I was told I was sensitive to my environment and should be a writer.

Will I ever stop opening my notes app? Sunday's registration:

I had chocolate for breakfast. In bed. It wasn’t served on a silver platter or anything. 

My mom left her gifted praline chocolates on her bed side table and asked me if I wanted them. I obviously didn’t say no. I popped one in my mouth, then two, then three. Doom scrolled on Instagram then TikTok, and back. An hour later, I thought it’d be a good idea to read. 

The Beach by Alex Garland, a book I’ve been struggling to finish. It’s slow paced and the ‘tension’ and thrill isn’t getting to me so far. Richard, the protagonist is scoping out the scene for the uninvited island snooping explorers who are looking for a hidden paradise, meanwhile the rest of the camp at the so said paradise has food poisoning. Prior to this moment, I stopped reading from fear of feeling severely anxious incase something detrimental happened to one of the characters- none of who are my favorites but I did develop some attachments. Page 279 and everyone is still alive for now. The Beach “cult classic of Paradise found- and lost”. 

Yesterday I asked my aunt and mum if they ever see a reoccurring number. Silence in the car. I asked again supposing they didn’t really hear me… Instead of answering my question, I was told I was sensitive to my environment and should be a writer. I sighed and looked out the car window. It was raining, pouring but the neon red and green stop lights added a cyberpunk neo-futuristic ambiance, which affirmed their claims of me being sensible- id say, to my environment. I easily drift off into my own little world and imagine various long formed realities stemming from a 2 second occurrence. 

“You’re sensitive to the world around you Axelle, what do you mean by reoccurring numbers?”

I replied, “it’s just a yes or no sort of answer”. Alas they both said “no”, and went on to talk about something else. 

My reoccurring number is… actually I don’t want to share. But to answer my own question, I do. I saw it on a number plate of a bus zooming past us. 

Taking my self out of my own thoughts, my aunt and mother were actually having a really interesting conversation, I decided to tune back in.

My mother kept a journal growing up. She said she still has it, and I am yearning to read it. She feels she can be melancholic like me, and thought she’d be a good writer too, she said. I was further intrigued and made more effort to be present in the conversation. I was shocked she was similar to me growing up, but she is my mother!!! How could I assume a personality apart from hers? She is my best friend but 24 years later there are pieces of her personality I’m still not familiar with... Reading her journal will unravel this for me. 

My aunt isn’t interested in journaling. She doesn’t find it cathartic to my understanding. She’d prefer sharing her feelings and events with the real people in her life. I can appreciate that too. Journaling isn’t for everyone. However I believe everyone should have an outlet where they can release whatever it is that is circulating their brain, their being… writing wasn’t it for me for some time, but now it is. 

Bisous,

Axelle Marie Sika