it has been a year.

Somehow, remarkably I have emerged unscathed from twenty fifteen.

I hate writing like this.  At least I think I do. Reminiscing on the last year, complete with whimsy photographs and inspiring paragraphs about how we’ve all changed and grown. Maybe there’s something beautiful in looking back and picking out all the good bits. It’s probably healthy, actually, but I’ve never been one to take the healthy route, so I’m not going to do it like that. Here is a selection of failures. Hopefully you’ll feel better about yourself on reading.

If I was to look at twenty fifteen from a purely superficial view point it doesn’t really look like the best year ever™. Yes, I went to university. I majored in theatre and film, which despite my best efforts, has failed to make me famous and happy and has rather afforded me many ‘oh that’s nice sweetie’s when talked about. I should add that I have now all but withdrawn from this degree. A stunning finish to the year. My grades were simply okay. Superficially. I still live at home in my reasonably sized bedroom with my reasonably sized collection of books surrounded by my unreasonably sized family. (five brothers, two sisters, two cats, a dog) Stifling. My tolerable job that payed me enough to sometimes feel rich but other times feel poor is no longer my job thanks to impulsive Britts deciding to quit before securing permanent future employment. As for content creation, well, it took place, but to a lower standard than I would like and far less frequently. I am also still waiting on Zoella-like stardom. (I love the girl, please do not take this as judgement)

I set my self a whole glorious list of things-wot-I-want-to achieve in 2015. Most of them didn’t happen, albeit much of this would be due to an extraordinary collection of existential crises throughout the year. (‘but you’re only 19’ you say ‘yes I know’ I respond ‘please shut up’) Superficially, last year can be written up as an absolute, complete and utter failure. A real arse-over-tea-kettle.

And what about the things I did actually attempt and not entirely fail? Where is my fulfilment from another whole year of creating without stopping and loosing the plot? My brownie points for another year closed off in a journal that I didn’t forget about? My endless happiness and glorious legs from going walking almost every day? (Now before you go thinking that I have my life together, please note much walking occurred due to my need to attend university and work. I still can’t drive. I’m 19)  Who knows. Who gives? It seems that once you fill one gaping hole in your soul another appears out of nowhere.

Wow. That got depressing fast. (My speciality)

I don’t know. All I can say, is that it wasn’t all bad. I’m just tired of all happy-joyous-life guru-perfection. My heart aches for the fourteen year old version of myself, confused as to why everyones else’s pastel blogged life was working out so well and I was still a highschooler with bad skin and no money. No ones life is pastel.

But it doesn’t have to be all grey, either. Last year was a lot of heartache and newly graduated confusion. I cried a lot more than I thought I would when I was 18 and should have had my life together. But there were still sunsets and new songs to listen to (TØP I’m talking about you). I have friends that I couldn’t have even dreamed of (Em, Ellery, Kate, Crisis Crew, Design at 8am Friday) and opportunities that I couldn’t have imagined. I feel the smallest bit less lost.

So here’s to a new year and new tears and sleepless nights and fighting and hurt. Here’s to sitting alone with a bottle of cheap Moscato on December 31 and realising you’re just a little less lost and little less alone than last year.

All my love.

B.