People.
kill.
me.
Monday, August 29
Saturday, August 27
Friday, August 26
Monday, August 22
Sleepless nights.
This feeling.
Strange, empty, unwelcome.
Deep within my chest. I feel alone, even when surrounded.
What have you done?
Strange, empty, unwelcome.
Deep within my chest. I feel alone, even when surrounded.
What have you done?
This mess.
Feelings broken shattered, splattered across walls.
You don't notice. You wouldn't care.
Its already done.
The lights fade, dimness reigns.
Tuesday, August 16
Afternoons
Coffee and chocolate. Sometimes tea.
I waste the twilight hours of the day, intimate with my vices.
My addictions. The line between the two is blurred, hazy.
And then, the next day, running away my guilt.
Creativity and orinignality. Where have you gone?
Currently reading: The beautiful and the dammed. (again?)
Status? Page eight. I never seem to have the time anymore. And yet, I still waste days, hours, minutes.
Monday, August 15
Space & Time
It makes me sad that we no longer talk.
We were such good friends..
What happened?
I miss you.
The City, Any City
This is the story of a city.
A city which, when viewed from space, was barely a speck; a dot; a bland freckle on the face of the earth. Insignificant, irrelevant and unimportant. A city which was once a bustling cosmopolitan but now lies haggard and forgotten by the world which once revolved around it.
***
Worth cannot be created, nor destroyed.
***
Worth cannot be created, nor destroyed.
It is controlled by meaning. Its value created by context. Without meaning, worth cannot exist. This place had little meaning in the world. It was simply just another city. A city with trees, buildings, parks, roads, and children. However, simply because a place is deemed worthless, does not necessarily mean it still doesn’t have any sentimental value. At least for its occupants – well; one occupant in particular.
This occupant is a man. An average man, nothing extraordinary, exceptional or unexpected, nothing to make made him particularly unusual. He was a man, in search of colour, in a greyscale metropolis. He just wasn’t aware of it yet.
***
The sky was a dim wash of grey.
This occupant is a man. An average man, nothing extraordinary, exceptional or unexpected, nothing to make made him particularly unusual. He was a man, in search of colour, in a greyscale metropolis. He just wasn’t aware of it yet.
***
The sky was a dim wash of grey.
The man paced along the narrow sidewalk, his tall, clumsy frame naturally slouched as his neck strained to see over the shadow-casting scrapers, drowning in their own hazy smog.
His face, like the city, was dull, expressionless, nuzzled into the thick woollen scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. He walked as though his steps had no purpose or destination. He was just one man; one ant, scurrying along the scarred face, in search of nothing in particular.
The city was a place trapped in time, in space. In what it used to be, yesterday’s world – now discoloured. A city old and frail, once an immense beauty - nowadays, faded into nothingness. Its remaining occupants move in habit, programmed and trapped in their own pitiable lives, desperately dreaming of escape.
Its once proud walls lay in rubble, its aged gothic features in a state of decay.
The man sits at a bus stop. Waiting. For what, he isn’t entirely sure. A lump sits on his chest, weighing on his diaphragm. A guilt drawn from within him for a reason which he can’t entirely recall. Something is missing, something has been lost, something of which he cannot remember.
Mid-thought he noticed her. A woman, lips thick, painted blood red, stepping off a silver tin bus. Her dark hair and grey coat blowing softly in the wind. She paused, lips pursed, a hint of both recognition and confusion in her dark eyes as they met his.
***
His eyes were blue, the colour of the ocean on a clear summers day.
His face, like the city, was dull, expressionless, nuzzled into the thick woollen scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. He walked as though his steps had no purpose or destination. He was just one man; one ant, scurrying along the scarred face, in search of nothing in particular.
The city was a place trapped in time, in space. In what it used to be, yesterday’s world – now discoloured. A city old and frail, once an immense beauty - nowadays, faded into nothingness. Its remaining occupants move in habit, programmed and trapped in their own pitiable lives, desperately dreaming of escape.
Its once proud walls lay in rubble, its aged gothic features in a state of decay.
The man sits at a bus stop. Waiting. For what, he isn’t entirely sure. A lump sits on his chest, weighing on his diaphragm. A guilt drawn from within him for a reason which he can’t entirely recall. Something is missing, something has been lost, something of which he cannot remember.
Mid-thought he noticed her. A woman, lips thick, painted blood red, stepping off a silver tin bus. Her dark hair and grey coat blowing softly in the wind. She paused, lips pursed, a hint of both recognition and confusion in her dark eyes as they met his.
