And here we go...

Writing is allegedly cathartic

To give an unbiased, honest version of events is these days nigh on impossible. I'm sure I read somewhere that when recounting a story everyone lies. Our memories, fed by Hollywood Blockbusters and playground one-up-manship, naturally embellish what's really the dull truth to give our stories colour and resonance. So we're all great big whopping liars.

I'm hoping this blog can be a space where I can spill my heart, giving free reign to every single emotion, thought and episode that makes my life so hard to deal with. Just another nameless blog, in a sea of self-promotion and self-pity. I should fit right in.

I don't care that there'll be no reader, in fact I think I probably laud that fact. So why do i put it on a public domain? Because I want to think that somewhere out there somebody will read this and by finding this will find my soul, because after a lot of searching I'm still none the wiser.

So let's start with a few facts, the mise en scene if you will of my life. I'm a girl, not a woman or a lady, in her mid to late twenties, living in London with her boyfriend of four years. I "work" and more often don't work in the media, feeling everyday like a fraud whose days are numbered.

I'm possibly and probably suffering from a bout of depression but being stubborn and proud am too scared to visit a doctor and be diagnosed as abnormal.

I'm ambitious without being realistic and am a victim of my own idealism, disgustingly romantic and of the belief that something will become of my life and I deserve to escape the doldrum that everyone else is willing to settle for. I'm insatiably optimistic but that's now starting to fade.

I want answers but I don't know the questions.