Alright. I’m in Tallinn right now. Have not had a chance to settle in just yet. It is strange and stranger still to hear people speak Estonian all around me. That weird, secret language that I had back in the UK is somehow commonplace here.
I’ve spent most of the summer on an island and enjoyed the solitude. The pathless woods that Byron spoke so highly about are definitely buried deep into my soul, but… It’s nice to meet new people. It’s nice to ask someone out. But it becomes strange when you start to really think about it. “Spend time with me. We’re all gonna die, do it.”
The short film is ready. I’m finalizing the poster and then it will be sent off to film festivals. I’m rewriting the play I wrote earlier this year to something closer to my heart. I’m writing poems again. Poems are the base; the steady beat of the heart. They are there, waiting. Ready to bounce on you. Ready to say: “No, man. This is how you feel. A crush? Nah, more complicated than that, you’re 24, don’t even worry about it. Just don’t go to sleep tonight, okay?”
What else? A year ago I realized that I know a bunch of talented people, so I’m recording a podcast where I talk to them. I feel good about it. Feels right.
I’m busy. As much as I can be. Busy gives a stillness to your mind. Grounds you and makes the unnecessary fade away. Busy is like a voice that cuts through the synapses, through the jazz-high. Busy gives you visions of workday afternoons. Drinks nectar with you, masquerades with you, does anything to get you going.
There is a night around me. The far lights of Estonia go and glitter along many highways. Somewhere they end. Past dingy bars and under strange, blue lights the moon can sometimes throw. Somewhere they end. Those far lights of Eesti, full of Estonians; their blue eyes and never ending songs. This is what Estonia is; the feel of an early morning. Dawn, hope; all that.