Fuck. I love you and I hate you and you are forever taunting me with the promise and allure of something that could be but which, deep down, I know will never come to be because you're so fucking wrapped up in your own petty and superficial discriminations that I will forever remain a friend and nothing more.
Jesus fucking christ, why is it that your persuit of an older boy leads you to completely ignore me? Why is it that you must make things SO FUCKING UNFAIR?
Of course, that's being silly. Dear Peter, you don't actually expect life to be fair, do you?
Of course I fucking don't but please, let me just have this one chance.
But, no, it doesn't work that way and never will because we all know that people such as me dont get chances. You get given what you've got and have to dance to the fucking tune.
Dance you fucker, dance.
Oh, I hate myself, how I love you and hate you.
30/09/2007
Inevitability. A work of fiction.
It's strange, but I woke up knowing that I have seven days to live. Don't ask me how I know. It seems to defy all logic, and those who know me will testify that I have no time for irrational ideas. Yet, somehow, I know that my death is impending in the near future.
What should I do? That was the question I asked myself. It seems to be the kind of thing that one plays with as a thought experiment; what would you do if you knew how long you had left? Would you tell someone you loved them? Reconcile any differences? Live life to the full?
Sadly, it just doesn't seem to work that way. I feel no drama or apprehension about my impending demise. It's as if I've accepted it as something natural, something that is beyond mere human concerns. In a way it is; no matter what I do, the outcome will be the same. So what did I do? Well, the first day I did what one would expect; I tried to enjoy every moment. I phoned up friends who I hadn't spoken to for years; I went out and had an extravagant dinner. I indulged in some petty crimes; of course, I made sure not to be caught- I didn't want to die in jail, after all.
The following second and third days I spent indulging in my own personal pleasures- relaxing in the sun, finishing books I had laid to rest weeks ago.
Of course, things like this never maintain such a perfect state. The equilibriam must be restored, and every man must have his fair share of troubles up until the day he dies. In my personal case, things started to go wrong when I told the girl I had liked for the past several months that I thought I loved her. She didn't recieve it particularly well, although it could have been worse; I shall spare the details, but suffice to say following that phone call I didn't speak to her again.
The fourth day saw me enter a depressive stage. As it dawned on me the magnitude of what would be happening, I gained a sense of urgency that had been hithero unknown in me. I withdrew all my money from my bank acounts. I tried to maximise the amount of time I spent awake; but it seemed that I just grew ever more tired as the hours went by.
I can barely remember the fifth day. I spent it dosed up on beer and drugs. For a brief period they alleviated the rising sense of horror I felt, but then I succumbed to the overwhelming feelings of abject misery. For hours I stayed awake, staring at the sunset, watching it slowly drip away into the horizon like some irretrievable part of me.
On the sixth day I tried to kill myself. At first I took an overdose; all that happened was that I was rendered unconcious on the bathroom floor for half an hour. I woke up to find myself covered in vomit that my stomach had brought up. Next I attempted to stab myself. The pain was intense, and for a short while it brought me back in tune with reality. But no matter how hard I tried, the pain would subside to a dull, throbbing ache that would rise to a crescendo and then fall again. It appeared that I could not die until the appointed hour.
That night I stayed outside. I didn't feel like sleeping- my body seemed numb. A feeling of apathy had gripped my body and held it tight, preventing me from caring about anything or anyone. From inside my house the phone rang, but I let it carry on until the sharp chime had subsided. I thought of the ones I would be leaving mehind, but no sorrow could be raised. I case my mind back to the girl I thought I had loved; I realised that I had merely been caught up with my own melodrama; it had only been an infatuation, nothing more.
I felt no regret, no sadness, nothing.
Looking at the stars, I wondered whether there would ever be a time when they would be reachable, or if they would remain forever as silent taunts, promising us a world we could never have.
I returned back inside, and entered my room. Earlier I had emptied it of everything; the clear white walls helped me to focus on myself. Closing the blinds and turning off the lights, I sat there, in the corner. I sat there awaiting my death.
