2021

Het is wederom schaamtelijk lang geleden dat ik hier iets schreef, dus bij deze geef ik nog eens een teken van leven. 

Laat ik starten met zeggen dat ik ben vergeten hoe ik een blog moet bijhouden. Normaal gezien schrijf ik op z'n minst een paar keer per jaar één of andere vage alinea waarin ik de verschrikkelijke banaliteit van het tiener-zijn ophemel en een Taylor Swift-fangirl uithang.  Ondertussen zijn dergelijke alineas al meer dan een jaar geleden. Gezien de hinderlijke omstandigheden waarin de wereld zich momenteel bevindt en mijn complete gebrek aan zelfdiscipline, vraag ik uw vergiffenis voor mijn ongewtijfeld onopgemerkt gebleven stilte op deze blog. 

Ondertussen is het juni juli augustus en heb ik dit jaar amper een woord op papier gezet, laat staan op mijn blog. Iedere poging om iets onder woorden te brengen loopt mis, en ik verval onvermijdelijk in vage clichés: hoe tiener-zijn ervoor zorgt dat je je favoriete liedjes nog veel leuker vindt, hoe ik het afgelopen jaar vaak alleen op de trein zat en het gevoel had dat ik twee keer zo snel ouder werd. Schrijven loopt stroef omdat denken stroef loopt en ik denk dat denken stroef loopt omdat mijn hoofd momenteel nog rommeliger is dan mijn kamer (voor de duidelijkheid: dat wil veel zeggen). En hoewel een lifetime aan ervaring als piekeraar en mijn eerste semester als filosofiestudente voor het nodige denkmateriaal hebben gezorgd, lukt het me maar niet om al mijn gedachten netjes te ordenen. Het geesteskind van mijn innerlijke monoloog is wat u nu jammer genoeg aan het lezen bent. Bereid u voor op heel veel chaos. Wederom mijn oprechte excuses. 

...

Ik ging wijsbegeerte studeren omdat ik zoveel mogelijk wilde weten. Na mijn eerste week op de universiteit bekroop me de akelige paradox van de filosofiestudent: hoe meer je weet, hoe minder. Hoe meer je leert, hoe meer je weet over wat net niét te weten valt. Socrates wist dat hij niets wist en ook ik weet het allemaal niet meer zo goed, vrees ik. Mijn eerste jaar op de universiteit was er dan ook een van methodische twijfel, en dan vooral aan mijzelf. Ik zie Descartes al glunderen van trots.

Ergens in het eerste semester uitte ik mijn twijfels tegenover een vriendin. We dronken hete koffie op een koud bankje in de stad en probeerden tevergeefs vijf maanden aan lockdown-gejammer in één koffiedate te proppen. 

"Ik voel me plots zo zelfbewust. En dat bedoel ik niet op een goede manier." 

Dat klopte. Ik bedoelde het op een "ik kijk in de spiegel tot ik enkel nog oren en een neus en ogen zie  of nee wacht BEN IK DIT WEL"-manier. 

"Je hebt door dat anderen jou ook percipiëren." zei ze toen. Ze had gelijk. 

Ik betrap mezelf erop dat ik naar mijn eigen instagramprofiel kijk alsof ik een vreemde ben. Hoe kijken mensen naar mij? En misschien nog belangrijker, maar ook banaler: hoe wil ik bekeken worden? Enerzijds heb ik dit jaar meer dan anders de ruimte gekregen om dat uit te zoeken, anderzijds geloof ik niet dat ik dat alleen kan, zonder andere mensen om me heen. Volgens sommigen wordt niemand zichzelf alleen; wie je bent krijgt pas vorm rond anderen. En word je steeds meer jezelf naarmate je ouder wordt, of ligt wie je bent net niet op voorhand vast? Misschien "wordt je jezelf in het maken", zoals iemand onlangs suggereerde terwijl we wachtten op de trein en ik op een stoeprand zat en een bijzonder verwarrend betoog hield over bovenstaande kwestie (ik denk het liefst na al zittend op een stoeprand, heb ik gemerkt. Ik telefoneer ook graag terwijl ik op de stoeprand vertoef. Dat laatste kunnen mijn buren helaas beamen.). Ik vind het allemaal best ingewikkeld. Toch zeggen we "wees gewoon jezelf" met hetzelfde gemak waarmee we bemoedigende schouderklopjes uitdelen. Misschien is dat wel mijn favoriete leugen, wees gewoon jezelf. Alsof je ooit niet jezelf kan zijn.

