It’s been one hell of a year. There are so many stories we could tell. This list hints at one human’s story of the year, but it won't tell the quadzillionth of it.
Thank you, as ever. Well not always, sometimes I'm not in the mood to read your things, but I'm glad I did today. Reading about your things reminds me that some of my things are not objectively as poo as the story I tell about them when I'm feeling rubbish. I went for a really long walk a couple of days ago, and got a bit lost in a field. Nearly fell in a stream. It was lovely. Also I had nearly a whole week before Christmas of horrid throat and head pain, that turned out to be referred pain from the scalene muscles in my neck, and I massaged it better myself. MYSELF. WITH MY THUMBS. Also I passed my third wine exam, played my first professional concert, donated a shit ton of clothes to charity and discovered some of the suburbs of Johannesburg on a bicycle. I've been journaling quite a lot, especially when I can't sleep, or have had too many inputs (from the phone). And then, having read Atomic Habits, I've finally got back into daily meditation, limited screen time, and I've even making my bed. I'm not feeling all that satisfied, and I suspect there's going to be some project I'll have to throw myself into shortly, because I've met myself. But maybe that's a good thing.
From that perspective, it's not been bad. But as I accidentally go a bit blind, sitting at my kitchen table watching the sun disappear behind the Mountain of the Moon (that's the name of the one in Sintra with a silly 19th century palace on top) for the last time this year I realise, for the millionth time, that everything external only ever really reflects my internal state.
There. That's my response to your thing. I love you, please keep being David Charles, I assume that's not too much of an ask.
Thank you, as ever. Well not always, sometimes I'm not in the mood to read your things, but I'm glad I did today. Reading about your things reminds me that some of my things are not objectively as poo as the story I tell about them when I'm feeling rubbish. I went for a really long walk a couple of days ago, and got a bit lost in a field. Nearly fell in a stream. It was lovely. Also I had nearly a whole week before Christmas of horrid throat and head pain, that turned out to be referred pain from the scalene muscles in my neck, and I massaged it better myself. MYSELF. WITH MY THUMBS. Also I passed my third wine exam, played my first professional concert, donated a shit ton of clothes to charity and discovered some of the suburbs of Johannesburg on a bicycle. I've been journaling quite a lot, especially when I can't sleep, or have had too many inputs (from the phone). And then, having read Atomic Habits, I've finally got back into daily meditation, limited screen time, and I've even making my bed. I'm not feeling all that satisfied, and I suspect there's going to be some project I'll have to throw myself into shortly, because I've met myself. But maybe that's a good thing.
From that perspective, it's not been bad. But as I accidentally go a bit blind, sitting at my kitchen table watching the sun disappear behind the Mountain of the Moon (that's the name of the one in Sintra with a silly 19th century palace on top) for the last time this year I realise, for the millionth time, that everything external only ever really reflects my internal state.
There. That's my response to your thing. I love you, please keep being David Charles, I assume that's not too much of an ask.
Andrew