1.42

It starts. The music pulls my body with it, not caring for limits, not caring for pain, not caring for anything but the love of it.
The beat tunes with my body's.
My head is thrown with my arms like everything's detached.
The heaving breaths are lost in the muggy air, my dripping hair stuck to my face.

I'm alive.

This is when my smile and tears come at the same time.
This is when I don't think.
This is when I just do.
This is the minute forty two.

Wanting

Sometimes the anticipation is better than the moment. And the desire is better than the result. And the number that isn't called is more painful than the bruised knees. The replaying is easier than the acceptance. And the questions have more possibilities than the answers.

This is when you don't get what you want.

My rules for the new season? There are no rules.

Numbered sentences as to why womens' magazines are nonsensical:

1.) Why are we told what not to wear? Not to accessorize the accessory. What if I want to fucking accessories the shit out of the accessory? What if I don't want to accessorize at all?

2.) HARPERS BAZAAR: get back to me when you come up with something that's a little less sheer than Wolford sheers because YOUR RULES FOR THE NEW SEASON just aren't cutting it. I don't want rules.

3.) I could go on but then I'd be wasting my time writing about something that really grinds my gears.

Buy NAT GEO.

Eskimo Joe

An Eskimo has no permanent possessions to be stolen, no towns to be invaded, no class system to be slotted into. And while they might not have the labels, they wear real fur. While they might not have an iPod they make their own music. And while this may never be read while an Eskimo, I think sometimes, I would like to be one.

The flavour to savour

When you eat your favourtite food it always seems a little unfortunate that the last taste is tainted with a goodbye. Maybe the frist taste is better, and then it goes on to get less and less satisfying the more you eat. This usually happens with everything-bar toasted foccacia and kalamata marinated mixed stuffed olives-. (specific)

I am embarassed to admit that whilst writing this I had in mind eating eating a bag of cheeseballs. Delicious at first, but the more you eat the more your fingers become stained orange.
OLD HABITS DIE HARD.

The heart of life

Sometimes life can be as simple and complicated as the heart of it all. No matter how many labels, words, and explanations, there some things we will never quite grasp. It can be as intricate and scientific as it looks, or it can be as simple as staying alive.

Jiminy Cricket

I've cashed in on too many advantages.
I've listened to Jiminy Cricket when it suits.
I've wasted $80 to get somewhere 5 minutes faster.
I've procrastinated too much.
I've tried to change those who shant.
I've yelled at my parents when it is them who are there night after night.
I've made excuses to justify the inexcusable.
I've wasted my money on too much shit (but tantalising) American food.
I've become too good at being impulsive.
I've said too much hastily.
I've been too stubborn.
I've preached what I haven't always practised.
I've been vexed inasmuch of not being a better person.
So this is the last time will have to write of this because I wont do it no more.

Errr, money on the shit (but tantalising) American food might slip. But I think I can deal.

Noises

I don't think time makes you know someone.
I don't think that a ring rectifies things.
I never want to know everything.
Discovery was meant to be a wonder.
I think that sometimes the truth is too frightening.
Sometimes things are complicated.
Situations can be so sad.
Emotions have the ability to provide a longer slower death than anything physical.
Sometimes putting the headphones in is better than hearing.

The eye of the beholder.

When the world keeps spinning, and you think about how it does; scientifically, metaphorically, personally, how do you comprehend it all? What do we chose to comprehend and how? I often wonder why I think what I do. And then find myself thinking about what I think about. Bewildering.
Why is it certain things that touch you and others that get looked past or not looked at at all.
Do we look at things with a cynic's fate or a dreamer's destiny?
Or do we not look that far, scared of what we might realise? Worried that if we see it now chance might not play its role. Like writing on a keyboard and even when you backspace you still remember what you saw.
And in life not all actions have a reaction. Because both unlike and like science, there are too many catalysts that speed things up. And there are too many reactions that find themselves deterred.
Some things come, others go. Some things forgotten, others not.
In the beauty of something a portion of the credit always belongs to the eyes that it is being seen through.

The sleep, perchance to dream.

Sleep is not wasted when one has the ability to dream.

Mind if I smoke? Care if I die?

How can a lithe piece of paper filled with tobacco be so fatally attractive in the eyes of some?

What's good company when someone is better friends with the cigarette?
Needing their company every five minutes rather than yours.

Does one not realise that as they joviantly laugh at the grotesque picture on the pack, that picture is nonchalantly becoming their reality?

Riddle me why it is not self indulgent to be paying to kill yourself slowly but surely?

And 50 years on, the tobacco stained skin, the husky voice and the lined face don't quit when you do.

But behind the anger it evokes, the naivety it exposes, the scars it leaves, maybe, just maybe one day, you will see why it hurts more than anything else. You will see when one of the people you love the most gets lung cancer 30 years after he has quit. But his 40 years of not having quit came back to haunt him. Because unfortunately it put up the unbeatable battle. And just when you think you've won you find that 5 years on he dies because his lungs are too scarred to keep working.

And now, maybe now, you can begin to fathom why it is the hurt that outweighs all the rest.
And that now the rest means rest in peace.
And the good bye you used to say to him, you instead have to say to his coffin.

I miss you Grandad.

We pass this way but once.

May your kind smile be the one to linger with us till our last days.
May you let us see the world through your twinkling hazel eyes.
May the love you held for us give us strength through these trying times.
May your creased skin still hold all the memories even now that you're gone.
May your kind voice echo in our thoughts when it is you whom we think of.
May it be your face that lights up the night sky if we cannot now have you in our days.

All I know is the sun is shining.

Writing an essay is a little bit like the a cloudy day.
If you think about it, the sun never actually goes out. Someone, somewhere, in the world always has it. And even when it is cloudy, above the clouds is the sun, smiling down with its big cherry face giving you the answers. The clouds are merely the procrastination one utilises to avoid doing the essay, the procrastination that tells you there isn't the information up there to do it, to get on with it. To nail that shit. To A+ the mother fucker.

But the clouds always clear at some point and even if there are only those few rays of sunshine pounding down on the pavement it's enough to make the start.

Have a sun shiney day, not a cloudy one.

I like this word.

I got that idiosyncrasy.