Space...a daunting frontier.
Rather like one of those dreadful creative writing exercises- a blank canvas is unsurprisingly an uninspiring starting point.
But here goes, losing my blogging virginity; dipping my toe in the murky water of anonymous expression.
The problem of starting points
Inevitably we go through many different starting points in our lives. First day of school, first (and last) art class and first love. In most of these life choices we have little to no say, particularly in the latter, but there is still an element, no matter how small, of choice.
But in the biggest and most dramatic of starts of all we have no freedom to choose at all. We cannot choose our genetic makeup, something that will ultimately determine what we are good at- regardless of if we want to be or not.
Strange to think that the ridiculous cliche of whimpered teenage angst, "I wish I'd never been born!", is actually a justified injustice.
Perhaps Harry Enfield was actually sympathising with the most privileged and pampered generation of little sods that human history has ever seen- myself included.
Surely not! the rational adult cries. Of course not. But next time the world comes crashing down over a messy room or a mouldy cereal bowl and the bedroom door is slammed in the face of the mystified parent, ponder the outcry of injustice.
All the cultural drivel about success from humble beginnings should be doused with a ton of salt. Yes it is within our freedom of choice to make something out of nothing, but one cliche of teenage anger should not be exchanged with another: "every end is a new beginning."
Ultimately we only get one start and we don't get to choose it (not including "second life").
So here I am challenged by a new starting point- my own blank canvas, and (if you forgive the continuation of a rather weak analogy) I will pick up the pen that has been designed for me and not the one I have chosen and will do my best to disappoint.