The thing about tomato and cheese sandwiches is they're misleading.
Take two pieces of averge brown bread, four slices of tomatoe and three large pieces of cheese and you have your normal, innocuous sandwich. Except its not.
It appears to be nice, the bright yellow cheese harmonizing with the lively red tomato, setting of the pale chocolate coloured bread perfectly.
It might even smell nice, fresh, healthy.
And you'll think to yourself, 'I know! I'll have a nice tomato and cheese sandwich, just what I feel like!'
But after the first bite, you will see what a grave mistake you have made.
For these sandwiches are like bananas, one becomes sick of the taste ludicrously fast. And then you find yourself confronted by a large amount of sandwich that just doesn't want to be eaten.
And it's going to sit there staring at you until you either eat it or go sandwichless.
Me? I couldn't face the damn thing and it's still sitting on my desk, cackling at my torment.
That, my friends, is why Tomato and Cheese sandwiches are evil.
..And It's at times like these that I wonder what an earth I'm doing with my life.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Bus Stops
Bus stops tell you a lot about a person.
Now me, being an average teenager, without a car or licence (due more to lazyness than anything else) spent a large part of my days on buses, which also means a lot of time spent waiting at the bus stop.
Take today for example, after my math exam (which I wish never to hear mentioned again) I had to wait an hour for my bus.
And when you're bored, and your ipod has run out of battery, you start observing things. people.
And if you look at the people waiting at the bus stop, you notice things.
How people sit.
The confident ones come loping along and fairly sprawl themselves down on the seat, at the centre, legs out in front of them, casually bopping along to their music, talking on the phone, whatever. They're the confident ones. They aren't afraid to take up space, to be noticed, to be in the centre of everything.
Then there's the ones who sit with their legs crossed, or planted firmly on the ground, they sit more to one side of the seat, glancing up every once in a while to see if the bus is coming, check their watches, flick someone a text. They're just the average person, not loud, not quiet, would probably talk to you given half a chance, but it's unlikely they'l plonk themselves down and start up a conversation like the people who sit in the middle.
Then there's the sideliners.
They sit in the corner, on the fringes, watching people, saying nothing. They'll read a book, do some homework, check their phones, but mostly watch.
They sit as far to the side of the seats as they can, taking up as little space as possable. They don't grin at passerbys like some would. They don't sigh loudly when the bus is late, or get up for a wander when they've been sitting too long.
They stay silent and still.
They are isolated from everyone else, perhaps isolated from society. They're shy and quiet, hard to get through to, but when you do, it's usually rewarding.
I have to wonder sometimes, as I observe the unsuspecting people, is anyone watching me? Prejudging me, analysing me, seeing me.
Or am alone in a world full of people
Now me, being an average teenager, without a car or licence (due more to lazyness than anything else) spent a large part of my days on buses, which also means a lot of time spent waiting at the bus stop.
Take today for example, after my math exam (which I wish never to hear mentioned again) I had to wait an hour for my bus.
And when you're bored, and your ipod has run out of battery, you start observing things. people.
And if you look at the people waiting at the bus stop, you notice things.
How people sit.
The confident ones come loping along and fairly sprawl themselves down on the seat, at the centre, legs out in front of them, casually bopping along to their music, talking on the phone, whatever. They're the confident ones. They aren't afraid to take up space, to be noticed, to be in the centre of everything.
Then there's the ones who sit with their legs crossed, or planted firmly on the ground, they sit more to one side of the seat, glancing up every once in a while to see if the bus is coming, check their watches, flick someone a text. They're just the average person, not loud, not quiet, would probably talk to you given half a chance, but it's unlikely they'l plonk themselves down and start up a conversation like the people who sit in the middle.
Then there's the sideliners.
They sit in the corner, on the fringes, watching people, saying nothing. They'll read a book, do some homework, check their phones, but mostly watch.
They sit as far to the side of the seats as they can, taking up as little space as possable. They don't grin at passerbys like some would. They don't sigh loudly when the bus is late, or get up for a wander when they've been sitting too long.
They stay silent and still.
