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The beginning of another month. My most exciting activity today is a visit to the horror of horrors:
What is it about the dentist that people are so afraid of? Sure, they poke around inside your mouth, drilling gaping holes in your gums, humiliate you infront of your mother, breath down your neck through their surgical operation masks, scratch your teeth with metal rods, use some dreadful device called a polisher, talk at you about replacements and fillings and falsies and numerous other horrors that make you gag, cough and choke...
I mean, what's the problem?
To sit and lounge in the summer sun is but a pleasure. To be surrounded by one's friends is yet more so. As I sit and lounge with my loved-ones, beneath this shading tree, I thank whomever may be listening that I am here and I am so. Thank you for this life I live when others may not. Thank you for these words I write when others may not. Thank you for these voices I hear when others may not. But please send me a waiter with a cool drink or two, and then I may be perfect.
One day there was a man so good, that the Lord looked down upon him and heard his prayers. The man whispered 'Lord, come walk with me'. And so the Lord did so. They walked together, and the man saw scenes from his life. But when he turned, he saw that at the most troublesom times of his life, there was only one set of footprints. 'Lord' said he, 'why did you leave me at the times when I needed you most?'
And the Lord replied 'Child, where you see only one set of footprints is when I carried you'.
My version of Footprints in the Sand, by Carolyn Joyce Carty
Sand between my toes. Hot summer sun warming my back. The godess cradles me, for all that I am, all that I was, and all that I ever will be. I smile at her lulling tones, so similar to that of ocean waves. I stretch in her golden arms, so similar to that of a sandy shore. I doze under her mothering gaze, so similar to that of the smiling summer sun. And then I sleep awhile, locked in sea-bed dreams, in an octopus's garden. I awake upon a lazy beach. I awake within the embrace of the godess.
Fear for life, fear for love. Fear for love of life of love of life. Fear for time. Fear
time. Fear that fear will not come back, and fear that coming back will hurt. Fear of what has been. Fear of what will be. Fear of is, of now, of here, of it. Fear of fear. Fear of air, of not enough air, of gasping hot and slow and no air no air no air...
Stomach churns. Blood boils. Skin sweats. Brain creaks. Fists clench. Toes curl. Madness is coming, is coming, coming. Oh my God.
Long slow Sundays, time drifting by in waves. Sometimes hot and slow and sleepy. Sometimes too quick to see, running and sprinting and panting. Too far too fast. Too slow to breath. Sticky and sweaty, board but far, far too busy. Singular motion. Tired not sleepy. No way, no wind, no room to breath. Hungry, but the idea of food disgusts. Work, work, work, continual waves of frightened fear. Too scared to see. Open your eyes, but I'm much too tired. A doormouse day. Dormant and deadly. Trudging through sludge. Hot, slow, gasping breaths, there's not enough air...
I am the rain godess. I do look down upon the earth, and cry and cry and cry. I dance in the storms, and let the rain pour down my shivering back. I throw my head back, eyes open wide, rain pouring down my cheeks like tears, into my eyes, into my desparate and dripping mouth. Cold at first, but after so long nothing is cold. The infinate grey skies, lightning sooths me, thunder sings to me. My heart is lifted. I lat there, on the sodden grass and let the rain wash away my worries and my broken hearts.
I am sick. Sick to my stomach. Sick with nerves and fears and worries. I might lose her. I might lose everything. I can't lose her. Not now. Please not now. Please don't take her away, please. I don't know what I'll do without her. She's my best friend, my everything. What'll I do without her? The others won't like me as much. I'll have no one to sit with. I'll have nothing. I am so scared. I am so frightened. I can't do this. She can't do this. I don't know what I'll do. I cannot lose her now.
We are sitting, watching, waiting. Waiting for the bell, the time to start, the time to stop, the time to come, the time to go. Watching the clock, counting the minutes of the wait, counting up, counting down, even counting round. Sitting in silence, watching and waiting, sitting in rows and lines, like numbers. Each desk has a number. We are only numbers. There is no me, no I, no you. Only us, as we sit. A body, a subject. No sense of induvisual, no sense of anything. Just a number. That's all we are - just numbers. Sitting, Watching, Waiting.
There is a place
Of Heaven and Sky
And who goes there
No one knows why
But I'll find this place
Before I die
And when I do
I'll find out why
But who needs that place
When you've got down here
Lend me your heart
And I'll lend you my ear
I need a place
Where I've got nothing to fear
And I only hope
That that place is here
Come with me today
And I'll take you far
In fact I'll take you
Up to the stars...
