On being in love with oneself.

Hello blog, you darling. It's been a while

So it's pretty late and my head effing hurts and I'm kind of sleep deprived and I've had one of those long-but-short days that seem kind of timeless because it's summer and doesn't get dark. Really I probably shouldn't be writing this, headache-y, sleep deprived blogs are never a wise move, but I just had some musings.

There's this girl I follower on tumblr who's super cute and really lovely and also just seems like a great person. She's got really good opinions on everything, but that's all beside the point. She's got this great attitude, where she's kind of in love with herself but in a good way. She calls herself cute, because she is and she knows it and it's actually so great. So I've been thinking, maybe I should just be in love with myself. I'm not all that attractive or anything, but I think she kind of tells herself that she is and I'd like to try that. I don't like finding myself unattractive, but it seems that some girls feel obliged to. It's like we're expected to complain about our  appearance and not like it and I feel like some girls only do it because they feel like they should. Personally, I do it because I genuinely don't like how I look but it annoys me that that is so okay. Girls -and boys too, of course, but I think the attitude is more prevalent in girls- complain about how they look and everyone just accepts it as normal and doesn't really say much about it. I just don't think that's okay.

I suppose the whole not-liking-how-I-look-thing is sort of a social norm and when people call themselves attractive it's deemed as vain and self-centred and sometimes it probably is, but other times it's just being able to appreciate yourself and that's honestly fucking fantastic. I like to put effort into how I look, my hair and makeup and clothes and if I'm having a good day, I like to make silly/cute faces in the mirror at myself, so yeah, I think I've got the capacity to be a little in love with myself. I don't want to be a part of this barrage of people lamenting their unattractiveness, I want to treat myself like a little bit of a princess.

In other news, I'm thinking of altering this blog a little bit, but there'll be more word on that later.

Forever yours, darlings,
Cíara
xox

Sarah Kay, Spoken Word, being a dreamer.

This is long, but I guarantee you, you'll want to watch it all the way through.
This made me feel. I saw it a few weeks ago and started learning off the first poem she performs and then I watched this again just now and I felt like words that I didn't know yet were bubbling up inside me. I love this. I've always wanted to be a writer, I've thought about journalism because it's a logical career choice, I'd love to write a novel but I never have a plot, I've applied -and hopefully been placed- in KYT's Young Playwrights Programme even though I haven't the slightest clue what I'll write a play about. I'm school journalist, though I've yet to produce a single article. I did NaNoWriMo, I won the Write-A-Book competition when I was about ten or eleven, I've written poems and stories and essays, I got an A in English. I write a blog. I have no career, but does this make me a writer? Or does it just make me, well, me?
I got interested in film production not too long ago and for college I'm torn between that and journalism. I have the vaguest, fuzziest thoughts of the future, in which I'm creative and happy and doing a job that I love, regardless the money, but yet in my vague thoughts I always have money for books and Starbucks and haircuts and a pretty apartment in a constantly changing location- because I refuse to seperate my thoughts and plans from my dreams.
And maybe that's not logical and not mature and grown up, and even though it might be a hindrance, I don't ever want to change that. That is me. 
I loved being in school plays and I joined public speaking in school this year (which I should be practicing now but this is more important to me)  so I do have a bit of performance in me. And watching that video for the second time over, I thought- maybe I can do this. Maybe I should do this. Maybe, one day in my vague future, I'll stand in my pretty but-not-quite-sure-how-it's-paid-for apartment and spill out beautiful words of my own. Maybe I'll vent frustrations from college and critical theory and music history into something heartfelt and honest. Maybe one day I will succeed in inspiring one person.
I love to write and despite my own self-depreciation and criticism, evidence and some opinions would show that I'm at least an adequate writer-and maybe, my words don't just belong on paper. Maybe my words beg to spoken.

So, I had my thought- that maybe I can do this- and then my dad came home and I went out to the hall to say hi- and then, because I was bursting to overflow with inspiration and idea, I said.
"I think I've changed my career plan."
"Oh really?" he replied. Sarcasm. He didn't care. I'm always changing plans and spouting ideas, like a child, I suppose.
"Yeah." I said, and I was looking at my left foot shuffling on the rug as I said; "I want to be a spoken word poet."
This was greeted with derision. There's loads of money in that, I was told, being rained upon by sarcasm-and cynicism.
"I don't care about money." I said, defiant and indignant but let down.
"You will when you don;t have any." came the reply. And, as is my wont, I drew myself up and said,
"Well then I will say my poems on a street corner with a hat on the ground in front of me." And I painted that image in my head, right down the grey trilby hat on the cobbles by my scuff-soled feet. I was taller in this image and I'm gonna take that as a metaphor.

I know my dad didn't mean to crush me or tear me down- he's just a bit cynical, perhaps and doesn't quite get that I am still a kid and still a dreamer. I'm not practical. I'm a teenager and full of sixteen year old wisdom but that's okay, because that's how it's supposed to be. See, that line sounded silly, didn't it? And what I said to my dad sounded silly to him. But even though that line sounded very silly, it doesn't make it any less true and so, perhaps the same can be said for what I said to my dad.

Maybe I can do this. Or maybe I'll change my mind. Or maybe I'll just keep it as a side thing. Or maybe-
no.
I can do this. The maybe- is maybe I will.

Love, now and always,
Cíara.