They are isolated from everyone else, perhaps isolated from society. They're shy and quiet, hard to get through to, but when you do, it's usually rewarding.
I have to wonder sometimes, as I observe the unsuspecting people, is anyone watching me? Prejudging me, analysing me, seeing me.
Or am alone in a world full of people
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Addiction
Ginger Beer is addictive.
No really, it is.
Ok solid hard, concrete proof. When I was little, I hated that stuff. It was bitter and bubbly and burnt my throat and people called it root beer. It was, for lack of a better word, disgusting.
Then, I re-tried it a few years ago; it wasn't an instant love, it was just ok. But as it is with all addictions, I found myself loving it more and more.
And now I'm addicted. I guess I should be glad it's not drugs or alcohol I'm addicted to. But really, Ginger Beer?
It's just so gooooooood...*takes gulp of Ginger Beer* its ok i've only had two today..
It's like shopping, or watching Lord of the Rings..(uh forget I ever said that one)
You know the worst thing?
I get Ginger Beer cravings.
GINGER BEER CRAVINGS!
I ask you.
You know there's something wrong with your life when you get cravings for Ginger Beer.
GINGER BEER GODDAMNIT.
No really, it is.
Ok solid hard, concrete proof. When I was little, I hated that stuff. It was bitter and bubbly and burnt my throat and people called it root beer. It was, for lack of a better word, disgusting.
Then, I re-tried it a few years ago; it wasn't an instant love, it was just ok. But as it is with all addictions, I found myself loving it more and more.
And now I'm addicted. I guess I should be glad it's not drugs or alcohol I'm addicted to. But really, Ginger Beer?
It's just so gooooooood...*takes gulp of Ginger Beer* its ok i've only had two today..
It's like shopping, or watching Lord of the Rings..(uh forget I ever said that one)
You know the worst thing?
I get Ginger Beer cravings.
GINGER BEER CRAVINGS!
I ask you.
You know there's something wrong with your life when you get cravings for Ginger Beer.
GINGER BEER GODDAMNIT.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Guy Fawkes
Remember remember, the 5th of November
I went to a fireworks show last night with some mates. The music was average, the fireworks fairly good. It was also Halloween which means we saw loads of amazing costumes and decorations everywhere; even a guy who dressed up like the Joker off the Batman, his makeup was perfect-it was amazing.
However that is not why I found last night so memoriable. It was because it was in celebration of the 5th of November. Of Guy Fawkes.
The gunpowder treason and plot..
of how a man tried to blow up parliment and died for it. I never quite worked out why we so enthusasticly celebrated the death of said man, or the survival of King James I. We do not celebrate the death of Hitler for example, or any other man who has commited crimes againt humanity, but we celebrate the death of an idealist, a freedom fighter, a man who fought for what he believed in. To this day, we burn effigies of him, as if to mock him. He has become a hated figure, and few people stop to think why he even tried to blow up parliment.
The king and his train had like to be slain..
I do not celebrate Guy Fawkes for a celebration of a man who was executed, but in rememberance, of the man behind the event, who believed in freedom, and revolution, and was willing to die for it.
And somehow when I was watching the whole sky light up in a shower of fading gold, when I heard the the cracks from the fireworks which sounded so much like gunshots, I found myself seeing not a park full of people by the sea, not an empty sky on an overcast night, but misty streets and the crack of guns as revolutionaries fell in their hundreds, the cobblestones red with blood. I saw fighting in the streets, and fear in the tunnels, I saw a man.
I saw the 5th of November, 1605.
And I hope it will ne'er be forgot.
I went to a fireworks show last night with some mates. The music was average, the fireworks fairly good. It was also Halloween which means we saw loads of amazing costumes and decorations everywhere; even a guy who dressed up like the Joker off the Batman, his makeup was perfect-it was amazing.
However that is not why I found last night so memoriable. It was because it was in celebration of the 5th of November. Of Guy Fawkes.
The gunpowder treason and plot..
of how a man tried to blow up parliment and died for it. I never quite worked out why we so enthusasticly celebrated the death of said man, or the survival of King James I. We do not celebrate the death of Hitler for example, or any other man who has commited crimes againt humanity, but we celebrate the death of an idealist, a freedom fighter, a man who fought for what he believed in. To this day, we burn effigies of him, as if to mock him. He has become a hated figure, and few people stop to think why he even tried to blow up parliment.