***
His eyes were blue, the colour of the ocean on a clear summers day.
Immediately pulling her into the memories buried deep in her sub-conscious. A time far away, in a world of colour, her childhood, which now in hindsight, felt like a rose coloured summer haze.
For a moment she remained lost, tumbling through the chest of trapped recollections. A time where she felt safe in the beautiful city. Each alley way full of children playing, laughing, and holding the potential of a new favourite cafe, a familiar book shop. Not a dangerous place where mace sprays is compulsory.
***
The man stopped in contemplation.
For a moment she remained lost, tumbling through the chest of trapped recollections. A time where she felt safe in the beautiful city. Each alley way full of children playing, laughing, and holding the potential of a new favourite cafe, a familiar book shop. Not a dangerous place where mace sprays is compulsory.
***
The man stopped in contemplation.
Her lips were the colour of the red delicious apples he stole from his neighbour’s farm as a child. A time of naive mischief, where he would sprint through the orchards, with flushed crimson cheeks, giggling at the livid curses from the farmer’s wife.
Hand in hand with younger siblings, practically dragging them through the paddocks, home, where their scorning mother would be waiting. Their stomach’s gurgling with delight, which they always paid for later. The man remembered always taking the blame. Protecting little Aggie and Richard, from the wrath of both his mother and Mrs Cobb. The same siblings which he hadn’t seen in years, since the death of their father.
Memories fashioned from a time distant from this current reality. A time of manners, of reputation, of kindness and closeness. A time where colour reigned.
***
Two complete strangers stood faced on the pavement.
Hand in hand with younger siblings, practically dragging them through the paddocks, home, where their scorning mother would be waiting. Their stomach’s gurgling with delight, which they always paid for later. The man remembered always taking the blame. Protecting little Aggie and Richard, from the wrath of both his mother and Mrs Cobb. The same siblings which he hadn’t seen in years, since the death of their father.
Memories fashioned from a time distant from this current reality. A time of manners, of reputation, of kindness and closeness. A time where colour reigned.
***
Two complete strangers stood faced on the pavement.
She with cherry lips, and he with sapphire eyes, locked in reminiscence. Both at the same time, completely aware and unaware of the sheer magnitude of emotion being evoked by the mere presence of colour.
***
As the setting sun pulled away from the clouds, the sky became a wash of misty purple, splashed with vibrant orange and fuchsia, projected unto the city.
***
As the setting sun pulled away from the clouds, the sky became a wash of misty purple, splashed with vibrant orange and fuchsia, projected unto the city.
The city glistened and sparkled with the worth of a cherished gemstone.
Christchurch
It began as a grid, a mere sketch, a clutter of scratched pencil marks, she was designed on paper. From that, she emerged, a city; clean, British, aged with heritage.
Her main street is narrow and lined with trees, twinkling fairy lights drape their braches; their dense canopies lightly capped with snow. It feels as if it’s all a dream. The road seeing little traffic; waits, watching the night. Alleys branch from it, alleys which carry lifeblood into the town.
A glowing haze washes over the little city. Small yet proud. A serene, warm, and welcoming place. Still and calm. A place, a life time away. Before the devastation, before it was broken, shattered and destroyed. Before the hurt. A time, a place, now so far away, it remains fading, in memories, in photographs.
Children ran with rosed cheeks, choking with laughter, crisp from the cool air. Tossing handfuls of snow at one another; exploding lightly into a powdered mist, prior to impact. Their laughs echoed through the street into the dimly lit alleys.
Warm thick coco slides into stomachs of onlookers, warming their insides whilst they enjoy the final moments of the evening. As the sun sets on a peach and cream sky.
The buildings petite, old yet cosy, calling passersby to stop and admire them, to come inside, to share the twilight hours.
As the elderly church bell chimed into the still night, the city slept. Peaceful, quiet, blessed.
Now in stark daylight, she waits, ugly, torn. Wilted, cracked and destroyed. The once proud and beautiful city lays in devastation in rubble. Giant cracks tore through her delicate face, her mouth dry, parched, begging for water.
Her eyes weep for her lost children.
Her main street is narrow and lined with trees, twinkling fairy lights drape their braches; their dense canopies lightly capped with snow. It feels as if it’s all a dream. The road seeing little traffic; waits, watching the night. Alleys branch from it, alleys which carry lifeblood into the town.