In De Wetten schrijft Connie Palmen "ik word zo moe van een karakter te krijgen" en ik ben het met haar eens. Ik betrapte mezelf erop dat ik me het afgelopen jaar te vaak afvroeg of ik vreemd overkom, of ik te rechtuit ben, te terughoudend, te gesloten, te vrijpostig, te zelfzeker, te beduusd, te hard, te saai. Verlegen vergeten veranderd verbeterd. Vooral dat laatste boezemt mij doodsangsten in. Saai zijn. Een paar maanden geleden besloot ik om, as one does, de vraag aan mijn moeder te stellen. We zaten in de woonkamer en ik legde de sjaal die ik aan het breien was even aan de kant.

"Mama, ben ik saai?"

"Wat zeg jij nu?"

"Ik heb het gevoel dat ik niets geks doe. Snap je wat ik bedoel?"

"Goh. Ik weet het niet. Ik vind dat je best interessante dingen te zeggen hebt."

"Maar jij bent mijn moeder." 

"Wat bedoel je dan met 'iets geks'?"

"Ik weet het niet. Roekeloos zijn? Op hoge gebouwen gaan klimmen? De eerste beste vlucht naar een ver land boeken? Infiltreren in de dierentuin? Solliciteren voor astronaut? Een cult starten?"

"Zou je die dingen graag willen doen?"

"Niet echt. Ik ben graag bezig met wat ik nu doe, eigenlijk."

"Nou. Dan ben je niet saai he, onnozelaar."

Ergens had ze een punt. Niets is saai zolang je het zelf interessant vindt. Maar waarom blijf ik dan zo bang? Waar ben ik dan precies bang voor? 

Het is nu heel makkelijk om de "wat is saaiheid uberhaupt?"-kaart te trekken en de filosoof uit te hangen, maar ik kijk er niet bepaald naar uit om iemand te worden die aan iedereen vertelt hoe je moet beginnen aan pensioensparen. Begrijp je wat ik bedoel? Misschien is dat onredelijk van mij, misschien denk ik daar Later Als Ik Groot Ben anders over en voel ik me helemaal niet saai wanneer ik mijn belastingaangifte invul aan de keukentafel terwijl ik wacht tot Dagelijkse Kost begint (kip met gestoomde broccoli en venkelpuree). Wat ik wil zeggen is dat saai-zijn relatief is en dat je zelfs de verpersoonlijking van gekookte aardappelen kan zijn, zonder dat je daarom per se saai bent. Een voorbeeld is The Office: zelfs slappe koffie op kantoor en een business in papierwaren zijn niet per se saai. Ik wil dus niet oordelen over wat saaiheid is, my log does not judge. Maar een beetje jong idealisme kan geen kwaad, toch? Zoals ik even geleden tegen een ietwat onverschillige opticien zei toen hij vroeg welke jobs ik kon doen met een diploma wijsbegeerte: "ik ben jong, ik vind dat ik nog groot mag dromen". (Dat mag je trouwens altijd, ongeacht je leeftijd.) De opticien was helaas niet overtuigd. Ik bleef verslagen achter, met een gekrenkt ego en nieuwe lenzen. 

Het is dus niet per se saaiheid waar ik bang voor ben, maar  eerder het onvermogen om betekenis te kunnen geven aan mijn leven, en laat filosofie nu net een erg dubbelzinnige positie innemen. Filosofie zoekt en geeft betekenis, maar de val van het nihilisme lonkt: "niets doet ertoe, wat doe ik hier, waarom zweeft deze bol (de aarde) in een immense ruimte en bevind ik me in dit vleselijke lichaam dat sensaties ervaart als jeuk en kietels en liefdesverdriet, dit is raar, waarom zei ik "vleselijk", wat een raar woord, waarom kijkt mijn spiegelbeeld zo raar naar mij". 