The king and his train had like to be slain..
I do not celebrate Guy Fawkes for a celebration of a man who was executed, but in rememberance, of the man behind the event, who believed in freedom, and revolution, and was willing to die for it.
And somehow when I was watching the whole sky light up in a shower of fading gold, when I heard the the cracks from the fireworks which sounded so much like gunshots, I found myself seeing not a park full of people by the sea, not an empty sky on an overcast night, but misty streets and the crack of guns as revolutionaries fell in their hundreds, the cobblestones red with blood. I saw fighting in the streets, and fear in the tunnels, I saw a man.
I saw the 5th of November, 1605.
And I hope it will ne'er be forgot.
Monday, October 19, 2009
My Birthday
My birthday is tommorow, and for the first time ever, I'm not excited.
So it could be because I'm not getting any presents from my family (A selfish reason, but at least I'm being honest right?) or maybe because no-ones making me a birthday cake, or even because It's just another day of school for me tommorow, and yes all those reasons are selfish, I guess I'm just feeling it so much because this is the first time I won't be getting any of those things I used to take for granted.
Maybe it's because I'm turning seventeen, which lets face it, is an in-between age, it means nothing except now I can go to juvi. Or maybe because seventeen reminds me of that song by Metro Station, 'Seventeen Forever' and that just makes me sad.
Maybe it's cos I'm growing up and just like it slowly happend with christmas, birthdays are no longer so exciting.
So, I'll heave a sigh, and face the day tommorow, and even though it never comes true, I'll tell myself the same thing I do every year, hoping that maybe just this once, it will come true. I'll promise myself
Next year will be different.
So it could be because I'm not getting any presents from my family (A selfish reason, but at least I'm being honest right?) or maybe because no-ones making me a birthday cake, or even because It's just another day of school for me tommorow, and yes all those reasons are selfish, I guess I'm just feeling it so much because this is the first time I won't be getting any of those things I used to take for granted.
Maybe it's because I'm turning seventeen, which lets face it, is an in-between age, it means nothing except now I can go to juvi. Or maybe because seventeen reminds me of that song by Metro Station, 'Seventeen Forever' and that just makes me sad.
Maybe it's cos I'm growing up and just like it slowly happend with christmas, birthdays are no longer so exciting.
So, I'll heave a sigh, and face the day tommorow, and even though it never comes true, I'll tell myself the same thing I do every year, hoping that maybe just this once, it will come true. I'll promise myself
Next year will be different.
I Took a Life.
Today I killed a spider.
Alright, so the event in itself doesn't sound so abnormal does it? But it made me think.
Let me describe the situation to you first.
Now to make it clear, I don't usually have a problem with those little jumping spiders, or the oddly named daddy-long legs. If they keep out of my way, I keep out of theirs.
Can't say the same goes for those awful hairy shiny monstrosities that make my hands shake for an hour after spotting one, but that's a different issue altogether.
Now, as I stated above, I have no problem with daddy-long legs, until they crawl on the bath towel I happen to be using.
Not going to get graphic here, but safe to say the towel ended up on the floor with me jumping up and down on it within a split second. I then took a second shower, washed the towel, washed my feet with soap, shook for half an hour and checked the bathroom for any more lurking creepy crawlies.
Ah the joys of arachnophobia.
So why did I just relate that seemingly pointless tale to you?
Because it got me thinking, why was that spider’s life worth so little to me? What made it so easy to kill comparative to a human? The way it looked? It's size? It's lack of consciousness, or thought? Or maybe just my own lack of humanity, morality or...
Damnit. I ran out of words that ended in ity.
Maybe I'm looking for compassion.
I doubt I'll find it though.
Alright, so the event in itself doesn't sound so abnormal does it? But it made me think.
Let me describe the situation to you first.
Now to make it clear, I don't usually have a problem with those little jumping spiders, or the oddly named daddy-long legs. If they keep out of my way, I keep out of theirs.
