The sun is an illusive entity in Albion, but today we are blessed with clear skies and some gentle warmth – which is a big deal here. The thawing of the winter months often brings with it a mixture of positive feelings: namely motivation and gregariousness. Even a self-confessed misanthrope such as myself can appreciate a nice chilled glass of wine in the open air.
This year seems different. This year the irradiated fields and longer days are impressing upon me a sense of urgency. I am now painfully away of the ticking clock, the relentless march of age. I should point out that I do not feel old, nor do I concern myself with the maturing of the body, no, it is the social aspects of ageing that preoccupy me of late.
The world expects us to progress, personally and professionally, along a well trodden path with any major deviations seen as risky, or even peculiar. Biology aside – I don’t intend on reproducing until my early forties – what tangible elements obstruct us from changing lifestyle, career, location at any time of life?
I am now realising that, reflexively, I succumb to this pressure myself, albeit to a lesser extent than many. The reality is, the odds are now against me achieving my life’s goals.
Attempting to forge a career as a writer, journalist or creative requires a great deal of introspection, as well as external influences and inspiration. This year may well be one of lists, to prioritise ambitions and to identify the most efficacious ways of processing influences and developing a craft.
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