In The Secret History van Donna Tartt zegt hoofdpersonage Richard Papen zelfs het volgende: "Any action, in the fullness of time, sinks to nothingness." Met andere woorden: "RUSTIG BLIJVEN BABY! We leven in een ruimte-tijdconstructie en die is best groot. Uiteindelijk maakt het echt niet uit dat je per ongeluk de WC-deur opentrok toen je in een café naar toilet wilde gaan en er een meisje op bleek te zitten en jullie allebei heel hard schrokken en je de rest van de avond bloosde van schaamte." Ofzoiets. Ik geef maar een hypothetisch voorbeeld. Ahem. Toch is dat eeuwige gerelativeer me iets te luguber en houd ik mezelf liever voor dat er iets bestaat als Betekenis. Ergens in juli raakte ik 's nachts verwikkeld in een heftige discussie waarin ik wanhopig probeerde te beargumenteren dat er iets bestond als ~LiEfDe~ en dat liefde, net zoals betekenis in het algemeen, niet enkel in onze hoofden bestaat. Blijkbaar ben ik dus toch een romanticus! Dat voelt op dit moment heel paradoxaal. Bij deze een handkusje naar de vergetelheid.

Over het woord "vleselijk" gesproken, Haley Nahman alias Essaykoningin alias persoonlijk rolmodel had het in een recente podcast over Instagram. Daarin zette ze de virtuele wereld tegenover de "meat world" of "vleselijke wereld" (een beschrijving die iets te veel tot mijn bizarre verbeelding spreekt, maar dat terzijde). Volgens haar is de grote valkuil van Instagram dat de app het echte leven probeert te evenaren, terwijl dit nooit echt zal kunnen. Instagram blijft dan ook teleurstellend. Een voorbeeld: als je op instagram je best niet doet, word je door niemand gezien. In de "meat world" daarentegen, moet je je best niet doen om gezien te worden. Daarom is de angst voor saaiheid volgens mij vooral een angst die in de virtuele wereld gegrond is, want daar zie je de zaken niet die elk mens interessant maken: de zenuwtrekjes rond iemands mond en handen die aan een sleutelbos prutsen, de ongemakkelijke stiltes in een gesprek, de zorgvuldig vermeden blikken op een eerste afspraakje of het nerveus op en neer tikken van iemands voet op de metro. (Misschien vind ik daarom de Instagramaccounts @subwayhands en @peoplestanding zo leuk.). 

Maar bon! We hebben het probleem van de saaiheid samen opgelost! De oplossing is namelijk: niemand is saai, tenzij op Instagram! Want het zijn die rare stomme dingen in het echte vleselijke leven die letterlijk iedereen interessant maken! Joepie! 

Blij dat we het hierover eens zijn. Volgend onderwerp.

[Ik overdrijf uiteraard een beetje. Het zou hypocriet zijn van me om zoveel kritiek te hebben op Instagram wanneer ik er zelf bijna dagelijks op zit. Ik schrijf dit intermezzo na een gesprek met één van mijn beste vriendinnen en zij heeft mijn beeld iets minder zwart-wit gemaakt. Leve de nuance! Instagram heeft veel mooie dingen te bieden: de @sadpeaks account bijvoorbeeld, of reels genaamd "Outfits I would wear if Nick Cave performed at Woodstock", of foto's van de vriendin in kwestie die puppies vasthoudt en er heel erg gelukkig uitziet.]

Over Instagram gesproken, ik heb onlangs mijn account voor een week of twee gedeactiveerd en ik moet toegeven dat het een goede zet was. Je geeft een stukje van jezelf af, maar krijgt er tegelijkertijd ook veel voor terug. Volgens Nahman verschaft Instagram ons de illusie van een identiteit, een "dit is wie ik ben", wat vervolgens meer sTrEsS veroorzaakt. Instagram verwijderen kan dan losjes vertaald worden naar iets als "dit is niet mijn realiteit" en dat vind ik mooi. Je kan je identiteit vormgeven door net een deel ervan af te geven. 

O , en over stress gesproken. Wacht, nee. Laat maar, ik heb niets meer te zeggen. Of misschien heb ik te veel te zeggen.

Om een lang verhaal nog langer te maken: Ik kan eindeloos mijn hoofd breken over wie ik denk te zijn, maar als jij mij niet zo ziet, dan lijkt al dat denken verloren moeite. Als jij mij saai vindt, dan ben ik misschien wel gewoon saai, pensioensparen of niet. En ik heb daar geen invloed op. Ik kan geen boek schrijven en zeggen: dit is wie ik ben. Dit is hoe jij mij moet bekijken. Ik kan jou geen paar ogen geven. Gelukkig maar.