Can't say the same goes for those awful hairy shiny monstrosities that make my hands shake for an hour after spotting one, but that's a different issue altogether.
Now, as I stated above, I have no problem with daddy-long legs, until they crawl on the bath towel I happen to be using.
Not going to get graphic here, but safe to say the towel ended up on the floor with me jumping up and down on it within a split second. I then took a second shower, washed the towel, washed my feet with soap, shook for half an hour and checked the bathroom for any more lurking creepy crawlies.
Ah the joys of arachnophobia.
So why did I just relate that seemingly pointless tale to you?
Because it got me thinking, why was that spider’s life worth so little to me? What made it so easy to kill comparative to a human? The way it looked? It's size? It's lack of consciousness, or thought? Or maybe just my own lack of humanity, morality or...
Damnit. I ran out of words that ended in ity.
Maybe I'm looking for compassion.
I doubt I'll find it though.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
A Dream
I think I was born in the wrong era.
I wish I belonged to a world of knights and quests, where ballads were sung with gusto in the King's own court, where bards wandered the lands and earned their living doing so.
In a world where chivalry was not so dead, nor loyalty forsaken. Words were an art, and poetry common. Paintings had talent behind them, not some narcotic work of paint splattered on canvas with no skill or thought.
I want to live in a time when men showed integrity and worthyness and gallentry. When people were not so consumed by their own lives, by time and jobs and money, when people did not have to worry about pollution or bombs or the price of oil.
I want to live in a world where when you walk into a village, you are greeted by the sound of a blacksmiths hammer, the clop of iron shod horses, I want to see Kings greeted by trumpets and fanfare, where his men will gladly die for him. I want to see unwavering loyalty in the face of death.
When music was something heard upon a harp or flute and could bring tears to the eyes of courtiers, when soft sweet melodies were commonstance.
I want to see young lovers writing letters to one another, and meeting under a soulful moon, I want to see red roses and glorious castles.
I want a world that no longer exists.
I want a dream.
I wish I belonged to a world of knights and quests, where ballads were sung with gusto in the King's own court, where bards wandered the lands and earned their living doing so.
In a world where chivalry was not so dead, nor loyalty forsaken. Words were an art, and poetry common. Paintings had talent behind them, not some narcotic work of paint splattered on canvas with no skill or thought.
I want to live in a time when men showed integrity and worthyness and gallentry. When people were not so consumed by their own lives, by time and jobs and money, when people did not have to worry about pollution or bombs or the price of oil.
I want to live in a world where when you walk into a village, you are greeted by the sound of a blacksmiths hammer, the clop of iron shod horses, I want to see Kings greeted by trumpets and fanfare, where his men will gladly die for him. I want to see unwavering loyalty in the face of death.
When music was something heard upon a harp or flute and could bring tears to the eyes of courtiers, when soft sweet melodies were commonstance.
I want to see young lovers writing letters to one another, and meeting under a soulful moon, I want to see red roses and glorious castles.
I want a world that no longer exists.
I want a dream.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Snowboarding
Epiphany.
i initially hated snowboarding. The feeling was mutual.
Ok, background info coming along here. It’s my school holidays (exams in a few weeks oh joy) and so I decided to go on a snow camp to Ruapehu, in National Park, in New Zealand for those people who are not obsessive geographers.
Now to get down to this lovely natural environment, one must take the train.
For six hours.
Alright, so initially, the idea of training somewhere is rather exciting, beats bussing right?
After four hours I had eaten a packet of grainwaves, drunk two L&Ps (Yes I freely admit I’m addicted) was craving coffee, had asked the trolley lady (Hogwarts Express anybody?) for a sandwich twice because she forgot the first time and I spent twenty minutes lamenting the loss of said sandwich having been reduced to giggling when told my sandwich had run away (Yes, I imagined a ham and mustard sandwich sprouting little legs and running down the compartment screaming 'help me help me!' it was just too funny) I had deduced that the train attendants name was Shawn, and that my phone had no reception.
Life was looking grim, but after a packet of tim-tams and a good ole rap along session to Fort Minor, the journey became more bearable.