What should I do? That was the question I asked myself. It seems to be the kind of thing that one plays with as a thought experiment; what would you do if you knew how long you had left? Would you tell someone you loved them? Reconcile any differences? Live life to the full?
Sadly, it just doesn't seem to work that way. I feel no drama or apprehension about my impending demise. It's as if I've accepted it as something natural, something that is beyond mere human concerns. In a way it is; no matter what I do, the outcome will be the same. So what did I do? Well, the first day I did what one would expect; I tried to enjoy every moment. I phoned up friends who I hadn't spoken to for years; I went out and had an extravagant dinner. I indulged in some petty crimes; of course, I made sure not to be caught- I didn't want to die in jail, after all.
The following second and third days I spent indulging in my own personal pleasures- relaxing in the sun, finishing books I had laid to rest weeks ago.
Of course, things like this never maintain such a perfect state. The equilibriam must be restored, and every man must have his fair share of troubles up until the day he dies. In my personal case, things started to go wrong when I told the girl I had liked for the past several months that I thought I loved her. She didn't recieve it particularly well, although it could have been worse; I shall spare the details, but suffice to say following that phone call I didn't speak to her again.
The fourth day saw me enter a depressive stage. As it dawned on me the magnitude of what would be happening, I gained a sense of urgency that had been hithero unknown in me. I withdrew all my money from my bank acounts. I tried to maximise the amount of time I spent awake; but it seemed that I just grew ever more tired as the hours went by.
I can barely remember the fifth day. I spent it dosed up on beer and drugs. For a brief period they alleviated the rising sense of horror I felt, but then I succumbed to the overwhelming feelings of abject misery. For hours I stayed awake, staring at the sunset, watching it slowly drip away into the horizon like some irretrievable part of me.
On the sixth day I tried to kill myself. At first I took an overdose; all that happened was that I was rendered unconcious on the bathroom floor for half an hour. I woke up to find myself covered in vomit that my stomach had brought up. Next I attempted to stab myself. The pain was intense, and for a short while it brought me back in tune with reality. But no matter how hard I tried, the pain would subside to a dull, throbbing ache that would rise to a crescendo and then fall again. It appeared that I could not die until the appointed hour.
That night I stayed outside. I didn't feel like sleeping- my body seemed numb. A feeling of apathy had gripped my body and held it tight, preventing me from caring about anything or anyone. From inside my house the phone rang, but I let it carry on until the sharp chime had subsided. I thought of the ones I would be leaving mehind, but no sorrow could be raised. I case my mind back to the girl I thought I had loved; I realised that I had merely been caught up with my own melodrama; it had only been an infatuation, nothing more.
I felt no regret, no sadness, nothing.
Looking at the stars, I wondered whether there would ever be a time when they would be reachable, or if they would remain forever as silent taunts, promising us a world we could never have.
I returned back inside, and entered my room. Earlier I had emptied it of everything; the clear white walls helped me to focus on myself. Closing the blinds and turning off the lights, I sat there, in the corner. I sat there awaiting my death.
Bah. Ignore the previous post. It's a load of crap that I posted for no particular reason.
Ah well.
Just on the off-chance that anyone is reading this, Radiohead are now my second favourite band, after Muse. Their lyrics are brilliant; A Wolf At The Door in particular just seems so relevant to my life in a way.
Ah, the joys of music. Excellence.
Ah well.
Just on the off-chance that anyone is reading this, Radiohead are now my second favourite band, after Muse. Their lyrics are brilliant; A Wolf At The Door in particular just seems so relevant to my life in a way.
Ah, the joys of music. Excellence.
29/09/2007
What is the point?
To sit and think about what to write here seems to me to be missing the point. I intended this blog to be a refuge for my outpourings; an outlet for everything inside of me that I cannot release publicly. The fact that those outpourings are available for anyone to see is almost superfluous; of course, there are some posts that I would rather certain people do not read, but at the same time I feel it would be interesting to contrast my friends perceptions of me in the 'real' world to the persona that I present here.
