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I never seem to know what to write. If inspiration comes, it comes suddenly, a dagger through the flesh of my muddled body. And, like a novice assassin, it can leave as quickly as it arrives. Or, it can be as a sadist, forceful entry but a slow, painful withdrawal, leaving nothing but a lone sentence. Every so often, it stays with me, just long enough for me to scribble a few sentences in a tattered notebook. Inspiration is not on tap. You cannot look for it, it wont be found. Sit back and watch. That is when it strikes.
Music equals catharsis. Catharsis, to me, equals music. It may not soothe a blinding headache, but there's something, something that I only feel through my headphones. Think Temple of Love. Think Ofra Haza's angelic cadence. Meditate over Pink Floyd's Great Gig In The Sky; reflect over Clare Torry's seemingly distressed yet shiver-inducing wails.
Sometimes I lay back on my bed, turning up my stereo, losing myself in whatever I hear. Sometimes it's the Adagio; sometimes Black Cherry. Music takes me away to another world. I close my eyes and nothing exists anymore. Not even me. Just a lake of music.
You can't protect me from everything. You cannot deny me this experience. We're not always going to be us, not always together. You're not always going to be there to make sure I'm being a good girl, make sure I'm doing the right thing.
I'd much rather do this with you. I know you'll do your best to look after me. But if you wont do this, just this one thing, I'll do it on my own.
It sounds like an ultimatum, even to my ears. I don't mean it that way; I just need to be taken seriously.
NEW! Sweet blessed silence! You cannot buy this in the shops people! In the East of England, it is so rare we had it IMPORTED from the SHETLAND ISLES! Sweet blessed silence has so many uses NOBODY can list them all! It enables you to do your homework! Read in peace! It even makes it possible for you to SLEEP WITHOUT WAKING UP FOR EIGHT HOURS STRAIGHT!
Grab it while you can, we are giving it away!
So, you may have guessed that I have a headache. I could strangle our neighbour with the cord of his Black and Decker.
Teachers + coursework + last school year = complete madness. Why is it that we are piled up with so many different things, and every teacher expects them to be done to the best of our abilities? I permanently feel like I'm in a twisted circus, trying to juggle with my future. Whoosh, up goes Gressenhall, down comes practical production, film and news smash on the floor, and I'm struggling to keep English going.
Then, well then you've got to throw in the meagre remains of a social life. Try friends.
Now you try.
Just don't drop my mates, okay?
I am feeling rather superficial today. Not that I've already written anything remotely meaningful here. I have just realised that my entries are piling up; I'll have to upload them soon. Still battling on with my History coursework(s). But for now, as I have no inspiration, a short letter:
Please quit it. You're no different from any other kid who likes the Internet. I refuse to believe that you haven't been outside voluntarily in months.
Oh, and please do learn to use grammar. Or a spell check. I really hate reading things where not one letter is capitalised.
You know what? Stop calling me that. Just stop. Stop making the damned jokes, stop getting in a bad mood. I know what you're going through too; I'm going through the exact same thing, remember? So just stop pretending that you're the only person this has ever happened to. Stop taking whatever frustration you're feeling out on everyone else. I know that when I'm in a bad mood the whole world suffers with me, but don't forget that it's the same with you. The only difference is, when you laugh you laugh alone. You have an awful sense of humour.
Just because I don't talk to you every day. I don't talk to anyone every day. You can't be that desperate for company. You have friends; I know that for a fact. Just because you're idiot enough to leave school early. Talk to some of them. I'm not available all of the time; you can't always have my full attention. Who are we kidding here; nobody has my full attention. See, I have this internal dialogue going. It's always running, kind of like the never-ending story. Except you'd be severely traumatised if you tried to write this lot down.
True story. There were fire drills that day. Maybe there was only one. I can never remember. It was pranks galore. There were lots of false fire drills, so in the end we had pretty much stop paying attention to them. The teachers knew this, so when the inevitable happened, the drill did not go off.
The head teacher ran into my history class shouting for us to get out. I never looked down the corridor, but there was a wall of thick black smoke. One of the older kids had set the paper store on fire.
To Be Continued.
Very few people actually knew what happened. But we all knew that our year was relegated, and the two years below us were crowded around teachers. They were being calmed, told what was happening. We were left to mill around, wondering, in the sweltering heat.
We weren't allowed to go sit in the shade. We had to stay where we were put. Some of us had bags; we had drinks, food, entertainment. Others didn't. I was okay; I had my bag, and my mobile. I called my mother, in fits of laughter, to tell her that it had finally happened.