That’s of course not going into detail about my strange seating companions who were of such an...Interesting nature that I found myself suddenly rather grateful I had a cold and had lost my sense of smell judging by their disposition and the facial expressions and breathing patterns of my fellow passengers.
Er. Moving on.
I'd never seen snow before and I have to say I was disappointed. There I had for the best part of sixteen years, been holding on to this image of pure white powdered snow, soft and fluffy and cool in my hands, perfect to make snow balls and play in.
It was freezing, slippery and looked like someone had left their freezer on extra cold for too long.
It was just ice.
A whole load of ice compacted together and nastily good and getting past your gloves and melting torturously against your wrists.
Once I'd got over the fact that I'd just had my childhood dream shattered, I moved on to more important issues, like snowboarding, or as the old man behind me in the queue for the ski chairs had said 'one of them skateboard things'.
Aside from the fact that I had no grip, fell over more times than I could count, decided that my snowboard was out to get me, and made intimate friends with the snow by face planting in it an embarrassing number of times, it was great.
Sense the sarcasm people.
It didn't help that my klutz of a best friend was somehow whizzing down the mountain past me and that I was stuck in a place called Happy Valley.
Happy Valley.
I ask you. The name itself is enough to make you consider beating yourself to death with the snowboard. It was a condescending name and didn't even fit, ok for one thing everyone in the valley was anything but happy; we were all beginners, failing miserably at skiing or snowboarding or whatever other foolhardy activity they had decided to engage in, we were stuck in a valley while the experts lorded their greatness over us, and the place looked like somewhere in Mordor out of Lord of the Rings. There was nothing happy about it.
Except when I bombarded the chairlift attendants with snow. That was fun.
However it wasn't all bad, the hot wedges with sour cream and sweet chilli sauce were enough for anyone to die for, and there were an inordinate number of rather nice looking guys to watch...uh for snowboarding techniques of course...
So snowboarding and I did not agree, however I had by this point another two days of it ahead of me, it was too late to switch to skis and I was too embarrassed and stubborn to give up right then, I mean how hard could it be to get snowboarding right?
It didn't help that everyone else in the camp had snowboarding experience, but they were all lovely people and I enjoyed my time at camp, playing awesome card games and ending up scum every game, trying to breakdance, getting my beanie stolen a billion and one times (always managed to get it back though :D) getting high off coffee and dancing until midnight to pendulum. Come on, how could that not be fun!?
On Friday, which happened to be the last day we got to go snowboarding, I got it.
Typical.
Life just has it in for me, I mean; I couldn't have gotten it earlier could I? No, I had to get it the last day I was actually in the vicinity. Still, It was an amazing feeling, zigzagging down the mountain, doing three-sixty turns in the snow and speeding past people without falling over (yea you better believe it people) and sending up mean sprays of snow as I came to a dramatic stop. Oh yeah, it was AWESOME.
Then we got gale force winds, thick cloud rolling in until I couldn't see a meter ahead and blinding, painful rain was mauling my face as I sped down the mountain feeling like ice daggers on my cheeks. So we retreated back to the lodge for another round of scum (guess who lost, AGAIN!) and for our themed night of grandparents, involving me, a lumberjacks shirt, my beanie covering my hair and a whole lot of toothpaste to the face as facial hair, good times.
So yeah, I still hold firmly to the belief that surfing is just a whole lot more fun than snowboarding, but the problem is, snowboarding is sneaky, it creeps up on you and all the while you think you hate it and you suck at it and then you go home and you can't stop thinking about it, and talking about it, and yes I admit, obsessively dreaming about it.
Damnit.
I'm hooked.
i initially hated snowboarding. The feeling was mutual.
Ok, background info coming along here. It’s my school holidays (exams in a few weeks oh joy) and so I decided to go on a snow camp to Ruapehu, in National Park, in New Zealand for those people who are not obsessive geographers.
Now to get down to this lovely natural environment, one must take the train.
For six hours.
Alright, so initially, the idea of training somewhere is rather exciting, beats bussing right?
