You become the story you tell yourself

So be careful

“This isn’t going to work.”

The day began like that. It had been a good day followed by a bad day. So naturally, I’d forgotten all about the good stuff and focused on the bad.

I ruminated.

Fixated.

My mind spiralled into all the reasons it wouldn’t work, I wasn’t good enough, that things were destined to fail. That I should pack up and leave.

I love thinking.

To ponder, understand, unpick, unravel, unearth. There’s a great beauty in exploring the depths of your own mind. It leads you to unbelievable places. To the emotions you’ve not felt in a while. To ideas you never thought you’d uncover.

I’ve always been a thinker.

On long walks I’d ask deep questions. Sometimes of myself. Sometimes of others. I tell myself stories. Some that are true. Some that I have no doubt have suspicious origins, of which I do not know or care to know where.

The story of what I thought life was

I think on some level I’ve always thought life would be this big meaningful thing. The older I get, the more I realise that life is this ordinary beauty. With no start or finish, not really — only well, you know.

In between all that we have our moments of joy, blissful moments that were really built up years prior. We have our excitement. And then, well…