Largely, I find that on close inspectoin, I really do not care for the person I appear to be on the outside. In social situations I find that I mix my words; I stutter occasionally, I say something and immediately regret it because I haven't thought it through; and when I do think, everyone moves on. I prefer the medium of text, in a way, because it allows me to express myself far clearer than if I were to simply talk; yet, I am aware that such an approach is usually frowned upon. Why? I personally do not know. Am I not allowed to express a slight inclination not to socially interact? I know that many people, some of whom I call my friends, would call me sad to go home at lunchtime by myself and to prefer solitude instead of people.
Why?
Whenever I walk through a crowd of people my own age, I feel immensely self-concious, beyond the realms of rationality. I can feel their eyes looking at my, summing me up, reaching conclusions on who I am and how I act and thus completely missing my character. Of course, my intellect tells me that they couldn't care who I am and are not bothered in the slightest; but my lack of self-esteem, coupled with a desire for people to like me for who I am, seems to get the better of me all the time.
So, in conclusion, text > real
Gah, as you can probably guess, I have no real purpose to this post. It's taken a rambling life of its own, and I'm sure that it will get rather confusing for you if you continue.
Ah well, I never said this was going to be easy.
What I'd really like is a girlfriend. Damn me and my lack of conformity to social norms, as well as a complete unattractiveness to anything female.
Largely, I find that on close inspectoin, I really do not care for the person I appear to be on the outside. In social situations I find that I mix my words; I stutter occasionally, I say something and immediately regret it because I haven't thought it through; and when I do think, everyone moves on. I prefer the medium of text, in a way, because it allows me to express myself far clearer than if I were to simply talk; yet, I am aware that such an approach is usually frowned upon. Why? I personally do not know. Am I not allowed to express a slight inclination not to socially interact? I know that many people, some of whom I call my friends, would call me sad to go home at lunchtime by myself and to prefer solitude instead of people.
Why?
Whenever I walk through a crowd of people my own age, I feel immensely self-concious, beyond the realms of rationality. I can feel their eyes looking at my, summing me up, reaching conclusions on who I am and how I act and thus completely missing my character. Of course, my intellect tells me that they couldn't care who I am and are not bothered in the slightest; but my lack of self-esteem, coupled with a desire for people to like me for who I am, seems to get the better of me all the time.
So, in conclusion, text > real
Gah, as you can probably guess, I have no real purpose to this post. It's taken a rambling life of its own, and I'm sure that it will get rather confusing for you if you continue.
Ah well, I never said this was going to be easy.
What I'd really like is a girlfriend. Damn me and my lack of conformity to social norms, as well as a complete unattractiveness to anything female.
27/09/2007
Woopdedoo
Well, finally, Halo 3 has come. I am quite aware that this is both immensely sad and quite out of character for me, but I have been anticipating this game for years and I cannot express the sheer amount of joy I experienced when I came home yesterday to find a large, black parcel sitting in my room. I may even, although there is only circumstantial evidence, have let out a little cry of sheer happiness. Some may say that I also did a little dance. Who can tell.
What is for sure is that now I am essentially devoting myself to this game for the coming weeks. After spending several hours playing the capaign, I can safely say that this is more than I could ever have hoped for. The sheer scale and spectacle on offer is breathtaking, and the atention to detail that is prevelvant throughout the entire design is simply staggering. Old weapons and characters have been brilliantly re-imagined; every new addition fits right at home; and most importantly, it feels like Halo. Halo 2 provided more of a linear experience; Halo 3 goes back to the roots by providing large, expansive, open-ended encounters that can be replayed in a multitude of ways. And the awesomness of it all; from the part when you have an entire spaceship hover overhead, dropping off an array of heavy vehicles to the time I ran a warthog off a large steep cliff onto a scarab and proceeded to blow it up, leaping clear in the nick of time.