After four hours I had eaten a packet of grainwaves, drunk two L&Ps (Yes I freely admit I’m addicted) was craving coffee, had asked the trolley lady (Hogwarts Express anybody?) for a sandwich twice because she forgot the first time and I spent twenty minutes lamenting the loss of said sandwich having been reduced to giggling when told my sandwich had run away (Yes, I imagined a ham and mustard sandwich sprouting little legs and running down the compartment screaming 'help me help me!' it was just too funny) I had deduced that the train attendants name was Shawn, and that my phone had no reception.
Life was looking grim, but after a packet of tim-tams and a good ole rap along session to Fort Minor, the journey became more bearable.
That’s of course not going into detail about my strange seating companions who were of such an...Interesting nature that I found myself suddenly rather grateful I had a cold and had lost my sense of smell judging by their disposition and the facial expressions and breathing patterns of my fellow passengers.
Er. Moving on.
I'd never seen snow before and I have to say I was disappointed. There I had for the best part of sixteen years, been holding on to this image of pure white powdered snow, soft and fluffy and cool in my hands, perfect to make snow balls and play in.
It was freezing, slippery and looked like someone had left their freezer on extra cold for too long.
It was just ice.
A whole load of ice compacted together and nastily good and getting past your gloves and melting torturously against your wrists.
Once I'd got over the fact that I'd just had my childhood dream shattered, I moved on to more important issues, like snowboarding, or as the old man behind me in the queue for the ski chairs had said 'one of them skateboard things'.
Aside from the fact that I had no grip, fell over more times than I could count, decided that my snowboard was out to get me, and made intimate friends with the snow by face planting in it an embarrassing number of times, it was great.
Sense the sarcasm people.
It didn't help that my klutz of a best friend was somehow whizzing down the mountain past me and that I was stuck in a place called Happy Valley.
Happy Valley.
I ask you. The name itself is enough to make you consider beating yourself to death with the snowboard. It was a condescending name and didn't even fit, ok for one thing everyone in the valley was anything but happy; we were all beginners, failing miserably at skiing or snowboarding or whatever other foolhardy activity they had decided to engage in, we were stuck in a valley while the experts lorded their greatness over us, and the place looked like somewhere in Mordor out of Lord of the Rings. There was nothing happy about it.
Except when I bombarded the chairlift attendants with snow. That was fun.
However it wasn't all bad, the hot wedges with sour cream and sweet chilli sauce were enough for anyone to die for, and there were an inordinate number of rather nice looking guys to watch...uh for snowboarding techniques of course...
So snowboarding and I did not agree, however I had by this point another two days of it ahead of me, it was too late to switch to skis and I was too embarrassed and stubborn to give up right then, I mean how hard could it be to get snowboarding right?
It didn't help that everyone else in the camp had snowboarding experience, but they were all lovely people and I enjoyed my time at camp, playing awesome card games and ending up scum every game, trying to breakdance, getting my beanie stolen a billion and one times (always managed to get it back though :D) getting high off coffee and dancing until midnight to pendulum. Come on, how could that not be fun!?
On Friday, which happened to be the last day we got to go snowboarding, I got it.
Typical.
Life just has it in for me, I mean; I couldn't have gotten it earlier could I? No, I had to get it the last day I was actually in the vicinity. Still, It was an amazing feeling, zigzagging down the mountain, doing three-sixty turns in the snow and speeding past people without falling over (yea you better believe it people) and sending up mean sprays of snow as I came to a dramatic stop. Oh yeah, it was AWESOME.
Then we got gale force winds, thick cloud rolling in until I couldn't see a meter ahead and blinding, painful rain was mauling my face as I sped down the mountain feeling like ice daggers on my cheeks. So we retreated back to the lodge for another round of scum (guess who lost, AGAIN!) and for our themed night of grandparents, involving me, a lumberjacks shirt, my beanie covering my hair and a whole lot of toothpaste to the face as facial hair, good times.
So yeah, I still hold firmly to the belief that surfing is just a whole lot more fun than snowboarding, but the problem is, snowboarding is sneaky, it creeps up on you and all the while you think you hate it and you suck at it and then you go home and you can't stop thinking about it, and talking about it, and yes I admit, obsessively dreaming about it.
