it’s been a long time since i’ve written anything here. i’m still alive, by the way, in case that wasn’t obvious. and even though there aren’t all that many of you who read along, i thought about the few that do, and i wondered if you missed me.
i remember when i started this blog, in a haze of mania. i remember thinking i had finally out-witted myself: if rosie bogs could blog, then couldn’t rosie blogs?
but then i realised that i wanted to keep my identity kinda private, so the pun would have been lost on almost everyone.
i never thought i would ever find anything even remotely resembling happiness. i never thought i would survive 2020 – and i know a lot of people probably said that nonchalantly, as if it were no biggie, but to me, it was literal. i was unsure if i would survive 2020.
yet, here i am living despite it all. and it’s 2021, and i think, maybe, just maybe, things have stopped falling apart, and have instead started to fall into place.
there’s this girl i like.
she’s gorgeous. i asked her to be my girlfriend.
there’s this degree i finished.
it was tough, but i did it! i am now the proud owner of a double degree in science and arts, and in about a month’s time i will embark on writing my thesis.
there’s this dream i have.
in it, i’m a writer. i get paid to write poetry, maybe i even have a forthcoming collection, and the name rosie bee has the same effect on sydney stages that andi stewart or blythe baird or ren alessandra or arielle cottingham does.
and i don’t know how to be happy. i really don’t. i don’t know the meaning of the word.
but it’s been 63 days since i last severed skin from skin, since i last tweezed away stitches from the edges of a wound to reopen jagged pain in some vague effort to feel alive again, even though it’s all a front – everyone who knows me best knows that i’ve been dead inside a long time coming.
and i don’t know how to let my sadness recede. how do i accept the ebb and flow of my identity? i’m no ocean. i’m emotions.
this was never meant to be a poem.