She flew.
Though not on wings.
Crouched astride a gleaming machine, she flew with gasoline.
Flew between lumbering bubbles of steel. Just so many birdcages. And one hawk soaring among them.
They meandered to destinations unknown. While she flew, destination undetermined. Destination unimportant.
Photo by KEVIN CLYDE BERBANO on Unsplash She flew, and she screamed.
She howled into the night. A fierce sound of primal anguish. Impaled with emotion. A beast of passion and turmoil, barely contained.
I haven’t found my voice. I have, however, found more of it.
I don’t often look back at my previous work. Partly because when I do all I see is flaws[1] but also because my views have changed so much. For a variety of reasons[4], my world has opened up in the past couple years.
It’s more than that, though. My eyes haven’t just opened, so has my mouth. I’ve found a voice I never knew I had.
Many people love the summer. It’s heat and relaxation.
I’m not one of them. The heat melts my brain thoroughly. I find myself unable to think, let alone do. Which is all well and good on holiday, but otherwise a pain. And dear god the hayfever from all of these goddamn plants. Cluttering up the place looking pretty and producing lifegiving oxygen…how dare they!
Some people love winter. Crisp cold, and crisper snow.
“I opt out of all of the bullshit I never signed up for to begin with.”
Get up.
Go to work.
Go home.
Sleep.
Repeat.
Such a life is one of survival, not living. Maybe some real living is squeezed in around the edges.
A snatch of meaningful human interaction on the occasional evening — here.
A weekend away — there.
A long holiday — once in a while.
Semifictional pain He warned her. Warned her that he was dangerous. She laughed it off. How could someone so perfect be dangerous? She didn’t realise her foolishness. Of course.
Ignored the rumbling of her gut. Her gut knew the bitter truth in his words. Chewed on that kernel, shouted a warning. Kept shouting, but was overruled. She was blinkered by lust. Of course.
She should have known better. Should have seen what was in front of her.
Those are the words of someone who shattered my trust. And yet I still repeat those words like a mantra.
Despite all she took from me, she gave me those words. Those words of power. Perhaps they were even worth all the pain. Perhaps. Because they are so fundamentally true. The only answer, when life sucks, is keep going.
“If you’re going through hell, keep going.” — Winston Churchill
Churchill said it first, of course.
Even the above statement is not original. (No, really…you’ll see…)
All writers are influenced by what we read, whether conscious or unconscious. For example, my writing style takes several cues from Terry Pratchett, sometimes very deliberately.1 And there are no doubt countless unconscious influences feeding into my life in ways I don’t even realise.
So in that sense I am in no way original. But in that same sense, it doesn’t matter.
“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies…The man who never reads lives only one.” ― George R.R. Martin, A Dance with Dragons
Why settle for just one life. Why settle for just one world. When you can live lives, explore worlds that you might not otherwise ever have imagined.
If I can make just one person pick up a book who might not otherwise have done so, then all this writing — all this *Scribbling — *was not for naught.
So many times have I been asked ‘how do you spell that?’ I reflexively suffix ‘My name is Arona’ with ‘spelt A..R…’.
Having an unusual name is both a blessing and a curse. It singles you out from the crowd.
To be singled out from the crowd is itself a double edged sword. Throughout my school years I was subject to torment with rhyming nicknames. Each group seemed to delight in discovering a particular schoolyard slang that rhymes nicely with Arona.
Its seems to me that bikers share more than just fun, speed and recklessness.
That is to say, to ride a motorcycle is one thing, to *be a biker *is quite another.
Biking is more than just a mode of transport in ways I haven’t yet quite put my finger on. It’s a way of life to a degree.
Whether or not a particular life outlook gives you a desire to ride, or whether it is more that being a rider leads to a changed life outlook is nuts and bolts.
Multitasking is overrated.
“The word priority… was singular…the very first or prior thing…. Only in the 1900s did we pluralize the term… Illogically, we reasoned that by changing the word we could bend reality. Somehow we would now be able to have multiple “first” things.” — McKeown, Essentialism
Either: do several things simultaneously to an average standard, or do a single thing with excellence.
I’d choose excellence every time.1
The thing is — that choice is yours to make.