...

Groetjes, en tot snel

Cato

An update of sorts

There's this weird cut in our lives where we went from senseless panicking over the Big Everything, to simply withdrawing from Everything entirely. From chaos to nothingness. From cancelled trips to closed schools to social distancing to lockdowns. From regular supermarket trips to an apocalyptic hell of what once was the toilet paper aisle. Things are weird, and the mundane feels fundamentally different.

As we anxiously wait for what's next, being confronted with illness and worrisome news through neverending messages, Instagram stories and Twitter updates, the only thing left to do is to find a space within the chaos. I believe a space within the chaos is where books, films, conversations, text messages, notes, songs and thoughts come together. This blogpost is an example of the latter.  And since I am unable to connect with you physically, the virtual universe will have to suffice. Here's a crappy compilation of thoughts/trinkets/writings/memories/connotations/online toenail clippings. Enjoy!

...

I've been writing almost every day. Most days, it feels like I'm talking complete bullshit, slipping into the clichés of adolescence more and more. Every teenager has compared love to lightning and excitement to night skies. In that sense, love and loneliness have fallen victim to their own pervasiveness. We feel differently yet can't help but speak alike. Originality in writing seems not only unachievable, but a myth on its own. 

How do I write without sounding pretentious? Who do I write about? More importantly: what do I write about? Panic, strangers, love? What is worth observing? What isn't? 

I'm scared of observing only the obvious, the visible. I'm scared of thinking only in memories, realities and moments where great minds seem to grasp the bigger picture: to think in stories, scenes, ideas. But maybe the distinction between the two - between a lifetime and a story -  is less drastic. I spent the past two weeks watching Twin Peaks for the very first time, and if there's anything David Lynch taught me, it's that reality and dreams are not so different after all, not unlike art and documentation. Special Agent Dale Cooper carries a recorder wherever he goes, documenting what he sees and hears in his search for the truth behind Laura Palmer's death. In that sense, the tape recorder is Cooper's very own secret diary (though Cooper seems to prefer 'Diane' over 'Dear Diary'), so full of doubts and self-reflection, dreams and realities. However, these attempts of preserving the present are more than a form of bland documentation, as Cooper expresses himself as eloquently as a poet would. Twin Peaks is where dreams turn into realities, documents into art. My idols seem to turn documentation into art with such ease, and I'm envious of them. All I want is to belong to this neverending string of artists, who feel so deeply and profoundly they can't help but speak in stories.

I am yet to write great stories. Perhaps I never will.

What makes a great story? How is a story different from an experience, a person, a lifetime? Is writing about my own life valid in any way? And if I wrote fiction instead, wouldn't the story be infused with my own experiences? How does one write a compelling story?

Given the extra free time on my hands, I've taken up the challenge of writing fiction. While digging through piles of memories for drops of inspiration I could use for stories, I have come to the realization that I am constantly taking up a narrative position in my own life. It's like observing the present with retrospect glasses on. These glasses distort my eyesight like a kaleidoscope. Memories with an air of loveliness that discolors over time, leaving only the glittering hue of golden years. Incidentally, one of my favourite ever Bowie line in 'Oh! You Pretty Things' is a humorous "see their faces in golden rays". Such a coincidence! This is where the universe and I perfectly align.

(This melodic slice of wisdom, which is my new favourite synonym for 'song lyric', is followed by Bowie singing "the earth is a bitch, we've finished our news". This is a more accurate reflection of my teenage angst and cynism, but that's beside the point.)

I see my friends' faces in golden rays long after being in their company. My memories of them already fading into sun-spilled nostalgia as I ride my bike home. I tend to forget how magical it feels to live in the moment because I'm already thinking in the past tense. It's a universal feeling: the melancholy of wishing this moment, this dance, this night would last forever. And by being painfully aware of every ending, we are left with experiences that are perenially nostalgic.

