As I read, the response might be as expected - an overwhelming sadness and not-yet-decided-on resignation to the fact that I'm now an adult, an adult who's moving away from her parents who used to crush her leg and read her bedtime stories. The act of me re-reading these books seemed to change the atmosphere in the room, and not by the asbestos particles that were probably seeping into my lungs every time I turned a page, but by pure nostalgia that was bleeding through every line, every obvious rhyme, every cracked spine. (I didn't intend for that to rhyme itself but hey, I'm a natural, what can I say? #sarcasm)
Obviously, by osmosis, when my mum saw me weeping over the books she began to weep over me weeping over the books and then the dog saw us and started to cry too and it was just a horrible, horrible mess of 'please ring me's and 'please don't forget to eat properly's and 'please don't forget about me's. Like, you're my mother, you gave birth to me, I still panic if I lose you in ASDA, I'm not going to wake up one morning and be like 'who's this strange woman who I've got thirty-three missed calls and twenty-seven un-opened texts from?'
Well, this went off on a weird tangent. One paragraph of me actually talking about what I should've been talking about and the rest of it utter rubbish. This will soon turn into a pattern of becoming everything I write about.At least I can add this to my list of three goals I've been asked to write about by my tutor at uni, which brings it up to grand total of two out of three.
#goals
1.) To get used to the change in essay structure and freedom within my writing, and also within my course and university as a whole.
2.) Don't ramble and go off on weird tangents within my writing - it doesn't help with the already-weird vibes you give off.
3.) IOU a third goal.
