Why we should all be too busy to write.

Too busy to write

I love this photo. Of the two lovers, sat together in blissful harmony, not giving a toss about the photographer. They don’t smile sweetly, pretending to miss the people back at home that they’re writing the card to; rather,they stick it in their faces quite brashly and triumphantly, that they’re much ‘too busy to write.’ She’s probably just bought that fabulous hat somewhere down the promenade, and he’s probably wondering how quickly he can get it off.

But why would I entitle my blog ‘Too busy to write’? When you’re starting a blog, do you really want to open with that? What can the readers then possibly expect? Lots of blog posts? Unlimited content isn’t exactly the tagline. Trust me, I’m not punkishly making some sort of ironic statement about blogging.

Found in a vintage shop, dated to the early 1900s, this postcard was sat in a box filled with postcards from the wartime from lovers to their brave soul mates who were out on the front getting shot. This postcard comes from an era of pure rawness. Truth. ‘Life before anything’, in a time when life was so precious. The postcard has heart. Triumphantly the photo speaks the message, even without the text written below in relief: ‘Too busy to write’.

I’m off the grid and I don’t need a map.

Now I’m not suggesting running away from people mid conversation whilst flailing your hands about, yelling that you have living to do, or casually throwing in your work assignment with the lofty assurance to your lecturer that life isn’t going to live itself; but SURELY life is worth a few worried texts from your mates asking where you are (Hellloooo I’ve been off the grid get with- and by off the grid I mean down in Aldi carpark with a bunch of lowlifes playing with trolleys).

Of course, if you’re backpacking off to Iraq for a year, probably make sure to send home a few ‘I’m not dead” texts, but being busy living life does not go hand in hand with Whatsapping your friends and family 24/7. Your landlord isn’t going to impromptu start telling you how he flew in a plane with Richard Branson to help give aid in Baghdad without you taking an interest in having a conversation first (I found out last week that my Landlord is a mini don.)

I don’t think anything is as interesting or relevant as what’s going on right in front of you.

Turn off the Beeping, you’re not a self-checkout.

I’ve proudly been too busy to write my entire life. My phone always had to stack up at least 5 missed calls before I thought about calling back. I also constantly still leave my phone on silent too, so even though I’ve eliminated the constant beeping, whenever I lose it and friends enthusiastically bop up and down reassuring me they’ll ‘just ring it’, we’re always met with a soul crushing silence. Emails I’ll get back to, because they always resembled something of the desired professional life to me, (just as I loved receiving letters; the antithesis to my mum’s reaction of dread) but texts and inboxes, unless from a seriously hot guy, can do one. It’s not that I don’t enjoy communicating with people, in fact I love it, but I’ve always resented the constant jabbering of virtual messages. When I was in school it wasn’t a problem, because I knew considerably less people then. But now I’m a graduate with a hefty 3,330 friends on Facebook, and believe me, one social media account is enough.

Put that bitch on the list.

The Neo-liberalism attitude that characterises most of my generation attacks daily via a constant stream of messages, which follow up with the entitled ‘??’ messages, followed by the follow up ‘??????’ messages that passively aggressively demand I respond within the hour on the hour. Who are they to ‘?” me?? I’ll admit I’m writing this with a few naysayers in mind, most of whom I’ve ticked everything I can and put them on as many lists as possible on Facebook to see as little of them as possible without actually unfriending them (because who wants the drama whilst you still see them), but the demand for people’s attention is growing at a grotesque level.

No I won’t hold your hand, and no I won’t get you an Ice-Cream.

I can only liken this to a small child. You know when you have a little cousin or niece, or some sibling maybe who falls under the age of 13, who really wants your attention and won’t stop until it is definitely and undividedly theirs? That’s what phones and messages are. Scene: You in a piff clothes shop. You’re shmizing, doing some shopping, enjoying some well-earned R&R when suddenly your phone makes that sound. BEEEEEP. Now you know that it isn’t someone asking how you are, because when is it ever; most likely it’s going to be someone asking you for something. So you stop, pull out your phone and read the message. You bash out a reply and submit yourself eagerly back to the boobtubes: maybe it was a message on Facebook so now you’re scrolling. Either way your solitude has been broken. Whatever reverie you were in, or whatever little daydream you were indulging in has suddenly disappeared. Because SOMEONE thought they were more important than the vision of you striding out of the sea, Baywatch style and in slo-mo, whilst watched, adored, by everyone you know who was all at the same beach AT THE SAME TIME.

And in the style of small and annoying children, giving them attention will just make them vie for more, and for the rest of the afternoon you pander to every noise your phone makes.

Remembering you in a swimsuit is more important than them.

The thing is, they’re not as important as your reveries, and they can wait until you make time to reply. They’re minor if the next person you see is h-o-t. Since when did ‘providing people you know with validation’ come inscribed on people’s bodies alongside ‘Carpe Diem’?

And so my Blog will be called ‘Too busy to write’, because it’s the indulgent attitude that we all should all adopt, to the sorrow of those that demand we pay them round the clock attention. It’s the ethos for those of us that don’t want to be constantly available to others, but always available to ourselves. It’s the back we turn on our whining phones, until they sulk themselves into maturity.

And like children, they’ll probably end up loving us even more.

 

 

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