And that's without even getting onto the Multiplayer, Forge or the Theatre. Needless to say, my mind has well and truly been blown.
If you're sitting there reading this and wondering why the hell I'm getting so worked up about a game, I ask you merely to allow me one source of obsession. It is rare to find me quite so enthusiastic; so let me have my vice :p
On other news, I'm feeling slightly better. Going to Jess's party on the 6th, which should simulteaneously provide entertainment and many kick-myself-later moments. Ah, wonderful.
Following that, there's Adams 18th too, which should be amusing, although I think that I shall be staying away from the alcohol (being sick is never fun).
And, on that happy note, I end this post. Farewell, whoever you are.
What is for sure is that now I am essentially devoting myself to this game for the coming weeks. After spending several hours playing the capaign, I can safely say that this is more than I could ever have hoped for. The sheer scale and spectacle on offer is breathtaking, and the atention to detail that is prevelvant throughout the entire design is simply staggering. Old weapons and characters have been brilliantly re-imagined; every new addition fits right at home; and most importantly, it feels like Halo. Halo 2 provided more of a linear experience; Halo 3 goes back to the roots by providing large, expansive, open-ended encounters that can be replayed in a multitude of ways. And the awesomness of it all; from the part when you have an entire spaceship hover overhead, dropping off an array of heavy vehicles to the time I ran a warthog off a large steep cliff onto a scarab and proceeded to blow it up, leaping clear in the nick of time.
And that's without even getting onto the Multiplayer, Forge or the Theatre. Needless to say, my mind has well and truly been blown.
If you're sitting there reading this and wondering why the hell I'm getting so worked up about a game, I ask you merely to allow me one source of obsession. It is rare to find me quite so enthusiastic; so let me have my vice :p
On other news, I'm feeling slightly better. Going to Jess's party on the 6th, which should simulteaneously provide entertainment and many kick-myself-later moments. Ah, wonderful.
Following that, there's Adams 18th too, which should be amusing, although I think that I shall be staying away from the alcohol (being sick is never fun).
And, on that happy note, I end this post. Farewell, whoever you are.
25/09/2007
Melancholy. A work of fiction
Gray rain splatters on the gray window, the drips running down in random trails, collecting and changing direction in accordance to some unseen force. I sit on my bed, staring past the blinds to the scene outside. The dull glimmer of ambient light that is found in any built up area illuminates the rain, but beyond the immediate surroundings everything fades into blackness; the moon is sheathed in thick clouds, and the darkness creeps up, like some enigmatic force.
I gaze without really seeing, thoughts running through my head. I savour this tranquility, where there is no intrusion from anyone else. Sometimes I think of Ode to a Nightingale by Keats; there's a sense of peace and passive calm that is present in the early morning that is entirely at odds wth the usual routine of life. This fragile sense of solitude is what I enjoy most.
The rain keeps on pouring down, and I find myself losing myself in the unpredictable rythm of their beats on the glass. Maybe, someday, I'll find someone to share this with.
I gaze without really seeing, thoughts running through my head. I savour this tranquility, where there is no intrusion from anyone else. Sometimes I think of Ode to a Nightingale by Keats; there's a sense of peace and passive calm that is present in the early morning that is entirely at odds wth the usual routine of life. This fragile sense of solitude is what I enjoy most.
The rain keeps on pouring down, and I find myself losing myself in the unpredictable rythm of their beats on the glass. Maybe, someday, I'll find someone to share this with.
Remember that night?
Sit, stand, what do I fucking care?
Have your drink, aren't you big and clever and grown up? Look at you, just like every other, swaying around completely headless, legless, fucking witless, join the crowd
Join the party
Sit down, I want to sit down let me fucking sit down
No, don't talk to me, you fucking cretin, I don't know you nor do I want to, you were moronic when you were sobre, why would I want to talk to you now?