What is true love between friends. I mean, there is love and then there is Love. I think you know the difference. For instance I say love all the time - to random strangers in the street, to all of my friends at least twice a day, and to everyone else regularly. But I am never in Love. Does this make sense? I think it does. So once when I said 'Thanks, I love you', so some guy helping us on DofE, my friends thought I was wierd. But it was true. So I conclude that I love all the time.
Music isn't a noise, nor a sound, nor a thing. It is a state of being, a piece of soul, a place of mind. It is the way your body moves in the light, the way your voice changes from loud laughter to softening tones. The Beatles understood this. It is a magical thing to be able to take this mirical, and tame it for a while, create it for others to hear. I love the music. It keeps you going, keeps you moving. It is the twinkle in her eyes, and the laughter on his lips. It's the magic.
Skinny jeans, converses, and laid-back stare
Walking down the street, with cool, spiked-up hair
Cardigan or shirt and tie swung loose, teeth white as tile
Deep dark eyes with tanned and comfy smile
Sort of face that makes girls swoon
And enemies be sick
This guy's got it all going for him
He's cool and neat and slick
"Hey look" says a chav, "It's gay boy"
"Gay boy coming down the street"
But no one listened to the chav
'Cause everyone thinks the gay boy's neat
She knew him. She'd seen him before, with his golden sax and his gleaming smile. He had scruffy blonde hair that fell in waves to his jaw, and a glowing cigarette often hung from his lips. His hands were also, too often, clutching a half-empty green bottle, with some dark, foul-smelling spirit. But he sat on the step on the corner of the street, with his jazz suit or trench coat, and played for his beer money. Sometimes he caught her eye and winked. But never before had he approached her. Never before, with his dark dark eyes.
He was drunk. She could smell it on his breath, sour and sweet, some sort of high in that bottle of his, a drag between his lips.
'All right darlin'?'
Brash and outlandish, in his husky, deepened voice, and he lurched foreward. Almost upon her now. She should have been scared, some stranger accosting her in the dark allyway. But he had a sweet, innocent smile on his dusky lips, and a twinkle in his dark dark eyes. 'What's your name?' said she, and he ginned all the more.
'Jesse, that's me. With my gleaming sax. Why, what's yours?'
With eyes that make you melt
He lends his coat for shelter
Plus he's there for you
When he shouldn't be
But he stays all the same
Waits for you
And sees you through
And you can find him
Sittin' on your doorstep
For a surprise
And you can tell that
He'll be there for hours
Oh, and you can tell that
He'll be there for life
And you can tell that he'll be there
He was part of her now. Jesse. Jesse and his gleaming sax. She rolled the words around in her mouth, tried them on her tongue. He was there now, behind her eyes, sitting on the doorstep of her mind, grinning that slow, sweet smile of his, cigarette end just visible between his lips, golden hair hanging over his face. He smiled when he saw her, half nodded, played a loving tune. She would jig a little when she heard it, smile at him.
And in the night he sat in her dreams, watching and waiting, right beside her.
Suit today. Same green bottle, same dark spirit sloshing around inside. He'd stood up when he'd seen her, followed her down the street a little way. Always grinning, that slow, sweet smile of his. She'd taunted him a little, always glancing over her shoulder, putting a little sway in her step. He only laughed, deep in his throat, almost a vibration. And then she'd slipped into the little allyway and waited until he sauntered round the corner, and then she'd smiled at him with her eyes, and he'd held her, and they'd kissed in the golden noonlight, music on their lips.
She took him back to her house. It was raining, and he had nowhere to go. He hadn't said as much, but she could read his dark, dark eyes. So she took him home, to her small flat on the long wet street that she'd come to call home. He stood in the doorway, not sure to come in, not sure if he should invade her in this way. But she beckoned him with a slim finger, and he sat with her in his arms, filling the silence with his slow, sweet smile. And he was there in the morning.
Maybe time to right something real. Ok, although you'll probably never read this, here is a message to some of my fellow 100 worders.
Hello to David Budd,
Do you go to the same school as me?
Will I ever meet you?
Are you my age?
Are you as amazing as I think you are?
I'll leave you to work it out.
And now, Hello to Anonymus,
Do you live near me?
Are you who I think you are?
Do you feel the same?
