In the ebb and flow of stationery which punctuates my life, today I have an excess of blue pens but no pencils.
Which is a shame, because I need to write some appointments in my diary, and I always use pencil in my diary.
Isn't our existence gloriously ephemeral? The objects which surround me come and go; the people I plan to meet, the things I plan to do, are subject to change.
There was a time, during my teenage years and early twenties, when I think this frightened me. If life couldn't be pinned down and made concrete, if we can't write our future in ink, then what do we have to cling to? As humans, we need some sort of certainty, some answer to the problem of "what's it all about?" The solutions I used earlier in my life are different to the ones find now. I guess I'd describe myself as an existentialist, interested and even grounded in the very nature of what it is to be human, finding meaning in the uniqueness of the human condition and my own experience.
But that doesn't help me pencil in my appointments ...
