As we all know, when I came back from T in the Park a couple of weeks ago, I was suffering serious post festival blues. Add to that boy troubles (casually threw that in didn’t I?), and you’ve a recipe for night after night spent on the sofa with nothing but netflix and ice cream for company.
Not to feed into the lonely girl stereotype, but these stereotypes exist for a reason.
Times like that happen. You get miserable and you loose focus, and you forget what really matters. You forget what life is really about.
For me life has never been about a boy. It isn’t about waiting around for friends to come to you and it isn’t about feeling sorry for yourself.
For me life is about free coach trips to Liverpool to see giant puppets.
It’s about knowing that if you call them, they will be there.
It’s about sweet potatoes and olive bread.
It’s about rereading the script I wrote and feeling so ecstatically proud of myself.
It’s about fringe festivals and performing.
It’s about late night Chinese with new friends.
It’s about joining the library.
It’s about 60’s fashion and beehives.
It’s about cooking.
It’s about that rehearsal space and this virtual one.
It’s about sitting on a train and imagining yourself in a Taylor Swift video.
It’s about going for a run and finally conquering that hill.
It’s about realising that as far as 2014 goes, you’re already winning.
It’s about calling your family and crying with laughter.
It’s about liking bad pop music and cool indie bands, equally.
It’s about earl grey tea.
It’s about making it count.
It’s about becoming the person you want to be.
I don’t let the blues keep me for long, sometimes I force myself out of them too quickly and other times, I know to just accept that some nights you need to huff and puff and generally be woe is me. As long as I remember in a couple of days what life is really about, and when I do remember I have a good laugh at my previous state, get real, and get on with it.
Love life & remember what it is really all about x
Ps. I’m putting off blogging about the boy troubles for fear that he reads this and thinks that it is about him. Which obviously it kind of is, but in the grander scheme of things, it really isn’t! Does that make sense?