And now, to sit back and wait to see if either or you read this...
Which bit of your brain is it that looks back upon the things you've done, and meticulously picks up on every little fault and turns them into gigantic embarassments that everyone will judge you on for the rest of your life. Because I, personally, could do without that little bit of brain. I swear I can't remember anything without having some cringy moment. It hurts, and now I'm afraid to talk to people because I know I'll do something stupid. I even do it with these entries. If I could rewrite my life...
On another note, Callum has my pen.
I am going to see you tonight.
It matters not that I am tired enough to sleep for a million years.
Or scared enough to run away forever.
Or lonely enough to never go away.
It matters not.
For I am going to see you tonight.
Perhaps for the first time.
Perhaps for the last time.
But it matters not.
For I am going to see you tonight.
The real you.
The you I have been looking for.
I am going to see you tonight.
I am soo tired. Ridiculously tired. Too tired to think. Too tired to move. Exams are finally over (for this year at least) and I have work experience nowish. Two weeks of nothing but pointlessness. It'll be nice. But it won't make me less tired. Nor will it make this stupid dinner in town that I
to attend go away. It's not that I don't want to go, but I'm so tired I'll probably end up falling asleep at the table. I don't want to get up tomorrow. I'm not even there and I don't want to wake up.
Hey David Budd
(Can I just call you David now?)
I know for a fact that I have met you, weird though that may seem. I did in fact see you at the concert on Tuesday. 'Jamming' on saxaphone, as you so nicely put it. A friend pointed you out to me. I mentioned your name and she was all like "Hey, I know him!". Which was weird and more than a little strange.
Terry Pratchett gefallt mir gut auch.
Ich kann nicht sehr gut Deutsch spechen.
Maybe see you soon...
Endless waiting. But I don't mind. After all, I have a good view. I can see him clearly, his dark hair, his blue eyes. Lounging over the desk, head on one hand, pen in his mouth. He's interesting to watch. The way he moves, changes position, slouches this way and that way. I text him sometimes. It gives me a buzz when he texts back, and school-girl thrill from a few mundane words. He has a gorgeous grin. White teeth gleaming, cheekiness and sexiness rolled into one. Like chocolate you want but can't have.
What a god.
Well, I'm glad that I've put a little excitement into your life. And, just for the record, I never do this sort of thing. Ever. But to clarify on one point: I am, in fact, younger than you. And please don't feel that you have to make a big deal out of this. I'm not really sure if I'm breaking the rules of 100 words by writing to someone specifically, but I'm sorry if I am.
It may interest you that I, too, aspire to be an author.
But I can never seem to finish.
It was as unlikley as an unlikley thing. There was no way in heaven, hell, or indeed any other state of supposed after-life that could possibly ensure the success of this famed monstrosity. It was something that would never work - that was almost the
of it. It's creator had either been depressivley mad, or extremely, totally, and ridiculously drunk. Worse than drunk.
Scientists had calculated that there was a million-to-one chance of it ever working...
But magicians have calculated that million-to-one chances crop up nine times out of ten.
I don't want to stop. That might sound lame, but it's true. I like these snippits of conversation. Having a day in between means you never run out of things to say...
I admit to having the same personality trait - making mountains out of molehills. I'm good at it, but I guess it's not something to be pround of. My only advice is don't try to get rid of it - channel it. I put mine into acting; it really helps on stage.
If I see you in the corridor, I'll wave. I'll shout 'Hey David Budd! See ya!'
Office work. Who'd have thought? 2weeks work experience, my first here, in a London office. I'm writing in between filing, hoping no one's watching. They just went to lunch, so I'm here, trying to look inconspicuous. There's a couple of nice people - Simon, my 'boss' and David who chats with me about the football (what a fail). They talk about funny things, and leave little gimicky ornaments on their desks; sort of like schoolkids grown up.
Which is what they are, I suppose.
Someone is whistling. A primary school next week. Then school.
Watch the corridors...
Last day of June. And what a month this had been. Things I have done this month:
Finished 3 GCSE's
Worked in an office for a week
Made a new friend on 100 words (Hey David)
Joined something I wasn't supposed to
Caught a special guy's eye
Talked to someone who never normally talks to me (although I like talking to him very much)
Met someone called Benedict - what a name
Learnt Day Tripper on bass
Read Night Watch by Terry Pratchett
Finished my seconed batch.
I can't wait till July...
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