Shit, who gives a fuck about responsibility? He does, does he? Meh, boring.
Wish I could talk to you, explain, maybe just tell you how I feel but I know the consequences, I know what would happen
Fuck this dichotomy; why is it that even though I try and avoid it, I always end up getting hurt by myself
Shat on by the world
I love you and I hate you and I wish, I wish I wish I wish I could explain all this to you but I can't even explain it to myself, so what fucking chance do I have?
Worthless, pointless, meaningless; Nietzsche had something going; but what does it matter when you're never going to get your point across anyway?
May as well stand up, give up, go home, throw up.
Throw up; now there's a good idea. Don't you feel clever now?
And all the while I'm missing out, avoiding the fuss, avoiding the life, the soul. If this is life and soul you can fucking well keep it, thankyou very much. I think I'll just sit here, with my coffee.
You like her too? Well, good luck mate; but you can fucking well have her, there's no room for me. Never had a chance; the glorious self-denial that accompanies infatuation is beginning to wear off and I can see just how delusionary I was to even hold for an instant the belief that I could make something of it.
Look at me; look at what I am, what I have. I have nothing, am nothing- not even a has-been, couldn't even get that far. Pathetic, that's what this is; and all the while your thoughts are churning churning churning and no sense can come.
No sense, no sense at all; of course not, you didn't expect to be able to make sense, did you?
And then it's over, people crying people laughing and oh look, it's the fucking cretins again, look at them go by, go by and die why don't you. I think I'll leave I think I'll stay I don't know what the fuck I'm doing so I'll follow you.
Oh look at you in the front; pretending that you never knew me and I know, I know now that imperceptibly something has changed and that maybe that invitation at the start will never be honoured, that our jokes and laughter and (could it be?) flirting is over and gone and will be restricted to the dusty reaches of memory for me to bring out on rainy days and wonder what the fuck happened.
Because something must have happened and I just fucking wish I knew what, but no-tells me, no-one ever fucking tells me anything and I just wish that I could get away from all of this, run away with you somewhere and make everything allright but I can't because of my fucking years and obligations and 'Oh, isn't that nice' demanour that holds no opinions, holds nothing of interest or worth.
I'm an empty shell, something to impose upon, and maybe that's what offered you the initial attraction but now the novelty has worn off and you guess, you don't know but you guess that I like you and so you discard me because you think I'm like all the others but I'm not, I'm fucking not, and you'll never know until one day when I'm somewhere and you're there with your drink and I can just smile because I know I saved myself and you didn't, you allowed yourself to get dragged down.
Call it boring, I call it freewill, and I'm more intelligent than you'll ever be so I couldn't fucking give a damn. Chances that you'll read this? None, but what does it matter. I doubt that anyone else reading this will ever know what it's about- consider it an interpretation of events, consider it a musing on what has been and what MIGHT be; oh of course, let's view in terms of Copenhagen theory and I know that in one universe I will ask the question that I cannot bring myself to here and then in another universe you will say no and in yet another you will say yes.
Oh, fuck, I know what Universe I wish I lived in, but I don't and I must face reality with this internal pain that I bring upon myself everytime I think you of and say your name and imagine your hair and think about what could have been.
Please, please just say yes or no and spare me having to hold on to this inherently flawed fantasy.
Fuck all of you.
Correction; Fuck -most- of you, fuck the ones who've never felt that they were inadequete, fuck those who know what they want and just have to be so fucking perfect, fuck those who are used to getting what they want and don't realise that in doing so they have just warped and twisted and shredded the dreams of someone else, and that false hope is the worst kind of all.
How I hate myself.
Have your drink, aren't you big and clever and grown up? Look at you, just like every other, swaying around completely headless, legless, fucking witless, join the crowd
Join the party
Sit down, I want to sit down let me fucking sit down
No, don't talk to me, you fucking cretin, I don't know you nor do I want to, you were moronic when you were sobre, why would I want to talk to you now?
