from idleness.
And I do await their response the coming weeks since most of their job posts do not end till halfway through next month. Fingers a-crossed!
Curiously, the past couple of weeks have been more of self-reflection and introspection of my journey so far. If you must know, University life is fast approaching. But alas, I am a member of the faculty of students no more. Does it bother me? Perhaps when O-week comes around even though I only ever attended two of the four invitations. There’s free “booze” but isn’t that always?
My best friend is juggling a great internship at a renowned company. She follows food and adores supervising those who make the food. And 2 of the 7 days, she becomes this magnificent, blooming leader of both the young, the middle-aged, and the younger. She has a penchant for greatness and I truly do miss her. It’s been an ice age or two since I cherished my bosom friend.
Returning to my self-reflection, however, I came upon a conglomerate who will teach you and guide you the ways to creatively tell a story. From the conception of an idea, to the creation of both the worlds and characters, I feel deeply, wholeheartedly inspired to write my own.
And I’m not talking about toys with feelings or monsters who scare children for electricity. I’m talking about this girl I know, this twenty year-old who rode a viking ship across the border of two countries. This one who travelled to Montréal and stayed at a shared cabin with three women from all parts of the globe, one from her own home. When she rummaged through spicy New Mexico and scaled the Capitol Hill with her fingertips.
Someone who wants to tell her own story. Just her own. Because she’s failed a number of times trying to write someone else’s story, trying to concoct up a world of her own imaginings. She hadn’t realised then, the power of her own evocation.
There is a limitless potential for the one so curious. And not if or a perhaps but when. And she will begin.
She begins right now.