Seven-year cycles are a thing. In the year
2000, I wanted to write about music, so I
contacted the local paper, told them I was
the best – they didn’t believe me but the fire
was lit. I chased them down and got them to submit.
Or perhaps I should say, they allowed me to submit…
I couldn’t believe my luck. My hard work. And luck.
In 2007, on holiday for a family wedding, I start
planning out the first nervous few posts for a daily blog.
It’s a hard slog from there, as when I return those posts
are all planted within two weeks and I have to keep on
fencing every day for just over a decade; never sure what
to write, all the music I loved reduced to mere homework.
So many fights I never planned to start, nor take part in.
By 2014 I can see the writing on the wall, or rather
I can see the writing about to be removed from a
particular wall; I limp along for another couple of years
but I’m already writing about how everything I experience
is just grist for the mill. But there I am, doing it still. I know
that the better half of what I’ve said has just been to fulfil
an obligation. But it’s also signed off on my alienation.
Late 2021 and I realise I’m done. Time to move aside. It had
been heading that way for a long time of course. Now it’s so
obvious even I can see it. I feel it. I breathe it. I need to be
free from it. So I just stop. It was there all along. That option.
The train kept a rollin’ but only because I kept jumpin’ on.
Keeping off the tracks is something I have to do. But also
something I have to be. (Hey, I’ll probably blog the new me).