#oneaday, Day 207: Up ‘n’ Down

I think I might be bipolar.

Granted, my only justification for that is a cursory glance at Wikipedia and the observation that yesterday I was a depressive mess barely able to function, while today I’ve been not exactly what I’d call “enthusiastic”, but have at least got some things done and felt relatively “normal”.

There are, of course, extenuating circumstances to the way I’m feeling so it may not be a chronic condition after all, and naturally I wouldn’t want to publicly declare myself a manic-depressive without consulting an actually-qualified professional. Rather than, you know, a website where you can look up the details of a Frijj milkshake immediately after consulting it for psychiatric symptoms. (Consulting the site. Not the milkshake.)

The mind’s a funny thing. I often wonder if my mind and imagination work the same way as those of other people. I have a very visual imagination. I can picture things very clearly. I can imagine situations actually happening and unfolding. I can empathise with people because I can picture myself in their situation. And if there’s something I’m anxious or nervous about, I generally make it worse for myself by “replaying” the potential situation in my head before it’s even happened, and when it might not even happen at all.

This kind of mind is great for creativity, of course. It’s great for writing, too. When I want to write a cool description of something, all I have to do is imagine the thing in question being right there in front of me. In my mind, I can look at it from all angles, pick it up, touch it, smell it, taste it or punch it in the face. Where appropriate, of course. And then I just have to summon up the words to describe those sensations. It’s an interesting skill to have, and it’s one thing about myself that I wouldn’t want to change for anything, as inconvenient as it can be at times.

Inconvenient? Yes. As I said, this kind of imagination sometimes leads to anticipating things before they happen. I’m not talking having “visions” or premonitions or anything. I’m talking picturing what “might” happen, and “planning” the event in my head. Inevitably, things never quite go the way I expect them to. Sometimes this is a good thing. Sometimes this is a bad thing. It goes to show the pointlessness of the whole exercise. But still I do it.

Sometimes I do it in reverse. I picture a situation that has already happened and I “plan” what might happen should I suddenly and magically get the ability to reverse time and do something again. Or indeed, to load a quicksave. (I swear, being able to “quicksave” would be the best superpower ever.) This is an even more pointless exercise. There’s no way I can change the fact that, when unexpectedly confronted with Don Woods, father of the adventure game, I didn’t really know what to say and ended up babbling like a schoolgirl confronted with Justin Bieber. Hindsight is a wonderful thing. At least it would be if you could do anything about it.

Oh well.

#oneaday, Day 131: Garden of Dreams

He sat beneath the tree, his trusty little sketchbook open on his knees, the slightly-battered box of pencils by his side. Chewing the end of his pencil absently, he flipped back through the pages, remembering the thoughts which had come to him each time he had put pencil to paper. There was the expression of his anger, the page black with scribblings and scrawlings, words of pain obscured by a frantic, swirling miasma of darkness. And there was the calming scene, the one where he had taken his time and had lapsed almost into a trance, staring at the greenery around him, every leaf its own miniscule effort that no-one would ever see. And there were others, each possessing a memory, some of which had gone through his mind immediately after one another. Calm, to anger, to meditative, to philosophical. Some days there was just one picture. Others there were four.

But today there was a blank page, and he wasn’t sure what to draw. He had put the point of the pencil against the page several times, but wasn’t sure what he should do. Should he be honest and express himself fully? No-one need ever know; it was his sketchbook after all, and people only ever saw the things he chose to share. But with honesty came responsibility; dealing with the truth; the possibility of shattered dreams.

He shrugged. His dreams had already been shattered several times already, and he was still here. He put his pencil to the paper and began to draw. He wasn’t a great artist, which was another reason he didn’t share many of his sketches. But the things he drew held personal meaning to him. Every picture a memory, an emotion, words left unsaid.

He closed his eyes and pictured his subject. He wasn’t sure he could do it justice, but he wanted to try. He decided to keep his eyes closed for the duration of the drawing, and just let his pencil move naturally. It glided across the paper with a gentle scratching sound – the only accompaniment to the soft breeze which blew across the garden and caressed the skin of his face – and traced around the contours of that which occupied his mind so completely right now.

It had been a curious feeling. Hoping against hope, so used to crushed desires and wretched despair, and then the sudden ray of light. His hope had been fulfilled, at least to some extent. He didn’t know what that tiny fulfilled wish would come to, or indeed if anything would come of it. But for now, the fact that for once in his life, a tiny, seemingly-insignificant little wish had been granted – that was enough for him. He needed nothing more, and he knew that while his trials were far from over, he was walking the path he had chosen. Whether it was the correct path or not remained to be seen. But he was walking it, wherever it might lead.

He began to pencil in the details where he thought they should be, eyes still closed, working using only his mind’s eye. He knew that the resultant picture would be nonsensical, but in allowing his mind to have free reign on what he produced, he felt free.

He stopped. That was enough. He had done all he could.

He opened his eyes. The tangled mess of scrawl on the paper bore little resemblance to that of which he was thinking. But it was enough. He knew what it meant, and what it was, was honest.

#oneaday, Day 96: Another Day, Another #oneaday

Well, since everyone else seems to be doing it (well, by “everyone” I mean Chris Schilling and Rhiarti) I guess it’s time for a post on the subject of #oneaday itself.

Numbers have been dwindling since the project began. Right now we’re down to just a few people. As Chris says on his post today (or more accurately, yesterday, since – oh look, it’s 2AM) it would probably be generous to say that there are ten writers still thanklessly scribbling away for no discernible reward save a sense of self-satisfaction. And, of course, the happy smiley comments that people post when they see something they particularly like.

When I first started blogging a few years back – I had several attempts prior to settling on this particular little corner of the web – I felt that it was a fairly “solitary” experience. I mean, sure, you have the comments section. But not everyone bothers to comment. And that’s fine in this instance – as I’ve said several times, I’m writing for me here. Thinking out loud, if you will. If you, the person reading this right now, happen to enjoy it, so much the better.

What #oneaday has taught me, though, is that blogging doesn’t have to be that solitary experience. It can very much be a social experience where writers can group together, take ideas from one another and discuss the things that they have written about. As the #oneaday collective has become smaller and smaller, it’s become closer and closer. When the project first started, I didn’t have time to read through the fairly daunting list of daily-updated blogs. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed by continually updated content, particularly when it comes from a large number of sources. But now, I feel that I can easily get through the people who are still working hard on their blogs. I can read their posts, digest the content, post a comment, check back for comments later in case I sparked a discussion, and then do the same with the next site. And the next one. And the next one.

Since we’ve started talking to each other more, there’s a lot more in the way of discussion and reposting on Twitter, too, potentially opening our respective audiences up to more people. Again, as I say, it’s not about huge audience figures – but it’s always nice for any writer to know that what they’re posting is being read and appreciated by others. So if you’re reading this, thanks. You’re pretty great, you know that?

The biggest thing it’s done for all of us, though, is give us the opportunity to express ourselves regularly, along with teaching us all some pretty rigorous self-discipline. Churning out a post a day which has to be nothing more than a paragraph if we can’t be bothered may not sound like much, but it’s a big deal for any writer to be able to conscientiously get on with doing what they do every single day. So a public congratulations to those who are still beavering away like me, and a welcoming hand to those who are contemplating joining us. Mr Kokoris, I’m looking at you.

And no, it’s not compulsory for you to write posts at 2AM. I’ve just sort of fallen into the habit. Whoops.

On that note, I am yawning my head off. Good night!