an existential crisis
A great writer said to never write with a view in front of you - the only thing you see when you look up should be your thoughts.
I disagree.
I’m sat on top of a hill right now, rather cold, and looking down on my hometown. Well - village, if that. It’s a hill that’s always been here and yet in my 19 years of life I’ve seldom climbed it, mainly because of my extreme hate for cardio, and partly because I rarely have the time. Today however, some weeks into coronavirus lockdown, I’m feeling particularly bored and that perhaps staring dramatically over my hometown whilst listening to Taylor Swift may solve a few of my problems.
I do quite like staring dramatically and scribbling frantically, like I’m some kind of troubled and misunderstood writer. One day, I’d like to do this in Paris- wearing a floaty dress and drinking coffee, naturally. Today though, I’m wearing stained grey jogging bottoms, a “Friends” jumper and some questionable trainers I’ve been in possession of since year 9 PE. I’m also typing all this down in the notes section on my phone, because naturally I forgot my notebook. Not quite the mysterious, effortless look I wanted. Although some may argue the stained jumper and frazzled hair are rather effortless.
It’s not a perfect day, the sky isn’t clear of clouds. But it’ll do. The sun is coming and going shyly, glancing out from behind white wisps before disappearing, as if the pressure of casting the valley in a beautiful glow is too much to handle.
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I’m up here because I appear to be having what I’ve decided to christen as a quarter life crisis. I rent a house in Cardiff, and I’m supposed to live there. Right now I don’t, but global pandemic aside, I rarely do anyway. I stay during the week when I work, and spend the whole week looking forward to coming home. I come home most weekends. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be - my parents often remind me, albeit gently. I’m supposed to be going out on weekends, spending time with friends. I don’t have many friends in Cardiff.
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It worries me that they think I should consider Cardiff home- how could I ever when I have Hay on Wye and the surrounding valley waiting patiently for me?
The view from my quarter-life crisis panic station
There’s not a lot going on to be honest. Looking down at my village, I can’t see more than 50 houses. This place seems to be having a permanent afternoon nap. An ambulance follows the snakes and curves of a country road gently, bumbling along. Even that doesn't appear to be in a rush. At 19, I’m fully aware I should be wanting more. Shouldn’t I be yearning for shops and clubs and cafes and… fun? It’s weird, sometimes I do. I always thought I’d be a city girl. Always. New York enthrals me, London excites me. Edinburgh makes my heart sing. So why can’t I shake this place?
It doesn’t help that I seem to permanently be having some sort of identity crisis. I know you’re dying for me to explain, so let me entertain you: I’m currently doing an apprenticeship with the BBC in Cardiff, after turning down an offer to study English in Edinburgh. However, long term I have no idea what I want to do- all I know is that I want people to care about what I have to say. Desperately. I could be a radio presenter, a newsreader, a writer. As long as people want to listen to me, I’ll do it. I decided very early on in life that I want to spend mine making other people happy - for me, there is no better feeling than making someone else's day. But how can I turn that into an impressive career that coincidentally pays enough for me to fund my wanderlust and future designer handbag addiction?
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So yes, the future stresses me out. As far as I’m concerned (and I am very concerned, basically always) life is far too short to waste it trying to figure out what I'm going to do with it. I need every little detail planned out to ensure maximum efficiency. I even schedule time to cry into my daily to-do lists. Obviously I know I won’t find the meaning of life through ensuring maximum efficiency - but I won’t lie, I'm optimistic it will help.
My (rather humble excuse of a) village
So dear reader, if you’ve made it to here then clearly my spectacular writing skills have got you hooked - or you have nothing better to do. I’ll kindly give you the benefit of the doubt though. What you just read was nothing but a teenager’s identity crisis. No more important than the identity crisis every other 19-year-old is currently going through, or will. No life changing realisation came out of it. No plot twist, either. A pretty sorry excuse for a piece of writing then. But like I said earlier (and I trust you remember this as you had better be hanging on every word I say) I want people to care about what I have to say. I want them to look forward to hearing from me, whether it be on the radio, or in person, or in writing. And you’re probably asking yourself if that really stems from my need to do good, or is it really just a desperate need for validation, and a slight streak of vanity? Who knows? Not me!
My English teacher used to get so frustrated at me, claiming every piece of work I handed in to her had no “point” - and I’ll admit that often they did not. But why does writing have to have a point behind it? Does life have a point behind it? Probably not.
Why pay for therapy when you can just emit your problems to the world through (what you hope is) a beautifully written monologue?
Until next time,
Eva