I have to travel about 90 minutes to the office with public transport, if there are no delays. It’s often at least two hours before I actually get there. 

It’s a big chunky car, black. Forgive me for not knowing the brand. It looks like one of the range rovers. I bet it’s pretty expensive. I couldn’t see who was sitting in the driver’s seat, but from my window I saw an old man. He reminded me of someone I knew a couple years ago.

There’s not a lot of months that people seem to unanimously hate. Some see themselves as a summer girly, others love the autumn and then there are those who live for the winter. But no matter how much you love wind, snow and cold weather, it seems that every winter person loathes January. 

Christmas has come and gone again this year. I love the whole shebang. The traditions, the family stuff, the food. Coming together with family, playing boardgames and eating at big tables.

When we were young, it was a very common question. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I always used to say I wanted to be “happy”. It was the only thing I knew for certain I wanted.

It’s bush-city around here.

Today it’s my birthday. I’m not doing an elaborate celebration. Coffee with my grandparents and afternoon tea with my mom. And a sneaky little dinner with my partner. I don’t know where we’re going yet.

I’d love to be a witch when I grow up. The supernatural realm of wicca has always spoken to me. To know plants, spells and live in tune with nature. Unfortunately, I’m already quite grown and have no witchy knowledge whatsoever.

About 3 years ago I got together with my boyfriend. He has a daughter from a previous relationship. I knew the responsibility I would carry if I’d get into a relationship with him beforehand and mentally prepared myself. At least I thought I did.

Spoiler: it hasn’t worked yet.

I love being on substack. It’s amazing to see so many people write about themselves and their lives.

I haven’t been writing a whole lot the last couple of weeks. I temporarily lost my motivation, my reason to write. 

What if I don’t feel called to a profession or an occupation? Right now I work 32 hours a week, not even fulltime. And I already have too little time for my interests and aspirations. It’s only been two years since I’ve officially entered the workforce, but I’m already questioning my existence as an adult in this society. 

I used to think I hated routines. They never worked for me. In my living-very-healthy-phase when I still lived with my mom and had no real responsibilities I made a morning routine that I rigorously kept to. Everyday I was exhausted before the day even began.

I used to feel so sad thinking about the state of the world. People chasing more and more money, never being satisfied. Every good initiative slowly turned into a superficial business. Where profit always has to continually grow each year for it to be considered ‘successful’.

I’m in Norwich for the weekend for a gig. Not my gig. An artist named L.A. Salami. I love his music. He is a poet first, as I understand it. And he turns his poems into songs. Beautiful lyricism. 

I recently saw a sketch of two American people working in a supermarket. They had to sell a new brand of salsa and their (white) manager told them to put on an accent. They refused, of course, and tried to sell it by simply asking people to try a sample. After a couple hours, and no interested people, they caved and put on that accent.

Sometimes it feels like I’m living two lives. One during the week, Monday through Thursday. I go to work, do all kinds of organising and planning to live as productively as possible. Every hour is accounted for. 

An entirely different life starts on Fridays.