Shit, who gives a fuck about responsibility? He does, does he? Meh, boring.
Wish I could talk to you, explain, maybe just tell you how I feel but I know the consequences, I know what would happen
Fuck this dichotomy; why is it that even though I try and avoid it, I always end up getting hurt by myself
Shat on by the world
I love you and I hate you and I wish, I wish I wish I wish I could explain all this to you but I can't even explain it to myself, so what fucking chance do I have?
Worthless, pointless, meaningless; Nietzsche had something going; but what does it matter when you're never going to get your point across anyway?
May as well stand up, give up, go home, throw up.
Throw up; now there's a good idea. Don't you feel clever now?
And all the while I'm missing out, avoiding the fuss, avoiding the life, the soul. If this is life and soul you can fucking well keep it, thankyou very much. I think I'll just sit here, with my coffee.
You like her too? Well, good luck mate; but you can fucking well have her, there's no room for me. Never had a chance; the glorious self-denial that accompanies infatuation is beginning to wear off and I can see just how delusionary I was to even hold for an instant the belief that I could make something of it.
Look at me; look at what I am, what I have. I have nothing, am nothing- not even a has-been, couldn't even get that far. Pathetic, that's what this is; and all the while your thoughts are churning churning churning and no sense can come.
No sense, no sense at all; of course not, you didn't expect to be able to make sense, did you?
And then it's over, people crying people laughing and oh look, it's the fucking cretins again, look at them go by, go by and die why don't you. I think I'll leave I think I'll stay I don't know what the fuck I'm doing so I'll follow you.
Oh look at you in the front; pretending that you never knew me and I know, I know now that imperceptibly something has changed and that maybe that invitation at the start will never be honoured, that our jokes and laughter and (could it be?) flirting is over and gone and will be restricted to the dusty reaches of memory for me to bring out on rainy days and wonder what the fuck happened.
Because something must have happened and I just fucking wish I knew what, but no-tells me, no-one ever fucking tells me anything and I just wish that I could get away from all of this, run away with you somewhere and make everything allright but I can't because of my fucking years and obligations and 'Oh, isn't that nice' demanour that holds no opinions, holds nothing of interest or worth.
I'm an empty shell, something to impose upon, and maybe that's what offered you the initial attraction but now the novelty has worn off and you guess, you don't know but you guess that I like you and so you discard me because you think I'm like all the others but I'm not, I'm fucking not, and you'll never know until one day when I'm somewhere and you're there with your drink and I can just smile because I know I saved myself and you didn't, you allowed yourself to get dragged down.
Call it boring, I call it freewill, and I'm more intelligent than you'll ever be so I couldn't fucking give a damn. Chances that you'll read this? None, but what does it matter. I doubt that anyone else reading this will ever know what it's about- consider it an interpretation of events, consider it a musing on what has been and what MIGHT be; oh of course, let's view in terms of Copenhagen theory and I know that in one universe I will ask the question that I cannot bring myself to here and then in another universe you will say no and in yet another you will say yes.
Oh, fuck, I know what Universe I wish I lived in, but I don't and I must face reality with this internal pain that I bring upon myself everytime I think you of and say your name and imagine your hair and think about what could have been.
Please, please just say yes or no and spare me having to hold on to this inherently flawed fantasy.
Fuck all of you.
Correction; Fuck -most- of you, fuck the ones who've never felt that they were inadequete, fuck those who know what they want and just have to be so fucking perfect, fuck those who are used to getting what they want and don't realise that in doing so they have just warped and twisted and shredded the dreams of someone else, and that false hope is the worst kind of all.
How I hate myself.
And so it begins...
Well, here we are. A new blog. Hopefully, I will be updating this one on a semi-regular basis, which we all know means that I shall be posting on a sporadic and irregular basis.
I wouldn't have it any other way...
Well, then, let's do my part to propogate cliches and get on with the show!
I wouldn't have it any other way...
Well, then, let's do my part to propogate cliches and get on with the show!
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