As a result of a combination of upbringing sets of conditions routed in rationality, critical thinking, science and curiosity, I can fairly confidently say that there are not many things that I am sure of. I understand that the way we think, know and feel is engrained in the interlinkages of experiences that make up the fabric of our lives, meaning that what we consider true are often subjective truths that might be valid for us at a point in time and that we might come to grow out of.

There are not many things I know, but for some inexplicable reason, I know that I am a writer. I cannot explain why this realisation is as crisp as a sunny winter’s day. A true knowing that lives and burns at the centre of your heart. Like a forbidden love that you do not feel worthy of and that you simultaneously feel ashamed of. For all these years, taught and believing in your bones that you must make yourself useful. What would be the use of that realisation? What would eventuate of trying to become a writer? What amount of talent would you need to accumulate or demonstrate to justify putting words on paper? How many trees would you have to save to allow yourself to be what you are meant to be? If how you’ve defined yourself is so wrapped up in the positive impact you could have on the planet, what use would writing words be.

You’re now 36. It’s 9:30pm and you’re having this probably unhealthy internal dialog about how this feels so uneasy, visually collating all the signs and times throughout your life when writing felt warm, like home, infused with mean, cold, and factual commentary about how you have not once learned the basics of how to. So many things to unpack, so much baggage to unfold. For now, happy birthday.