Damnit.
I'm hooked.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Time
Time is a very odd concept in itself. I mean since the ancient Greeks (and well before) people have been trying to define time. to understand it and be able to put it away in a box and say 'solved it' and move on to the next great mystery. But it's not that simple. so we've confined time to hours and minutes and seconds. years.
But it hasn't changed anything. not really.
Time goes so fast and at the same time so slowly. In one hand I'm waiting, have been waiting so long to turn eighteen. To be able to take control of my life, and It seems I'll never get there. But then on the other hand I look back and realise I've spent over sixteen years in this world, and sometimes it seems its all passed in the blink of an eye. How did I not notice when I stopped saying 'mummy' when I stopped playing tag and started caring about what other people thought. When did I grow too old to have fun? when did I stop being a child, stop believing in the tooth fairy, stop wishing on shooting stars, stop believing in magic?
And when I say that I can't wait to be an adult and leave home, is it so wrong that I can't help but think wistfully of being a child again and wanting to so badly be that wide-eyed girl who laughed too much and smiled too much and didn't care.
I'm scared of growing old, and I wonder if old people are too. They were young once, I wonder if it feels like only yesterday to them, if they were at the start of their life, full of promise and hopes and dreams, and now they're here. Old and weary, and wrinkled, full of memories and lost opportunities, feeling like the world has passed them by, and time has played some cruel trick upon them, stealing their years.
And as I stop and think about here and now, this very second, it's already passed me by. moving, always moving, why can't I stop it, make it pause. If i close my eyes and hold breath and listen to the silence, i can almost pretend that the worlds stopped too, that for one moment in time, everything is still, static, waiting.
Why does everything have to move so fast? How can it be that your life can change in a few short seconds? I don't want to wake up and suddenly realise that I'm old and have nothing left. That I've spent my life without noticing, I'm not going to let opportunities pass me by, I'm not going to forget my dreams, not waste my life worrying and fretting and then realise I'm out of time.
You only get one shot
and life's too short not to take it.
But it hasn't changed anything. not really.
Time goes so fast and at the same time so slowly. In one hand I'm waiting, have been waiting so long to turn eighteen. To be able to take control of my life, and It seems I'll never get there. But then on the other hand I look back and realise I've spent over sixteen years in this world, and sometimes it seems its all passed in the blink of an eye. How did I not notice when I stopped saying 'mummy' when I stopped playing tag and started caring about what other people thought. When did I grow too old to have fun? when did I stop being a child, stop believing in the tooth fairy, stop wishing on shooting stars, stop believing in magic?
And when I say that I can't wait to be an adult and leave home, is it so wrong that I can't help but think wistfully of being a child again and wanting to so badly be that wide-eyed girl who laughed too much and smiled too much and didn't care.
I'm scared of growing old, and I wonder if old people are too. They were young once, I wonder if it feels like only yesterday to them, if they were at the start of their life, full of promise and hopes and dreams, and now they're here. Old and weary, and wrinkled, full of memories and lost opportunities, feeling like the world has passed them by, and time has played some cruel trick upon them, stealing their years.
And as I stop and think about here and now, this very second, it's already passed me by. moving, always moving, why can't I stop it, make it pause. If i close my eyes and hold breath and listen to the silence, i can almost pretend that the worlds stopped too, that for one moment in time, everything is still, static, waiting.
Why does everything have to move so fast? How can it be that your life can change in a few short seconds? I don't want to wake up and suddenly realise that I'm old and have nothing left. That I've spent my life without noticing, I'm not going to let opportunities pass me by, I'm not going to forget my dreams, not waste my life worrying and fretting and then realise I'm out of time.
You only get one shot
and life's too short not to take it.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Tommorow, the sky.
It catches your attention.
simplistic yet inspiring, what does it mean?
the old RAF motto, those that have been hailed in Churchill's speech as 'never in the field of human conflict has so much been owed by so many, to so few'. the brave men who flew the across the heavens, fighting and dying for Britain.