A glowing haze washes over the little city. Small yet proud. A serene, warm, and welcoming place. Still and calm. A place, a life time away. Before the devastation, before it was broken, shattered and destroyed. Before the hurt. A time, a place, now so far away, it remains fading, in memories, in photographs.
Children ran with rosed cheeks, choking with laughter, crisp from the cool air. Tossing handfuls of snow at one another; exploding lightly into a powdered mist, prior to impact. Their laughs echoed through the street into the dimly lit alleys.
Warm thick coco slides into stomachs of onlookers, warming their insides whilst they enjoy the final moments of the evening. As the sun sets on a peach and cream sky.
The buildings petite, old yet cosy, calling passersby to stop and admire them, to come inside, to share the twilight hours.
As the elderly church bell chimed into the still night, the city slept. Peaceful, quiet, blessed.
Now in stark daylight, she waits, ugly, torn. Wilted, cracked and destroyed. The once proud and beautiful city lays in devastation in rubble. Giant cracks tore through her delicate face, her mouth dry, parched, begging for water.
Her eyes weep for her lost children.
She lies, chained, screaming, in wait of her saviour.
Sunday, August 14
Why I write..
It starts with an idea, a concept, a single thought.
Usually found in a dream, or
In the shower.
This substance, drawn from within me,
Grows, builds and changes shape. Tumbling and bouncing in my mind.
Until,
I can’t take it anymore.
And it spills unto the page.
There it will remain, a scribbled mess, trapped in the page.
Eventually it is called upon, reshaped, reworked – into something acceptable, neat
But never complete.
***
Once there was a phase, I attempted to stop writing.
Completely.
It was an invasion. Into my conscious; my sub-conscious.
I felt exposed, naked. Open to ridicule.
So I stopped.
I put away my pens,
Destroyed my journals,
And tore the inspiration from my walls.
Then, one day, I realised
–
I can’t escape it.
“The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it” (Plath, 1962)
It travelled through my mind like a fret train.
Now I write.
I have a single corkboard. Exploding with layers of inspiration, spilling onto my walls, of which, I attempt to contain, protect, hide.
I still fight it.
Plath, Sylvia, Poem ‘Happiness’ Published in the 1962 collection ‘Ariel’.
Usually found in a dream, or
In the shower.
This substance, drawn from within me,
Grows, builds and changes shape. Tumbling and bouncing in my mind.
Until,
I can’t take it anymore.
And it spills unto the page.
There it will remain, a scribbled mess, trapped in the page.
Eventually it is called upon, reshaped, reworked – into something acceptable, neat
But never complete.
***
Once there was a phase, I attempted to stop writing.
Completely.
It was an invasion. Into my conscious; my sub-conscious.
I felt exposed, naked. Open to ridicule.
So I stopped.
I put away my pens,
Destroyed my journals,
And tore the inspiration from my walls.
Then, one day, I realised
–
I can’t escape it.
“The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it” (Plath, 1962)
It travelled through my mind like a fret train.
Now I write.
I have a single corkboard. Exploding with layers of inspiration, spilling onto my walls, of which, I attempt to contain, protect, hide.
I still fight it.
Plath, Sylvia, Poem ‘Happiness’ Published in the 1962 collection ‘Ariel’.
August.
It must be the time of year. The weather perhaps.
Because three years now, I always decide blogging is a good idea.
Pity I am too unmotivated/lazy/forgetful/unimaginative to keep it going for very long.
It always seems to be for the same reasons as well, procrastination or too keep someone else happy. Which once again, I am blogging because I feel like no one reads this and my journalism lecturer guilt tripped me into it. And my law readings aren't looking very attractive right now..
Journalism seems pretty hostile at the moment,
Because three years now, I always decide blogging is a good idea.
Pity I am too unmotivated/lazy/forgetful/unimaginative to keep it going for very long.
It always seems to be for the same reasons as well, procrastination or too keep someone else happy. Which once again, I am blogging because I feel like no one reads this and my journalism lecturer guilt tripped me into it. And my law readings aren't looking very attractive right now..
Journalism seems pretty hostile at the moment,
Oh the future is bleak!
"When you can't get published, Blog!"
It all the same; I'm bursting with ideas,
Im determined to make friends with commitment however due to my somewhat unorganised nature, it normally falls to pieces.
No. Starting today, right now, I'm turning over a new leaf,
No more being an hour late to class.
No more messy untidiness
No more chaos.
I shall be a model student (Ha!)
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