Tiredness.

Tiredness pricks your eyes with needle points and creeps into you limbs dragging lethargy in its wake.

Long Walks and Chinese Lanterns

The cold had already ran its fingernails down the tips of my fingers until they were numb, even inside the knitted wool of the gloves i'd torn wrapping paper off just that morning.
'Its beautiful.' The sound of my voice held its note in my ears for a fraction of a second before dissipating quickly into the night around me. A small orange glow floated easily above me, flickering. The stunning simplicity of its light cut straight through the air, leaving no trace or path behind it. I didnt have to strain my eyes to look at it, the everescent orange flame stood out vividly against the monotone of white on black.
Sometimes the stars seem so far away.

Nothing much depends on this.

You will never fail to change the pure quality of the rain; from irregular cold droplets staining my hair and rolling leisurely down your cheek to sheeting meltwater, drowning both of us; and the heat of the damp air. I feel my feet pressing into the ground as the ebullience of the blackened water winks at me with tear filled eyes, and my ears ring in the radiating silence as I stand facing away from you watching the last flutter of the tawny gold sun shyly leaves us in peace behind the folds of the softly shadowed crags. The mustiness of the night smothers any form of warmth that may have existed and I feel the edged sharpness of a chill stagger its way down my chest and arms, rising goosebumps in its wake. The breath of your laugh and the mellow of your cheek against mine makes me start. You laugh at me. The shreds of water falling through the air and splashing into nothingness at our feet hover for a second as the world turns their attention to the heaviness of the moment. I feel everything, raw and acute as a solid bubble of fear and exalt wraps itself around us.
The blackened water spreads its teeth in a ripple of agitation and embraces me like and old friend. The coldness is exquisite in the strength of its bite.

:)

Because

Today I'm in a better mood.
Because today it snowed and we got sent home.
Because alice was annoyingly organised and gave me a christmas present.
Because i got some work done.
Because I like candles.
Because i've had too much coffee.
Because my room's tidy.
Because this time tomorrow, my ballet exam will be over.
Because there are danish pastries in the fridge.
Because i'm not tired.
Just because.

Winter weather

It said it was supposed to rain, but in the end it decided to snow. I wish i could describe the beauty of each individual snowflake, their gorgeous patterns and intricate crystals woven together in one tiny drop among an enormity, btu i would be lying. Really, it just showers down. Like icing sugar almost, shaken through a sieve and powdering the ice-slicked roads with a fine layer.
I sound cliche. I hate cliches. I hate lack of originality and inspiration... I spend my entire life trying to be just that little bit different. I used to want to fit in- desperately so- and it took me years to realise that if you fit in it means you're never noticed, and what is the point in living a life where you no one looks twice at you, you never make a difference? Show off your divergence. Broadcast it to the world.

Fading faster than the speed of light.

Its not rare that i wonder if i honestly have an inability to cry. So long spent pushing the screeching rip of hurt, and the bubbling of anger, and the dusty tangle of confusion to the back of my mind, that i've forgotten how to not push them away. Forget it, and you won't have to feel it. I can't even remember the last time the rushing of emotions made its way to my eyes and made them sting with blurry tears. I feel everything, raw and cutting-edged, but i can never do the slightest thing about it.
At the moment i can only see the world as potential that i can't reach, brightness that i allow caffiene to fake for me and the impact that just existing makes.

To battle is the only way to feel alive.

Empty

Today's been one of those days where i feel completely empty. Hollow, like an easter egg. I'm so tired of everything that i'm worried i might smash into shards of glass that wink in the sunlight that seems to dominate every day with it's piercing cold. I had an MRI scan yesterday- wow, was it only yesterday?- and in the years i seemed to spend in that tiny beige tunnel, trying to make patterns out of the whirrs and bangs that bounced off the confined space around me; i couldnt help but feel a little claustrophobic, and it made me think how much i feel like that anyway. MRI tunnel or no MRI tunnel. There are so many people that just feed off my energy! Why am i so tired all the time?

I have two weeks until my ballet exam. The harder i try to work the less incentive i can find to do any. A week ago i was treading water. Now i just feel like i'm drowning in it.

Realise

re·al·ize   /ˈriəˌlaɪz/
[ree-uh-lahyz]
verb

1.To grasp or understand clearly.
2.to make real; give reality to (a hope, fear, plan, etc.).
3.to bring vividly to the mind.


I understand, now, that I've been lying to myself for a long time. I admitted it once, and pushed at away again; hid it in that little golden padlocked chest in my head and tried to lose the key. Swept it under the rug, as it were. You can't lie to yourself. I suppose i always knew, somewhere in the mislead wanderings of my mind that it's true, and also that there's absolutely nothing i can do about it. caught up in a spider's web of complications- wishing I could wriggle free and knowing at the same time someone will get hurt whichever way i go. If i just make sure that person is not you, I've said to myself, then everything will be okay. Eventually.

Thats a lie as well. Grin and bear it, shovel instinct to one side, and hope, just hope, that the spider's web will untangle.

If you make a promise to yourself, you have to keep it. No matter what.

Art

It is stupid really, to say that art has a point. all forms of art is totally pointless, and on top of that, useless. It exists as a form of expression, and no more. Art is not moral, or immoral, it is simply well written, or badly written. There is no sense to it, and the inevitable pages of a book that the human mind will create have no value whatsoever. No value, but they are worth more than all the gold in the world, without a doubt. Gold is priced so highly because there is so little of it in the world. There is not enough to go round, unlike the seemingly boring elements of tin, lead and nitrogen. But with words, with novels, with paintings, with dance, with music... there are no two created that are identical. Each singular piece of work is completely unique- imagine if the only gold that existed fit in the palm of your hand.

