15 August 2024

There is an exquisite strangeness in returning to this secluded corner of the digital ether, a space as secretive and intimate as the whispered confessions of a lover. Though the vast corridors of the internet echo with the silent absence of others, I find a peculiar comfort in this solitude, where my thoughts might unfurl without restraint, like the delicate petals of some rare, nocturnal bloom. How curious it is that this sanctuary should appear to me once more, a forgotten portal to a world where my musings might find resonance with kindred spirits. It ebbs and flows like the tides, this place, a virtual atelier where I once penned the fervent reflections of my youth. Now, with the weight of years upon my brow, I seek to rekindle that flame, to inscribe anew my thoughts, as one might trace the lines of an old, beloved manuscript, knowing that time will inevitably turn these words to dust.

More than a decade has passed since I last dwelt here, and in that span, life has unfurled in ways both expected and marvellously strange. I find myself, now, in the most curious of predicaments—an adult, though the term feels as ill-fitting as a borrowed coat. Two degrees hang on my wall, relics of academic pursuits that seem, in this light, almost ornamental. They do, however, find subtle expression in the cadence of my daily life, even if their utility is obscured by the banalities of existence.

At present, I reside in a tiny bothy nestled among the wild, untamed beauty of the Scottish Highlands. The bothy, once a humble shelter, has been transformed by the grace of modernity, now pulsing with the gentle hum of electricity, the steady flow of water, and the invisible threads of wifi—a trinity of conveniences for which I am profoundly grateful. Here, in this remote haven, I have embarked upon an artist residency, a sojourn that allows me to wrestle with the raw forces of nature that dominate this landscape, channeling them into my work. The Highlands, with their tempestuous energy, provide the perfect canvas for the evolution of my artistic vision—a vision that seeks to transcend the mere documentation of others' joy and reach into the sublime, the ineffable.

Today was spent in the quiet company of my own thoughts, the task of editing photographs occupying the better part of my hours. The world outside my window was alive with the songs of birds, their melodies a gentle counterpoint to the crackling warmth of an old record player, which spun the hauntingly familiar tunes of Elvis Presley. It was a day that unfolded like the turning of a page in a beloved novel, each moment tinged with a sense of nostalgia, yet brimming with the promise of new beginnings.

Before the Scottish summer sun dipped behind the craggy peaks of the mountains, casting its final golden rays upon the heather-clad hills, I felt an irresistible urge to venture outside. The day had been one of persistent rain, a fine, misty drizzle that had soaked the earth until it became a living sponge beneath my boots. Each step I took was met with the soft resistance of the sodden ground, releasing the rich, heady scent of damp earth and ancient peat into the cool evening air. It was a scent that seemed to rise from the very heart of the land, a perfume distilled by time and nature’s alchemy.

I made my way towards the nearest town, a place that clung to the landscape like a secret whispered between the hills, to procure a few essential items—a task mundane in its nature, yet imbued with a quiet significance in this remote corner of the world. The walk was solitary, the only sounds the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze and the soft, rhythmic patter of water droplets falling from the trees. The path, a narrow ribbon of earth, wound through the wild beauty of the Highlands, where the landscape seemed to breathe with an ancient, untamed vitality.

As I approached the outskirts of the town, I encountered a gentleman whom I had seen on several occasions before, a figure as much a part of the landscape as the gnarled oaks or the brooding mountains. There was a ruggedness about him, a weathered quality that spoke of a life lived in harmony with the harsh, unforgiving terrain. His accent, thick and melodic, rolled off his tongue like the Gaelic verses of old, a stark contrast to my own softer speech. We exchanged pleasantries, our conversation turning, as it so often does in these parts, to the weather—a subject as unpredictable and capricious as the Highlands themselves. His words carried the weight of the land, shaped by the winds and rains that had carved these mountains, and I found a curious comfort in the cadence of his speech, as if in his voice I could hear the very soul of this wild and beautiful place.

Once I returned to the warmth of my humble abode, the gathering dusk casting long shadows upon the walls, I set about the comforting ritual of brewing myself a cup of coffee. Though I was born in these very lands, the years I spent wandering beyond the borders of my homeland seem to have severed my once steadfast allegiance to tea (and my accent). Instead, I found myself irresistibly drawn to the dark allure of coffee, a passion that had blossomed during my first sojourn to Italy, where an old Moka pot, now well-worn and cherished, became a trusted companion. I filled it with real espresso, rich and fragrant, and set it to boil on the stove, the kitchen soon filling with the warm, intoxicating scent that I have come to associate with moments of quiet reflection.

The coffee, once brewed, was tempered with a splash of milk and a spoonful of brown sugar, its sweetness offering a gentle counterpoint to the robust bitterness of the espresso. With cup in hand, I settled into the embrace of my sofa, the night drawing close around me like a familiar, comforting cloak. The late hour held no power over me; caffeine, it seems, is a stimulant that fails to disturb the tranquil waters of my mind. My brother, in his ever-amusing candour, attributes this to a touch of ADHD—a suspicion that, though never confirmed, has a certain poetic resonance. I have never sought a diagnosis, preferring instead to think of it as one of those quirks that lends character to my existence.

As I sipped the rich brew, I reached for an old favourite, The Picture of Dorian Gray by the incomparable Oscar Wilde, whose prose dances through my thoughts like the shadows cast by a flickering flame. Wilde, whose wit and wisdom have long inspired my own meandering attempts at writing, felt like the perfect companion for such a night. There is something about his work—its elegance, its decadence, its piercing insight into the human soul—that resonates deeply with me, as if his words were woven from the very fabric of my own thoughts. And so, with the fire of caffeine warming my veins and Wilde’s exquisite prose to guide me, I allowed myself to drift into the labyrinth of his imagination, where beauty and darkness entwine in a dance as old as time itself.

First Entry

I used to have an account on this website during the tumultuous days of my angsty high school years. While I don't necessarily long for those strange and awkward times, I do cherish the friendships I formed here and the space it provided to create, share, and journal my thoughts. There might be a touch of nostalgia creeping in, but I’m genuinely pleased to have been reminded of this little corner of the internet and to have found my way back to it.

This space feels like a hidden sanctuary, tucked away in the quiet corners of the vast digital landscape. It's as if I've stepped into an old, beloved attic, where the dust dances in the shafts of sunlight and every creak of the floorboards holds a memory. The walls here are lined with the echoes of past conversations, the whispers of shared secrets, and the warmth of friendships that defied distance and time. There’s a comforting anonymity here, like slipping on a well-worn cloak that allows me to blend into the background, yet still be a part of something meaningful. It’s a place where the weight of the everyday melts away, and in its place, a sense of possibility blooms—a place to sprinkle a little magic, dream freely, and let creativity flow like a river undisturbed by the rush of the outside world.

So, here's to writing more journal entries, forging new friendships, and embarking on countless adventures. Slàinte Mhath! Here's to good health and even better times ahead.