The people who had their bags were lucky in more than one respect. We were allowed to go on time. The others had to wait for an hour for the school to be cleared. They were lied to, told that the buses would wait. Like hell would the buses wait. They could not even get to a phone to tell anyone what was going on. I lent my phone to anyone who needed it, and so did a lot of other people. I lost an awful lot of credit that day.
It pretty much ended there. Then came the lecture.
My friends and I weren't questioned by the police, like some others, but we were made to listen to the same lecture that we had heard a thousand times before.
We got told about a girl who fainted every time she heard the fire bell. About how dangerous it could be if she was in the chem lab, the food tech block, or even at the top of the stairs.
They think we will do the same thing when we leave? Fat chance. We will be under constant watch. They wont let even one of us stray from their sight.
Religion. An awfully touchy subject. What do you believe? Resurrection? Reincarnation? Is Zoë God? It's a viable option if you think that way. So if Zoë is God, is Nick the Devil? How about collective unconscious?
It's like aliens I suppose. You've seen it? Great. But was it an alien? Was it just lights in the sky? Or were those lights in the sky that the cynic saw and dismissed, aliens?
One thing is for certain, you do not know until they land in your back yard. So don't dismiss it. It doesn't hurt to believe once in a while.
I live in morbid fear of getting kicked out of this place. It's warm and cosy and not at all wet. Dry, if you will. It's quiet, and most of my friends are here. I write all of these entries in my little purple notebook. I'm in love with this place, in love with the whole feel of it.
It's filled with people doing overdue homework, and library reps. Oh, and all of the kids who read nothing but ‘Where's Wally?'.
I don't know precisely why I am writing about the school library. Just one of those things I suppose.
Have you noticed how it takes forever to write one hundred words by hand, yet only a few minutes by computer?
I began to write here, thinking about deep and meaningful things. Making an effort to be as descriptive as possible. Then I thought, ah, screw it.
So, I started writing just about anything. Flashbacks, oddities. I am in love with the idea of this site, but also living in morbid fear of missing a day. I have not so far, but there's always a first.
Ooh, would you look at that? I can touch type.
Sorry for the drivel.
I have just been told to write about Jenny and her pen. The pen has more uses that just plain writing; it can also draw large amounts of blood from unsuspecting, annoying, skinny idiots. I believe Jenny may be a vampire.
"Or write about my glass slipper!" she says, reading over my shoulder. The glass slipper is filled with sangria. I suspect that Jenny is an alcoholic, as well as being a vampire.
She is also, obviously, absolutely crackers. So, the question is, can you be an insane alcoholic vampire and still go to school? It must have its problems.
Maths. You have never experienced anything as mind numbing.
The good thing is that Sean and Matt are there. Today, they were talking about childbirth. You know, pretending to fire babies from their nether regions like cannons. Sean even added a natty pelvic thrust (bringing to mind ‘The Time Warp'. Sean was, of course, in fishnets).
Matt occupied the lesson with a Michael Jackson impression, grabbing his crotch repeatedly, and, for some unknown reason kicking the bin over forcibly.
I never get work done, and now I've got a sore neck. I really have to stop turning around so much.
It kind of gets hard to think of things to write sometimes. I think it was in my first entry where I talked about inspiration.
The thing is, I try too hard. I look for it everywhere. I know damned well that I should just sit back and wait for it to come to me. But I can't, for one reason or another. Mainly because of deadlines. The main meaning in deadline is, of course, do it by this date, or you are dead. D E A D, and buried. Six feet under, counting the daisies, sleep with the fishies.
We were sitting on his sofa. We, of course, being Ben and myself. At that time, his sofa was in his room facing the window.
The sky was purple, and red, and pink. It was perfectly beautiful. Ben and I always sit there talking to each other, usually non-stop. But not that time. We just sat there, in silence, gazing at the sky. For once, we had found something to appreciate together.
I don't remember anything else we did that day.
I still cry at that memory. Tears of gratitude, for being able to see and watch something that beautiful.
I like to design. Websites mainly. I write too, quite obviously.
I am not, I repeat NOT, your starving, pretentious arteeste.
I know I suck.
That's the difference isn't it? Your arteeste sucks, and thinks they're great. A normal artist thinks they are ok, and they actually are. An insecure artist thinks they suck and don't. Me, well, I suck. And I know it.
D thinks I can do anything. I wonder about that boy sometimes. Sorry D, I can't do anything I turn my hand to. I don't think that's humanly possible. Maybe it's the future. Genetics and all…
I am highly suggestible. If you mention a song to me, the tune or a portion of its lyrics will become stuck in my head. If I am writing and you say something to me, I will probably write down what you're saying to me.
I have done it a million times. People find it so entertaining. They do it on purpose.
"Hey! Coll! DINOSAURS!"