Tavi Gevinson talks about this in her Inifinity Diaries:

"It’s not just in memory that we change who people are or see only what we wish. If you’re that used to doing it in writing, you’ll start to gain a reflex for commodifying in real-time interactions. This talent doesn’t start with malice; just imagination. It’s honed through years of living among fiction."

...

In conclusion: I am having a very hard time writing fiction. Meanwhile, I am left with an abundance of real-life experiences I don't know what to do with. I take note of every detail worth observing and fill diary after diary. This is where I get stuck. It's too personal to share, but telling people "I love to write" without actually ever showing any of my writing feels stupid. Ever heard of imposter syndrome? Yeah, same, #mood. I've tried making it less personal, removing myself from the story and taking on an indifferent perspective, but that's just genuinely boring to read. 

...

Apart from writing, I've been failing miserably at not falling into a deep pit of existentialism (for proof: read the above). Perhaps it's my sun in Pisces or the lack of opportunities for self-expression aka social settings where I can unapologetically word-vomit these ideas and feel connected to the world, but it's been hard. I believe at least 75% of my semi-interesting thoughts stem from conversations with friends. Because of this, I can't even think properly anymore. Has anyone else been feeling stuck in their own heads? Thinking in backward circles of worn-out brain farts? I watched this House M.D. episode once where House said that nothing you think of yourself is inherently new, as it's already present in your subconscious. This is a possible explanation for my mental sluggishness. These feelings of inactivity can be brought back to writing as well since sluggishness equals low energy levels which equals writing barely one sentence a day! IT'S ALL ABOUT WRITING BABY! Everywhere I look I see letters and sentences and I can't make anything out of this chaos. 

That's usually where my blog comes in to make writing less daunting. On the other hand, I've grown out of blogging (yes I know I say this every time, give me a break). Even now, this space feels more like a record of my childlike obsessions and not at all like an accurate representation of me and my writing (NARCISSTIC BRAT ALERT: I only write about myself on here because writing about everyone else is even harder and more personal, and I could never do the people I love justice through a fucking blogpost. Also, writing about others makes me miss going to school and being around people in general. Just a quick disclaimer! I promise I'm not as self-conceited as I sound in this blogpost). Maybe this is where I end my blog? I don't know? 

Anyway, this is what's been on my mind these past few weeks. But before I go back to bingewatching Twin Peaks, infinite snacks, taking naps, daily walks around the neighbourhood and texting my friends I miss them 2348392 times a day, I wanted to say thank you! For reading this virtual junk drawer aka blog, but mostly for being generally awesome.

Yours truly,

Cato

2019

This post has been floating around the depths of my Google Drive for weeks, but I never got around publishing it earlier as I'm an insecure little shit when it comes to writing. What you're reading right now is an earnest attempt at giving you a glimpse of my 2019. It's unusual for me to be hesitant about publishing certain posts, but my tendency to document everything and throw it onto this blog has certainly become more muted-down. The constant analyzing through writing my life down into diaries dulls the story and the vividness of its characters. To ruin each and every authentic experience by writing it down. To mull over our own feelings and think in circles until we can't even look at these projections of ourselves anymore. I'm worried that publishing these stories would turn it all into some faint ghost-story of what it was.

Taking into consideration that we can't win and that real-life experiences will always take the upper hand, there is no harm in trying to convey what means the most to us, right? If losing is inevitable, why not lose in the most dramatic way possible, while doing what we love?

Maybe this post is nothing more than an attempt to alleviate my constant restlessness. Maybe I just can't keep shit to myself. Maybe screaming into the void (aka the world wide web) will make me feel in control of my thoughts instead of the other way around. Regardless, writing is fun, and I've missed doing it on this blog! How I miss having these little chats with my readers (to all three of you, I see and appreciate you)! How I love writing down my embarrassing existential angst as you look at your computer screens in utter confusion!

Speaking of shitty writing, I recently wrote the final entry of my 7th diary. I always conclude a finished diary by writing something on the back cover that either represents how I feel or how I would like to feel. When I found myself writing that final entry, I had a hard time picking out the right words to write. For the first time in a while, what I wanted to feel like was actually how I felt. To distinguish longings from feelings is hard. Perhaps I'm looking for a distinction that doesn't even exist. A jagged skyline in the distance where skyscrapers seem to evaporate into grey skies.