Maybe

I can see it already. I'm going to fall, I know I am. Been here before; the t-shirt isn't only bought but worn and washed several times. The fumble of my lips as i try to find the words that just arent there, is not something im unfamilar with. The slow spread of goosebumps down my arms, and i wish i hadn't been so stupid. I wonder why i always have to be the assertive one. Its not a role i chose, really. Maybe one day the tables will turn and I will be looked after for once, rather than the other way around. Maybe one day i won't have to worry.

Live in the present

I love the sleepy eyes and warm bedsheets of late mornings. The prospect of makeup dresses and drink that will follow has not yet hit me. Live in the present and the future will sort itself out. It wasn't my dad that told me that, or my mum for that case. And the funny thing is, it's totally untrue, but fun to stick to anyway.

That make you think youre winning.

The eventful wishes of forgotten days
soft hair and cherub kisses,
In the days bright with laughter
And blue with reminisces,
When the pages of a book
Turned one by one
And the gentle paper’s crinkle
Compel to carry on,
And the the night’s tapping window
Would echo on the door,
And someone out there wonders
What was there before?
And that one funny second,
When the coin just keeps spinning,
The fleeting jump of heart-clenched joy
That makes you think you’re winning.

The winter is back..

I can finally feel winter today. I'v been denying it too long. Stupid of me, really, to wear summer clothes simply in defiance and hope that it will be warm. Can't say i've missed the stab of passionless chill shivering its way down my spine every time i venture outside.
Its 6pm and the moon is out; blotted an ugly grey-ish colour in the fog of the clouds, muffling the defined compass that normally throws its translucent light over the darkness of the night. Tawny red brands the trees, threatening for all the leaves to fall at once. They scrath and shush against eachother in an unrhythmic cycle, as cold fluxes of air squeal and whine as they stream down the roads.
Yet i can hear nothing, but silence and the reliable murmer of my laptop and tap of keys.
It's already darker than it was just five minutes ago.

Short Story Competition Winner ;)

Faded. Worn around the edges. Yellowed. Creased with the constant open and close of the years. I suppose your lop-sided smile could be seen as beautiful, or arrogant. There’s a small hamster curled up in your hand, peeking out at the camera with an inquisitive confusion. Enor-mouse, you told me. His name was Enor-mouse. So you did have a sense of humour once, Dad. It makes me wonder who took the photograph. A woman, obviously, by the flirt in your eye and the lift of your chin. But my mother hates rodents, you know that. She always has. Plus, she couldn’t work a camera if her life depended on it now, never mind twenty years ago.
Who then? Whose red, taloned nails stain the corner of the picture, with a defiant blur that invades into this snatch of another era? I daren’t ask you, and doubt you would answer anyway. I can feel the hugeness of time in your life that happened before I even had a place on this earth dawning on me. You have lived three times the life that I have. A university fling maybe? I know you went to uni later than most, a consequence of that dreaded brown envelope that carried three heavy Ds when you we’re eighteen. Would never have guessed someone could turn their life inside out so fast. You picked yourself up, I know, went to college to do applied business. Was that where you met her? Did she sit next to you in that first lecture? Ask to borrow your pen? Was she the typically hot girl that all the lads hit on within a week? Just by her red nails I can tell she’s nothing like the dark blonde bookworm you will marry in the years to come. Someone more glamorous. Someone more dangerous. Who were you, Dad, to choose this woman?
Your t-shirt is emblazoned with some triathlon I’ve never heard of. I never knew you used to swim, Dad. You hate water. You always tilt your head to the side when I used to beg you to come to the swimming pool with me as a child, you would shrug, and squeeze my fingers. Don’t worry, you’d say to me, I’ll be right here. The water brings back bad memories for me. After a while I gave up asking. Was she there, when those memories were formed? I don’t think the red-woman would have gone to watch you in the triathlon. Too busy painting her nails for when you came home. She didn’t care for you, Dad. I hope you didn’t love her.
She wasn’t the only one was she? Your head’s too big in this photo, Dad. Where is the selfless father whose fingers are pinching the edges of this photo? Here you’re invincible; the world is your oyster. You can do anything, get any girl, go any place and it won’t have consequences. I can see your biking leathers and helmet hanging up behind you. You’re positive you will never take a fall. Did you let the red woman hold on to your waist, as you sped down the backstreets at 90mph on a Suzuki GS125 that you’d remodelled with racing handlebars? I’ll bet you never even considered you’d have to tell your daughter the countless stories of roundabouts in the rain, skipped red lights and turning the throttle that little bit too far.

I raise my eyes, to meet yours; half expect to see that person I don’t know.

Dad, are you there?

Frown Lines

I worry, will this turn out like the rest?
The clutter of my room is swallowing me. I feel claustrophobic with it, even though I like to convince myself that i have no fears. What is there to be scared of in this world? Nothing.
Or everything?
Truth is, I'm scared of more than i let on. 'Haunted by memories' is cliched i know, but sometimes i feel like i can completely get a grasp on what that saying means. Some things just can't be forgotten. Creeping, slithering, trickling through thoughts of every day. Its possible for your stream of conciousness to be poisoned, i found out.
Today has been one of those days where lines blur. Lines between optimism and pessimism. Lines between fake and real.
It hit me today how fine those lines really are, and how easily they can be shattered, allowing the opposites to splash together in a unique mix of colour with black and white.
Will you be the same?
Or am i just avoiding putting the blame on myself?