Albumism #1, and coming out of comfort zones

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From top left: Ed Sheeran – x | Arctic Monkeys – Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not | Arctic Monkeys – Humbug | Arctic Monkeys – Favourite Worst Nightmare | The 1975 (Self-titled) | Bastille – Bad Blood | Saves The Day (Self-titled) | Coldplay – Ghost Stories

A bunch of new stuff to listen to for the next few months; if I don’t get too un-comfy with the thought, maybe I can even review some of these things. Much thanks to friends for the copies! I promise, when I get a job and a credit card, I’ll start purchasing music on my own. No more torrenting. I swear! (But do internet promises really bind the conscience?)


It’s this new house. I’m sure of it. There’s something in the way this house fails to become familiar to me. Nearly a year since we moved, and I still can’t figure out why I can’t sleep properly here; it never settles, either, but I suppose that’s because the whole thing is made of concrete and lacks the midnight creaks I’ve grown fond of at home where everything was ancient and wooden and wonderfully, painfully known to me. I could go on forever rambling about the things I find wrong with this house, and I would never truly find a single good thing about it save for the fact that it looks nice. Looks nice. Doesn’t actually function well enough.

I’ll just go back to Carlin.

 

 

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Nightmares

There is a man, a boy, a girl, and a lover.

There is a knife digging deep into the lover’s back; a knife digging deep into the girl’s chest, rife with horror and despair; incredulity making a show of all sorts out of the people in that all-too-vivid scene of illogical murder in the middle of the Plaza streets. There is a boy with a plastic bag of stolen goods, standing in front of a girl who only had to be kind for one second before letting the young thief laugh a cruel, harried laugh and leave with a manic smile on his face. There is a man. The weather is cold even though the sun is high up in the sky, and the man is livid. His eyes are never focused, his hands clench and unclench, hungry for the next neck to wrap it around. The man doesn’t smile, and the lover and the girl try to get past him but the man sees, has better eyes than the onlookers who have nothing better to do in a nightmare than to look around in disinterest and make the fear seem more palpable, frighteningly mundane… The lover drags the girl away in a hurry, but the man drags the knife away from its sheath and lets it soar straight into the back of the lover who looks so much like my Julius John. And then the knife that buries itself inside my chest is colder than the weather and suddenly it’s hot, and the boy thief is right there looking on and there is a dead body fifty metres from where I lay sobbing and clutching at air trying to reach the fallen lover, and the man looms over us and twists his head for a moment before his mouth arches in a smile and his chapped lips bleed where the smile forces it to part—

And then, the nightmare.

Odd Things

The odd thing here is that I know I fucked up, and that I’m scared shitless about what happens next.

The odder thing is that my fuck-ups have gradually begun fixing up even without any sort of intervention on my part, and that while I’m scared shitless about what happens next, I’m actually happier than I’ve ever been.

The oddest thing is that my brain is emptier than it has ever been and wringing words out my head makes me just want to cry, and I’m scared shitless about what happens next, but I’m excited about hurting my head and breaking my long writing hiatus apart by telling myself everything that happened like I wasn’t there and like I didn’t feel a thing about it when it happened.


When I swore to stay away from ALA, I meant it. That place has a life of its own, and it thrives on its members. [that word, right there, is a parasite to my brain; how long has it been since I had a non-perverted thought in my mind when someone says “member”? I cannot recall.] I was there when it was only beginning to flourish, and a mixture of self-loathing, commitment issues, and running away from the shit I’ve caused led to what was at once that best and worst decision I’ve ever made in my entire life. (Excluding that one time, with the cow joke and the corned beef.)

I still haven’t apologised to the people I should have apologised to. I’m not really quite sure how or when I should.

I wrote a letter once, to our then-moderator. I never gave it to him.


It’s a very strange thing to watch people around you moving fast.

People say life isn’t like a movie, that no matter how close movies get to reality it will never truly bleed into what happens around you that are outside the realms of such illusory things. There is, however, that one line that reminds me how awfully false these thoughts could be: stranger than fiction. Reality is stranger. Fiction allows me to time my friends’ maturities, keep them as children that have no responsibilities further than those a school organisation requires. Fiction would let me let us stay the same. I wouldn’t have to watch them drift away because of work or other things, and I wouldn’t have to feel left out again because ‘oh look they’re doing things with their life and I’m here drinking coffee and wondering what happens next and oh look they’ve graduate with honors they like what they’re doing they’re happy where they are oooh food’. Fiction would let me stop these people from moving fast.

Or slow them down, at the very least.


The odd thing is, I’m not quite sure what happens next, and yet I’m happier than I ever was knowing where I went.

Home

In the mornings, it is filled with a drowsy silence that seems imaginary come afternoon, when everyone arrives in trickles, gradually talking Silence into a deep sleep that ends at night, and all the way until the next morning.

It’s hard to imagine I’d be right back where I began. Two years ago I had committed myself to the laborious job of forgetting everything that has to do with writing and art. It was a phase, I suppose, that I swore I’d never get past, and I’ve never been more wrong. This place is home, and yet not home at all. It’s a black hole that swallows you up and clamps on to you if you get too close. And while I truly adore these people and love them to bits, there’s a looming destructive force that surrounds every second I’m with them that just frightens me. They’ve all changed, and grown, and I’m the rear guard and…

Yeah.

Suits

So lately I’ve gotten into the unhealthy habit of going on a rampage and watching two entire seasons in a day, and I can’t even say I’m sorry for it because gods damn, Suits is going to flick me in the forehead every single time I think of trying to become a lawyer. Not necessarily a good thing, you understand, but it has its merits; it warns me, for one. Somehow I keep getting the idea that if I do try to become an attorney and they unleash me into the world, I’ll only end up becoming a sub-atomic shrimp in an ocean full of sharks and that creature large enough to swallow a nine-foot great white. I assume that will have to be one hell of an adventure, though, because c’mon, a whole ocean to watch? I’d be a fool to let it pass by right?

Right?

Wrong, as evidenced by my shallow tears and the fact that I empathise with fictional people more than actual living human beings with real experiences and who I can actually touch and converse with had I given it more than a split-second’s thought. In any case, I’m a Donna, and I might not be as dashing as she is (oh, her boobies are heavenly too, may I add, and those are the words of a girl who hardly thinks breasts are anything special at all) nor as quick-witted and humorous, but I can try, at the very least, to be that awesome.

Well, this is a sad attempt at trying to revive my writing as I haven’t written anything remotely readable for the past two years or so, but given that I have been handed the task to tell a couple of kids stories about writing stuff about life and its many mundane wonders, I guess I need to start retelling myself everything that I should have told myself all those years ago.

And start relearning how to make sense of these jumbles of letters.

And maaaaybe start coming up with a better blog.