(A fragment from the final entry)

... Another thing I've been trying to wrap my head around: nothing truly lasts forever, even though we feel like it does. It's easy to put that off as corny and put ourselves above such Tumblr-Esque statements, but we play music, write stories and spam our Instagram feeds all in order to make it last. Along the way, these stories end up living a life of their own and are talked about, watched, laughed and cried over by people who never experienced it in the first place. In that sense, nothing lasts forever, but we all feel like it does, and maybe that's what a 'Forever' really is? The big 'Forever' is scary because it implies that our thoughts and feelings are never-ending, meaning that sadness and fear are also a constant in our lives.  

.... 

"What makes you feel in love with the world around you?" 

"Riding my bike and listening to music. When a song comes on mid-conversation and it happens to be my favourite. Being with my friends: watching them paint in their bedroom or discuss the importance of ketchup on fries or share secrets. Singing along to music when I'm in the car with my siblings. Taking walks on Winter days when the sun is shining. I feel in love with the world around me when I love fearlessly and boundlessly." 

....  

"What's your biggest fear?" 

"Do you mean specific fears or big, existential fears?" 

"Up to you to decide" 

"I think I'm most scared of loneliness. I'm afraid that there will always be a little corner of my consciousness where I am essentially alone. The thought of being alone forever is truly fucking scary. Forever, because everything is infinite. That infinity on itself, even. Sometimes I feel like we're all lines parallel from each other and that we never truly intersect. What if I can come infinitely close, but never touch? What if we're truly alone, to mathematical infinity? Forever?" 

After a lot of thinking, I decided upon the following sentence from Jeffrey Eugenides' "Middlesex".

There is nowhere I could go that wouldn't be you.

Looking back at the entries I wrote over the year, there was no better way to end this diary. Writings from a time in my life where each experience was in high resolution and every color was as vibrant as it was artificial. Neon lights and pitch-black nights. An entire year of contrast. A time in which I finally figured out that I was someone to other people and I got to find out who that someone was. Why hold on to only one version of ourselves when there are so many possible projections of our hearts and minds? I can be a sister, a friend, a stranger and a writer simultaneously, and I'm changing identities as we speak (or write, in this case).

You could go as far as saying change isn't necessarily linear. That I will always remain the same person despite having nothing in common with my previous self. That these versions are mere projections of who we are. Is your current self nothing more than the sum of an infinite amount of past selves? Isn't that a Scary and Depressing thought on this Saturday afternoon?

When discussing this with a friend earlier this year he pointed out that "you can never go back to old selves. Change is linear because you will always know more than you did before." Perhaps knowledge is the driving force behind change. Personally, I hope both statements are true and that we have everything and nothing in common with ourselves.

If they were, in fact, both correct, I would always be true to myself, even without trying. No matter how much I change, how much I get hurt, how much I hurt others, how much I love you, how much I write, how much I learn.

I will always be me.

There is no one I could be, nothing I could do, nowhere I could go that wouldn't be you.

January, February, March

Winter is not coming, it is in full swing, and I love it. Putting on 5 layers of clothing every single morning (thermal shirt, wool turtleneck, tight sweater, big sweater, coat) is just one of the few pleasures of the most wonderful time of the year.

While I love Winter more than anything else, I still get the January blues every now and then. However, this year is different. Instead of convincing myself I really am living my best life watching tv shows on the living room couch, I have been putting myself out there. Quite a daunting task! 

It feels like I'm putting myself in one of the most vulnerable positions imaginable and firmly occupying that spot without leaving. It includes crippling insecurities. It feels like you're constantly torn between who you are and who you want to be, and I guess that those versions of yourself are not that far apart after all. 

As I wrote in my diary a few weeks ago, I have been loving. Perhaps not in the traditional, romantic sense of the word, but in a more abstract way. A sense of love that is detached from basic happiness or sadness and prefers to be a feeling of its own. Love for writing, love for my surroundings, love for what I stand for. Whereas January felt like an incoherent sequence of emotions, events and emotional events, it seems to be falling into place this month. 