They patrolled the skies, their domain limitless.
but they did not conquer. for who could conquer the eternity of blue, encompassing the world from reach to reach.
The day has not come when the heavens are conquered, for mankind is not yet all powerful.
But the message is there, bold, brave, powerful.
Today we have conquered the earth.
Tomorrow, the sky.
simplistic yet inspiring, what does it mean?
the old RAF motto, those that have been hailed in Churchill's speech as 'never in the field of human conflict has so much been owed by so many, to so few'. the brave men who flew the across the heavens, fighting and dying for Britain.
They patrolled the skies, their domain limitless.
but they did not conquer. for who could conquer the eternity of blue, encompassing the world from reach to reach.
The day has not come when the heavens are conquered, for mankind is not yet all powerful.
But the message is there, bold, brave, powerful.
Today we have conquered the earth.
Tomorrow, the sky.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
War
"A single death is a tragedy, a million is a statistic". These are the famously cruel words of Joseph Stalin, a man who murdered millions in his dictator leadership over the USSR. However these cold words hold more truth then we like to admit.
If a single person dies, it can be like the end of the world, our light, our meaning in life, is gone. But if you hear about the wars that go on, the thousands of soldiers who are dying, we may spare a thought for them yes, and perhaps think about the cruelty and useless loss of human life, and how wrong it is. Yet the numbers are too large to really comprehend, A thousand dead? Ten thousand? They are just numbers on a page, the only difference are the zeros which are added on, the tragedy itself cannot be measured or understood.
Faceless people, gone.
Imagine receiving the news that your father, brother, or son has been killed. Now imagine ten thousand people receiving this news.It's still too hard to perceive.
Millions never returned from the Great War, their bodies never found, never remembered.
Their loss is a tragedy which can never fully be comprehended.
I hear the train come clanking past
And the dead faces in the gloom
Rattling, it rushes by too fast
Warriors, taken all too soon
Sentry’s rusting bayonet in hand
Face fixed in a grimace of fear
Flesh rotting from his final stand
Grinning in some mockery of cheer
Carriages creaking past by night
The men, so cold and so alone
In silence, a mockery of respite
The soldiers who will never go home
If a single person dies, it can be like the end of the world, our light, our meaning in life, is gone. But if you hear about the wars that go on, the thousands of soldiers who are dying, we may spare a thought for them yes, and perhaps think about the cruelty and useless loss of human life, and how wrong it is. Yet the numbers are too large to really comprehend, A thousand dead? Ten thousand? They are just numbers on a page, the only difference are the zeros which are added on, the tragedy itself cannot be measured or understood.
Faceless people, gone.
Imagine receiving the news that your father, brother, or son has been killed. Now imagine ten thousand people receiving this news.It's still too hard to perceive.
Millions never returned from the Great War, their bodies never found, never remembered.
Their loss is a tragedy which can never fully be comprehended.
I hear the train come clanking past
And the dead faces in the gloom
Rattling, it rushes by too fast
Warriors, taken all too soon
Sentry’s rusting bayonet in hand
Face fixed in a grimace of fear
Flesh rotting from his final stand
Grinning in some mockery of cheer
Carriages creaking past by night
The men, so cold and so alone
In silence, a mockery of respite
The soldiers who will never go home
Musings on a Broken Heart
Your name is silent now upon my lips
As down my solemn cheeks that teardrop drips
I swear a thousand times I called your name
And now you say you aren’t the one to blame
You led me on a long and merry dance
And then lost me quick, when you had the chance
Did you smile when I told you all my fears?
Was it fun to see me reduced me to tears?
Did it amuse you so, to watch me break-
To destroy the love that you helped to make
Did it please you when my heart was torn in two?
I bet you laughed when you realised it was because of you
As down my solemn cheeks that teardrop drips
I swear a thousand times I called your name
And now you say you aren’t the one to blame
You led me on a long and merry dance
And then lost me quick, when you had the chance
Did you smile when I told you all my fears?
Was it fun to see me reduced me to tears?
Did it amuse you so, to watch me break-
To destroy the love that you helped to make
Did it please you when my heart was torn in two?
I bet you laughed when you realised it was because of you
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