York, UK

magical moments of the past three months

April 07, 2019

In Spring twenty sixteen, I wrote a blog post about the months of my life I’d failed to share on this little space, a round up of sorts. Page views wise, it did quite well for the first few days (I just checked), and then died a slow death, must like the rest of the ‘content’ written on here.

In twenty seventeen, I wrote the same thing. A welcome to my crib styled post, where I ‘revealed’ the best moments of my year. It was mainly Disney related, but I never posted it. It still received a lot of reads though - by me. 

I read this blog a lot actually. I’m obsessed with the past, and looking at the great things I’ve done in my life. I’m the queen of rose tinted glasses; the kid who thinks her life sucks at the time but actually is incredible. 

By a lot, I don’t mean once a day. I’ve got a camera roll that’s overflowing to pursue every single day, but once in a while I love to browse this little page and admire the self inflicted broken links, and just smile. Isn’t it cool how we all created our blogs out of nothing? Regardless of the scandals, the money and the profit that drives this industry now, isn’t it beautiful how many of these giant influencers were once just hobbyists like us? As Veronica Sawyer says… and when you’re beautiful, it’s a beautiful fricken dayyyyyyyyy. And it is. 

Here are some of the beautiful things that have happened in my life recently - mostly written for me to read back in twenty twenty five. 

i'm olivia, and i'm an oversharer

November 13, 2018

alternative title: why you maybe haven't seen me online 

I've got a problem, one that shouldn't exist. One that does exist, and I think I like it. Every single time I click 'new post', or visit the Blogger website, I feel the thoughts of my brain shut off. It's as simple as that. It's as if my mind is a tap whose circuits have been cut, as if the under utilised sensible side of my fingertips think that the days of oversharing are over, that life should be quiet again. 

And I agree with that niggling feeling that lingers on my fingertips, that has to explain why I've avoided Instagram like the plague, that explains why my socials aren't filled with impact. That niggling feeling takes me back to being fourteen again, and a fan of the pseudonym. I agree with me. Sometimes. 

I think of the blog post Katie Oldham wrote a long time ago quite often; I think about the internet, about existence, the art of being fake. I think of what I used to say on the internet, and why I don't say it anymore. Why do I feel as though nobody has the right to know my inner thoughts? Why do I feel bad for thinking that? It's a dystopian novel that's turned into the lives of everybody I know; turned into the Instagram story, the Facebook story, the ever turned on generation.

I know what I want to write about, and write I do. Pages and pages of notes, of word documents that lie untouched in hidden drives and folders. I read them back, sometimes. Hearing the process past Olivia went through is interesting, is unique to me. These are stories, dreams and thoughts of a past day. And they're mine, but they may as well be a character in a novel due to the inevitable art of growing up. And that's okay.

When I was a child, I said my words would become an autobiography. In some ways, this blog became the basis of that, and I'm happy for its existence, its memory. The notebooks that scatter my room are a continuation of this autobiography, ready to be unleashed when I feel ready. 

Nobody needs to know what I'm eating at lunchtime, or what I'm doing on a Thursday night. Not even notebooks, not Instagram, not the world. It took me a long time of thinking, and doing, and practice to accept this - and now I have.

I'm Olivia - and I'm an oversharer. In real life.

One day, the internet might catch up with me. When I've had an incredible day, you might see a picture on my feeds, but I'm not taking time away from those who matter in the real world to update those who aren't there. And that's okay. 

Oversharing online is over, and the world won't know if my life is quiet or loud, unless the world is sat or laughing or dancing with me. And I think that's what I want to say, albeit disjointed. Maybe my brain hasn't shut off after all.

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