In the end, I would rather regret feeling too much than feeling too little, so here I am trying to make sense of my feelings to you. I feel like I stopped being as personal as I used to be on this blog somewhere along the way and got lost in trying to make this blog as lighthearted, silly and humble as possible. In my constant fear of coming over as pretentious, part of my authenticity got lost. I found myself constantly asking myself the same question for the past few months: am I doing this because it makes me feel good or because the positive affirmation of others makes me feel good? It's easy to assume that nobody will like what you do, whether that relates to your haircut or passions or anything else you get to decide over. You can't feel disappointed when you didn't expect a positive reaction in the first place. However, holding myself back from sharing my passions has done nothing for me. I got so carried away in trying to be an independent individual that I forgot what I really wanted.  All of this has had an impact on my blog in terms of how I wanted to present myself to the world. Fortunately, the time has come to clear things up and be the most open and authentic version of myself again.

So where do I begin? 

I finished exams, had a great Christmas break, got my wisdom teeth removed and spent a week on my couch in a daze of painkillers, met new people and reconnected with people I already knew, went to parties, threw parties, dyed my hair, went to climate protests,  went to concerts, celebrated my 17th birthday with the people I love most in the world, had major mood swings, developed a caffeine addiction, slept too little, made a lot of late night gifs in photoshop, felt insecure, allowed myself to feel insecure without thinking I'm weak, finished two journals even though my writing is crap, moved into my sister's old room, and had a lot of other experiences that are too meaningful to just loosely mention on this blog. 

So I guess this is it. I'm not sure what to use this platform for anymore and I'm still trying to figure things out. I started this blog to fangirl about clothes, and it quickly turned into a documentation of my teenage years and ongoing concerns, from existential crises to buzz cuts to feeling pressured because of my Instagram. I feel like I've outgrown this blog, but I'm not ready yet to leave this part of me behind. Documenting my life on here has made me more ambitious, more passionate, more determined to do what I love more than anything; writing. In the end, I could've chosen any way to capture my surroundings: film, photography, painting or music. However, writing has stuck and I hope one day I can make it into my career, despite feeling like my writing (and as a result myself) sucks. 

This is not a goodbye, but not a 'welcome back' either. I will see you again once I've figured out what to do with this blog. 

Love,

Cato

A Realistic Winter Flatlay

Dear Readers,

there's something I need to tell you.

*leans in closely and glances around suspiciously, as if I were about to reveal to you the top-secret coordinates of the snowy mountain in which the proof that we're living in a simulation is buried*

"You know those Flat Lay posts I always do? Yeah, well... I never really use that stuff very often. It just looks pretty. "

Am I a horrible person now? Are my seasonal flat lays nothing more than an insignificant example of my ongoing desire to show off my materialistic side? And, most importantly, does this make me a superficial person? 

It takes only a short scrolling through my blogposts to find several examples of these so called flat lays. Each one follows a basic format that revolves around a certain theme (f.e Summer, literature, ...): a bunch of visually appealing objects displayed in an interesting way on some kind of flat surface. My preference goes out to objects like beauty products (extra points for pretty perfume bottles), books, records, shoes, clothes, magazines, jewellery, and often a bunch of cards or photos or random shells from a beach in somewhere in France that you found a long time ago and can't seem to get rid of.

If you take away the stuff I use only for practical reasons, you're left with that weird pile of rather run down, yet eccentric objects. On itself, almost none of these items show of great significance. However, it's about the value I attach to them. A copy of my favorite book (The Secret History by Donna Tartt, if you didn't already know due to my semi-hysteric fangirl outbursts) might not be worth much to the world, nor induce a global revolution. Nonetheless, it is worth much to me, and maybe it even set off a tiny revolution in me, and maybe that's enough for it to be meaningful. 

But doesn't the value I attach to objects come from my mind rather than the object itself? After all, this copy of The Secret History is worth nothing to me without the deep sentimental worth I gave it, and no one can take that away from me. With that idea in mind, I could go on to get rid of these minor, insignificant objects I put in my flat lays all together.

But that's not what I'm here for today.

Today I thought I'd switch things around, do something absolutely CRAZY and do a realistic flatlay post. Because that's just who I am, with my QUIRKY and ABSOLUTELY ORIGINAL and WEIRD ideas.

(Do you ever get tired of your own writing? Reading the above, I do.)

So, without further incoherent nonsense/teen girl whining, behold my Realistic Winter Flatlay featuring only four objects, each one for practical purposes.

