Not taking this lark seriously enough, taking the library even less seriously though to be fair. Im tired, my feet are wet and the days dont end, just start again. I put a sticky label with the word death written on it for a revision aid, I guess its apt I basically study death under the guise of the past.
Im so bored of this, of you of her of everything, im no longer feeling sorry for myself Im just pretty livid. The coffee was good, I like the bitterness, hasnt woken me up yet, immune to caffiene apparently- thats mothers fault easily.
Securitising is apparently a speech act, you say it and you make it so, I wish this was a speech act, I wish I had that much control.
Wednesday, 13 May 2009
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
My body is a cage.
In actual fact its not, my mind is. Neurotic I have always been, but the recent actions caused by said neurosis are ridiculous.
I have lost the ability to form the word hello, not just vocally but the muscles in my face wont even tense into a half smile. Logically this is flawed, so flawed in fact its wrecking something that i think could be pretty fucking amazing if only I let go.
This isnt the first time either, and thats the problem, my constantly overworked mind, lack of self worth and little social understanding results in awkwardness few could possibly comprehend, I thought this time I could get over it do whats best for my state of mind, but I think its gone too far now, rectifying this situation would take alot of guts I clearly dont possess, so this will pass me by, and at 20 if these metaphorical ships keep sailing away as I enter further and further into adulthood and deeper into a unstable psychological state of mind im really beginning to doubt I will ever be aboard one, and if so not for very long.
My father has deep lines on his face, he frowns all the time, even at the happiest moments in his life his brow is embedded with marks of stress and anger, and im going exactly the same way, lucky for him someone understood, understood so much they vowed to stay by him till the day the day, I however probably wont be so lucky.
If any of my friends tell me to grow a pair a may actually try just to fuck them off.
But for now I will just let oppurtunity pass me by, and listen to arcade fire for the rest of this dismal afternoon.
I have lost the ability to form the word hello, not just vocally but the muscles in my face wont even tense into a half smile. Logically this is flawed, so flawed in fact its wrecking something that i think could be pretty fucking amazing if only I let go.
This isnt the first time either, and thats the problem, my constantly overworked mind, lack of self worth and little social understanding results in awkwardness few could possibly comprehend, I thought this time I could get over it do whats best for my state of mind, but I think its gone too far now, rectifying this situation would take alot of guts I clearly dont possess, so this will pass me by, and at 20 if these metaphorical ships keep sailing away as I enter further and further into adulthood and deeper into a unstable psychological state of mind im really beginning to doubt I will ever be aboard one, and if so not for very long.
My father has deep lines on his face, he frowns all the time, even at the happiest moments in his life his brow is embedded with marks of stress and anger, and im going exactly the same way, lucky for him someone understood, understood so much they vowed to stay by him till the day the day, I however probably wont be so lucky.
If any of my friends tell me to grow a pair a may actually try just to fuck them off.
But for now I will just let oppurtunity pass me by, and listen to arcade fire for the rest of this dismal afternoon.
Friday, 8 May 2009
Thursday, 30 April 2009
this is not a poem.
The floral jacket hanging there, one month, two seperate white gloss doors.
He wont sing to me anymore, recorded.
Cutting my hair, breaking my ankle.
She has cold hands, old face.
He wont sing to me anymore, recorded.
Cutting my hair, breaking my ankle.
She has cold hands, old face.
Wednesday, 25 March 2009
Testing.
Water wasn't really making me mental in the way I had hoped, there was little inspiration for a novel or really any conversation, so I have decided to really fuck with my body and only drink liquid in hope that some of my teenage angst and emotion will return as being an adult is really fuckin dull.
Monday, 23 March 2009
Inspiration.
'History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it. ' Churchill.
As I walked into the 12 storey towerblock situated on the outskirts of town I had nothing, I took the stairs to the second floor shaking, I sat in a room of 100 teenagers, we waited and waited for over an hour, till we were rounded up like cattle, moved from room to room, lost and intimitated I clutched my GCSE results tightly in my clammy palms, they took my photo, and hurried me out, I was to start on monday.
It was still hot, mid september hot, when you are left unprepared in a thick cardigan. Drama, 7 of us, a mini test, they were all good friends, they didn't bring pens.
I quickly changed, and tuesday was now history, a tall man stopped me in the corridoor, moving slowly with the time to stop, but with a sense of urgency in his stance. 'A bonified history student he called me', 'a week late', and thrust a booklet with a shoddily photocopied image of Lloyd George on the front. He came down with an illness and was away for a week, a northern girl sat next to me, and mumbled constantly about grades about university, I wanted out, I didn't care, foreign policy could never solve my problems everything was in ruins as i sat amongst 9 other students waiting for his return.
He came back loud, harsh, cold and yet dynamic, another test, back the next day, red scrawl covering the page with a circle at the bottom '23'.
I was failing, I knew nobody, my grades were weak, and three times a week I had to suffer 2 hours with a man who made me shake when I attempted to dictate his unorthodox approach to the 1930's.
'Bulwark' I said, the first time I had spoken, yes he said, and it was then, that moment when we had been moved to the computer room, and there was to be a fire, and a girl was to lose her weave, it was that moment on that thursday that I realised I could do this, and I could like this.
My attendance improved, I bought paper and pens, caught the earlier bus so as never to be locked out on a friday, and when January came the A5 paper printed success.
For the first time I wanted something, I forgot how my education had been in tatters three months before, how I had lost everyone I knew, how I feared each day.
No longer did he look at me with the memory that I was late and disorganised, I kept reading and writing, UCAS came and offers arrived, the fascination began.
As I walked into the 12 storey towerblock situated on the outskirts of town I had nothing, I took the stairs to the second floor shaking, I sat in a room of 100 teenagers, we waited and waited for over an hour, till we were rounded up like cattle, moved from room to room, lost and intimitated I clutched my GCSE results tightly in my clammy palms, they took my photo, and hurried me out, I was to start on monday.
It was still hot, mid september hot, when you are left unprepared in a thick cardigan. Drama, 7 of us, a mini test, they were all good friends, they didn't bring pens.
I quickly changed, and tuesday was now history, a tall man stopped me in the corridoor, moving slowly with the time to stop, but with a sense of urgency in his stance. 'A bonified history student he called me', 'a week late', and thrust a booklet with a shoddily photocopied image of Lloyd George on the front. He came down with an illness and was away for a week, a northern girl sat next to me, and mumbled constantly about grades about university, I wanted out, I didn't care, foreign policy could never solve my problems everything was in ruins as i sat amongst 9 other students waiting for his return.
He came back loud, harsh, cold and yet dynamic, another test, back the next day, red scrawl covering the page with a circle at the bottom '23'.
I was failing, I knew nobody, my grades were weak, and three times a week I had to suffer 2 hours with a man who made me shake when I attempted to dictate his unorthodox approach to the 1930's.
'Bulwark' I said, the first time I had spoken, yes he said, and it was then, that moment when we had been moved to the computer room, and there was to be a fire, and a girl was to lose her weave, it was that moment on that thursday that I realised I could do this, and I could like this.
My attendance improved, I bought paper and pens, caught the earlier bus so as never to be locked out on a friday, and when January came the A5 paper printed success.
For the first time I wanted something, I forgot how my education had been in tatters three months before, how I had lost everyone I knew, how I feared each day.
No longer did he look at me with the memory that I was late and disorganised, I kept reading and writing, UCAS came and offers arrived, the fascination began.
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