And suddenly, the course of photosynthesis takes place in dinosaurs.
"Hey! Coll! Los Lobos!"
And abruptly my detailed English Language speech morphs into ‘La Bamba'.
I have really, really got to do something about this.
Closing her eyes in anticipation, she goes up onto tiptoes. He bends his head and shoulders slightly.
She closes her eyes, every breath an anticipatory moment. He sees her face close to his, and he closes his eye too. His soft eyelashes brush against her cheek like miniature butterflies.
She can feel his breath on her lips. It feels like an eternity before his mouth meets hers. He can taste strawberry lip balm; she can taste peppermints. She can feel his hands in the centre of her back, pressing her closer to him.
It's just a taste. Corny, I know.
For a tomboy, I have some pretty good wedding plans.
I want an outside wedding in the middle of a meadow. At sunset. In August.
I want it to be hot, the kind of heat that you only get at sunset, the kind that makes things shimmer. Everyone will be wearing either sundresses or light trousers and shirts with the sleeves rolled up.
My husband will wear black trousers, black shoes and a white shirt. His sleeves will be rolled up too. I will wear a white dress, long and flowing. I'll have bare feet.
Honestly, I'm not a hippy.
Isn't it funny, how people break their rules and resolutions so easily? I mean, I once asked B why he didn't smoke in front of me. According to him, he had one or two Sacred Rules of Underage Smoking. One, always hide your stuff well, and two, never smoke in front of the non-smoker best friend. Lately he's dropkicked the second rule out of the window. I kind of feel weird about that, like he is so into smoking that he doesn't care any more.
He always says, I'm gonna stop. But he never does. The man has no willpower.
Everything sounds better underwater.
I was laying in the bath, having just washed my hair. Everything was calm; I could not see anything but the red glow of the overhead light on my closed eyelids. I ran my hands through my hair under the water. I heard it, a soft whooshing noise. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, and everything else was white noise as I concentrated on it. I could hear my breathing smoothing through my body, the pulse to my heartbeat's rhythm.
Raising my head out of the water, it was all gone. Just regular house noise left.
I admire people who write in diaries every day. Though I admire them, I wonder what they could possibly find to write about every day.
I keep a diary. I always used to tell myself that I would never sink to the depths of girly girl. It would never be pink, or furry. I would always say what was on my mind at the very time of writing. I would write every day.
I write sporadically. About my boyfriend. And if I wrote what was on my mind, it would be x-rated. Funny how resolutions are made to be broken.
Maybe if you climbed out of that ridiculous mind of yours they wouldn't shout. Maybe they'd let you do what you wanted if you grew up. It's not unfair, we're all treated the same. You don't see that, of course. You're too busy burying your head in the proverbial sand while you're being told what to do.
People aren't always going to be there working for you. There is going to come a time when you're out in the wide world without a teacher to tell you what to do and hold your hand while they do it for you.
There's something decidedly suspicious going on.
It was a domestic; serious, yes, but it did not require that amount of attention. It was pure overkill.
Sniffer dogs, two fire engines, at least ten police cars, each with two police officers inside. One mobile police office, one information centre in the community hall. Paramedics, ambulance. Several people out on the road, none being told what was going on. Crying children, barking dogs, mewling cats, worried grandmothers.
Desperate phonecalls, ‘what's going on? Do you know?' Everyone wanted to know if their loved ones were involved. Some were unequivocally disappointed that they weren't.
Las palabras de amor. I wonder what he'll say to me. What secret words will he whisper into my ear, with a soft kiss? I ache to feel his lips on mine, yet am petrified at the same time.
It seems impossible, nineteen months without one kiss. The relationship still thrives. It survives on the thought of climbing inside, knowing what the other thinks. Exploring like you explored that tree that you loved to climb when you were small. Will it be the same? Will I feel something akin to the soft green sunlight that streams in through the leaves?
Have you ever had a thought, one that won't go away? It whirls around in your head, maybe bringing a lump of pure fear to your throat, tears that burn like acid. You can never quite get rid of it, no matter how hard you try. You push it down, right down to the back of your brain. It eats its way back to the front. No matter how hard you try, it's always there. It may cease to be a problem; it might even fade for a while. Look your thought in the face. Sort it out. Right now.
Why does everything bad in this world seem to happen to children? People shooting them, dousing them in petrol. Earthquakes, bombs, napalm. Everything seems to hit them, and when it hits, it really does belt.
I was sitting with my best friend watching the news. A story about the earthquake in Italy was on. A whole kindergarten class died. Just like that. What deity (for want of a better word) would let that happen? I saw the tear stained face of that class' teacher. She was alive, but her beloved babies were not. What sort of an end is that?
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