CHARGER AND HEADPHONES

My charger has been one of my ultimate Winter essentials this year because my phone keeps dying. I recently went outside, took out my phone a few minutes later and it was literally so cold the battery just died. I should probably get it checked. The headphones are for a) bike rides and b) because I'm an antisocial prick and sometimes the Winter Blues get the best of me. Nothing says 'don't even try and talk to me' more than headphones.

LIGHT BLUE HAT

This thing not only keeps me warm but makes me look like I have a giant head! That's two positives.

SCRUNCHIE

So apparently I have long hair now? When did that happen? It's now long enough to put up into a low bun and since I've had pixie cuts for four years, my hair tie collection is nonexistent. Funnily enough, this scrunchie isn't even mine (I "borrowed" it from a friend) but I've been wearing it constantly to hide my static Winter hair and because I love the feeling of having hair long enough to put into a bun.

That's it. Did I really just write an entire post mocking my own posts?

Love,

Cato

2018

Yet again I find myself writing on here way later than I would have wanted to. The less I post here, the more disconnected I feel from this blog, making me hesitate to be as personal as I would usually be. I will try and change that today.

2018 was a weird year in the way that everything felt fleeting. Having all the feels one second and forgetting about it the next. In many ways, I don't feel like 2018 had a great impact on me. This isn't the year I turned my life around, nor the year I leaped out of my comfort zone very often. However, reminiscing about 2018 leaves me feeling like the person I was in January is only a vague predecessor of who I am now. While "the biggest changes are the ones we don't notice" is the kind of corny quote I would usually roll my eyes and/or pretend to puke at, I must admit that it resonates with me.

(Will I turn into a soccer mom who decorates the house with live, laugh, love quotes now? Well, I'll try not to, but I can't make any promises. Operation soccer mom is cancelled. Someone stop me when I find myself looking for a slow cooker online.)

I haven't been active online this year because it was spent connecting with life outside of the internet (the outernet! hashtag punny!) and spending time with people very close to my heart. I haven't been active because I've come to realize the value I attach to academics. I haven't been active because I don't feel like documenting my life online anymore, and that frightens me because I don't want to be low-key or boring or grown up. Most of all I haven't been active because I simply don't feel like it and prefer to spend my time otherwise, and I guess I need some sort of approval for this because I always find myself making up excuses for not writing on here while I don't even mind myself.

But this isn't a goodbye. I will probably continue updating you on my life on here well into my 40s, especially when I have turned into the 45-year-old soccer mom I'm bound to become.

SO THIS YEAR. 2018. MUCH FUN.

Let's dive into my phone archives and find out how I've been wasting my time this year.

MOMENTS: The past year was not marked by major events nor life-changing shifts. It's just made up of a bunch of incoherent happenings that stuck with me anyway; spending way too much time hanging out at my friends' houses after school, going to London for a school trip, spending a week at the French sea, my 16th birthday and some other little trips and events I didn't mention. 

BOOKS: I didn't read as much as I would've liked this year but I managed to read a moderate amount of books (some of which I absolutely loved, some of which I didn't) including Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides, Mythos by Stephen Fry, His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman, Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami, The Penderwicks At Last by Jeanne Birdsall (don't judge me, this is really nostalgic), the entire Maze Runner trilogy by James Dashner (this was a five day reading marathon of not very high end but addictive literature), The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Simon vs The Homosapien Agenda by Becky Albertalli and Grace: A Memoir by Grace Coddington. I also reread The Secret History approximately 38503 times for good measure.

FILMS: I honestly can't remember every film I watched this year, but I recently watched Beautiful Boy which was heartbreaking and emotional and also beautiful. Some other gems I watched include Good Will Hunting, Dead Poets Society, Isle of Dogs, The Florida Project and Black Swan.

MUSIC: my 2018 playlist consisted of a lot of 80s Autumn Beats, a decent amount of Jorja Smith, some Step Up soundtrack songs, a lot of Tommy Genesis and some random Taylor Swift/Kendrick Lamar/Janet Jackson/Backstreet Boys songs. Sounds like a mishmash, which it definitely is. You would probably all think my taste in music sucks if you'd listen to my playlists.

I guess that's pretty much it! Thank you for sticking out another year with me and keeping up with my bullshit blog posts. I love you all to infinity.

Cato