I’ve been meaning to start a blog for years.
I don’t think I’m an exciting person, and I don’t think I live an exceptionally exciting life. I see things, hear things; like most other people, I judge silently and am glad my thoughts are mine and mine alone. That said, I’m pretty sure everyone has some sort of compelling need to believe that what they think matters. Some more than others — these people start blogs.
“L’appel du vide.” Call of the void. It’s that little voice in your head that screams “jump” when you’re on a roof. The little part of you that never fails to remind you how mortal you are, how fragile your life is. It’s a terrifying reminder that we have control over just how how finite our live are. I’ll end off this section with one of my favourite quotes: “If you think adventure is dangerous, try routine. It’s lethal.”
There’s something about the way words can move mountains that has always fascinated me. The earliest poetry of mine that I have found dates back to Kindergarten. It was a touching piece on friendships and how they never end-ships. I like to pretend my writing skills have gone uphill since then. So. Blog. I’ll write about what I’m thinking about, and hopefully you’ll enjoy it.
If you haven’t noticed already, I have a thing for words. Especially obsolete ones, and lexical gaps. But one of my favourite etymologies is the root of the word sincere. It comes from the Latin, “sin cera,” or “without wax.” In Ancient Rome, sculptors and the likes would carve marble, which was very difficult to work with. They would cover any mistakes up with wax, and dust marble overtop. Thus, any sculpture “sin cera,” or without wax, would be one that was pure, without faults, without deception — or sincere. Those who know me well, know that I sign my letters this way, and that’s how I will here.