Already I am making plans for next year. Get fitter, stronger, healthier and brighter than ever before. I need to consume less sugar and run harder and longer. Make my heart beat even faster. Being marooned in a bitter cold village over Christmas makes you look forward. Travelling backwards is a melancholy street.
I’m already thinking how I can improve my East London flat. I have a new flatmate arriving in January and I want to live somewhere effervescent and colourful. Nobody visits me because I tend to socialise outside of my triple shared abode, but I want to make it perfect regardless. A glorious new mattress needs to be delivered, small book shelves ordered and freshly chilled wines stacked nicely in the fridge. Make my place look as cheerful as it can possibly be.
We live a visual age and I regret not taking more photographs. Not being in enough photographs. I wish I looked more handsome underneath a flashing bulb. I think my life would be infinitely happier if that was the case. For reasons unknown but to nature, I prefer to hide behind words and look the other way. I want everything to be perfect.
I need to learn when to omit unnecessary words and write more than I did last year. Be more open and honest. There is one love story I have always wanted to write, but I shy away every time. I romanticise far too much and decay with indecision, but I read and watch many plays.
I just hope it won’t all be for nothing.
