(channeling my inner Yeats for this one; with regards to this blog post, a terrible beauty will be born)
Tomorrow will be the six month anniversary of this infamous post, in which I offhandedly mentioned two of my friends hooking up, and has since become the epitome of my relentlessly invasive blogging of all my friends’ lives without their permission, like a kind of old News of the World journalist whose articles only focus on the same ten people, but who can actually write tasteful things. Incidentally, tomorrow will also be the six month anniversary of said hooked-up friends, who have managed to cobble a rather successful relationship together for that length of time, despite both being friends with the romantic black hole that is me.
And this much-tweeted occasion made me think of something: that it’s been six months since I danced to Miley Cyrus wearing a Bad Religion shirt. And it’s been seven months since I wrote 60,000 words of short stories in twelve days over Christmas. And it’s been a depressing ten months since I asked an athlete wearing a UCL handball hoodie at a chance karate social, that introduced me to both the sport, and the hoodie-wearing individual who has since been quite an excellent friend.
The reason that I’m only going back to the start of my time at university in these realisations (I could marvel over the fact that it’s been eleven and a half years since I was diagnosed with diabetes, but that’s pushing this back a bit far) is because I consider that part of my life to be not just recent, but current. I am a university student, who’s not living in his own flat, who’s scraping a 2.1, who’s juggling a thousand societies all at once. And while I feel like this is all the present, it’s the past; first-year is over, and no amount of ignoring my increasingly adult responsibilities will change that. There’s a disconnect between the way I see myself, and the actualities of my life, which has reared its ugly, but inevitable, head much faster than I expected; just as primary school, secondary school and Sixth Form were multi-yeared blocks of relative consistency, my life has changed from one year to the next.
As I delve into the even more complex and foreign worlds of employment and relationships, I’m likely to compartmentalise my life into even smaller sections; my friends are celebrating six months of dating, but that’s a unit of time I’ve not had any need to consider in such a singular, small, way. Six months is the planning time for a novel, or revision time for a play, and will feed into larger things like the writing of that novel, or the taking of that play’s exam; six months can’t be a thing in and of itself.
Except that it is. My life is, and will be, changing in much shorter periods of time than it was before, and I’ll have to adapt. This is why uni life has been so different to any other stage in my life; I’ve made better friends, and written more things, but these have just been extensions of things I’ve been doing, if you think about it; but I’m approaching and dividing my life into different sections. I’ve only lived 38 half-years, but now I’m having to think in such small measures of time.
Also, on an unrelated note, happy anniversary to my two friends; I didn’t get you anything, because it’s your relationship, and so each of your responsibilities to suck up to each other’s narcissistic needs in an attempt to alleviate the fundamentally lonesome nature of human existence with cuddling, sex and shared opinions on the current state of British politics.