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Second month of the year already. Funny how this is the last entry I'm writing. I think my wavering loyalty to my writing shows just how busy I really am. It's hard to believe but what with all the exams.... I'm stressed out. Time seems to be more viable than ever, slipping through my fingers all the time. I'm late finishing this, and I hope I'll carry on. It's just another little community to be part of, isn't it. Just another set of people who might be listening. Just another little tablet of reassurance.
Don't worry, I'm listening.
Eyes open wide, blinded by the sun now
Orange and white, dark red, green and yellow
Rainbow colors! Do not hide, see the view!
Step aside, go through!
Against the light, too strong, blow a fuse now
Everything bright, new songs, burning shoes
The look in your eyes! Break our bones into half!
Scream and shout and do laugh!
Let yourself... go
Let yourself... go
Stay close to me
Count one, two and three
Up in through your sleeves
Bursting through the seams
Open your eyes and see - You see
Why do birds suddenly appear,
Everytime you are near?
Just like me, they long to be,
Close to you...
Why do stars fall down from the sky,
Everytime you walk by?
Just like me, they long to be,
close to you...
On the day that you were born the angels got together,
And decided to create a dream come true,
So they sprinkled moondust in your hair
And golden starlight in your eyes of blue...
That is why, all the girls in town, Follow you, all around,
Just like me, they long to be,
Close to you...
He flashes me a smile, and doesn't know how much it means. Doesn't know the feelings it creates, the effect it has. How can he know? He cannot read my mind, or see through my eyes, or think with my thoughts. He cannot hear his voice through my ears, cannot even begin to understand my perception of the world. What does it matter? He could say the same about me. I cannot know what he thinks when he sees me. The question is, do I want to? Or is the mystery, the understanding, half the fun?
It's a special day. Today a baby was born. Without that child, I wouldn't be the person I am. Without her, I wouldn't be here to live and laugh and have a life at all. She is my anchor and, although I'm working on it, I am slightly dependant on her. She is amazing in every way, and she isn't perfect but she's as close as you'll find.
Today is her birthday, and together we made chocolate muffins for breakfast, and last night I wrapped presents in gold paper.
So thank you mum, for making me the best I can be.
There is a bay named after him (or is he named after the bay?) in Sydney, Australia. He is cynical and sarcastic. I wish I'd taken more notice of him earlier, because I fear I may have missed out. Missed a vital opportunity. He pushed my chair, and laughs at my embarrassment, and knows how to tease me. We laugh about how clumsy I am, in both my ways and my words. He tells me that I love you, and grins at my spreading blush. A best friend and a half-brother, with an ever-changing mood. I miss him.
Today is a special day. Today a child was born. Without that baby I would not be the person I am today.
He would not have shown me how to measure straight, or how to ski in France, or how the climb that tree, or how to drive. He wouldn't have read to me when I was younger. He would not have shared my laughs as we attempted (and failed) to cook, or grinned in amazement at my understanding of music, or helped me with my maths homework. So thank you Dad, for being great. Happy Birthday to you!
Gave you all I had And you tossed it in the trash, You tossed it in the trash you did To give me all your love Is all I ever asked 'Cause what you don't understand is I'd catch a grenade for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah) Throw my head on a blade for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah ) I'd jump in front of a train for ya(yeah, yeah, yeah ) You know I'd do anything for ya(yeah, yeah, yeah) Oh, oh, I would go through all this pain, Take a bullet straight through my brain, Yes, I would die for you baby But you won't do the same No, no, no, no Bruno Mars
Probably got a lot to say but when we sit all quiet is escapes me I know I should do better that I should be better but I can't forget her no I can't forget her...
She invades my mind and twists me all the time oh she takes all the lines and never says goodbye I wish that she were here to hold my hand to tell me babe just carry on...
But she'll never come back to me no no she'll never come back baby oh no I wish she'd just come back to me already...
Adele - Someone Like You
I heard that you’re settled down. That you found a girl and you’re married now. I heard that your dreams came true. Guess she gave you things I didn’t give to you.
I hate to turn up out of the blue uninvited, But I couldn’t stay away, I couldn’t fight it. I hoped you’d see my face & that you’d be reminded, That for me, it isn’t over.
Nevermind, I’ll find someone like you. I wish nothing but the best for you too. Don’t forget me, I beg, I remember you said: “Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead” Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead...
It really was a beautiful song. You could call it... I don't know, how about
Or even wow-this-song-is-amazing-even-though-your-hands-are-shaking-maybe-your-lucky-button-really-is-lucky?
Or maybe just Living in the Now. Or This Time is Ours.
Or perhaps you could call it The Silence.
A small story
The Clownhouse Convention
The townhouse was in the middle of the street, a simple four storey terraced number. It had a dark blue door that looked black in certain lights, and a small front garden. Next to the door was a large window with a flower box full of red geraniums in front and a wobbly catch inside. A wind-chime hung from the top right-hand corner, giving out a soft tintinnabulation in the gentle breeze. And that was the front of the house, in all its bronzed brick glory.
A tall man made his way up the pebbled path and fumbled for his key. He made his way down the pale hall and up the worn stairs to the second floor, letting the door swing close behind him. Another key was produced, and the door of number 7a unlocked. The sun was shining through the kitchen window, and he stood over the sink, the light picking out highlights in his hair. And when he turned, it became apparent that his eyes, although one would have a dark, dark brown, were actually a startling blue.
Benedict Maximillian David Smith sighed. It had been a long day that had consisted on nothing but shifting paperwork. At 24 he still longed for some sort of excitement, and this job was getting him nowhere. Oh, it might sound fancy – working in the Metropolitan Police Detective Department – but detecting was not all it was cracked up to be. He was stuck solid in the middle of a fifty-strong team, with no distinguishing features, and no credible record that would put him on the job. He was practically still playing ball boy; and today had been no different.
I have decided I'm going to be a better person. I'm going to clear out my room, and paint on the walls. I'm going to write those stories and songs I always wanted too. I'm going to do music practise
and I am going to wear my brace more. I'm going to stop messing with my hair so much, and leave it how it is. I'm not going to take up that mascara habit again, but I am going to wear what I like in a style that suits me. I am going to be nice to everyone. I hope.
He sighed again, and ran a slender hand through his hair. He was still wearing his long coat and shoes, but he couldn’t be bothered to remove them and relax. Restlessness plagued him, so he marched back out, down the stairs and along the hall once again. His footsteps crunched in the November frost, and his breath was like that of a dragon’s, smoke curling up into the air. He marched on, walking with purpose, trying to decide where to head to next. The places he could go to were endless.
The underground. Not the prettiest place to be in London, but the bus was nearly as bad so he decided to walk. He had nowhere to go anyway – he was just walking for the sake of walking. There was a mime artist in Leister square, his face made up in the traditional thick white. Benedict shuddered – the creepy drawn-on smile and slanting eyes scared him, although he’d never admit to it. There was something disturbing about the way that their faces were just a mask, a concealed identity. And the way that they could plague little children and no one thought anything of it. In fact, he disliked the whole circus clown fiasco in general.
He trudged the familiar walks of the park for an hour or two, at least until night had truly fallen. It was as he was making his way home, through an unlit street along from some back-ally that he saw it. A typical shadowy figure emerged from a window. Benedict almost rolled his eyes. The days of creative crime were long gone in his opinion, and he approached the scene silently, with practised strides. A light switched on in the apartment above and revealed a man in skinny jeans. Benedict reached for his badge. ‘London Police’ he said’ I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with-‘
The man turned, shadowy white face grinning and an evil-looking machete clenched in a gloved fist. He approached Benedict as a cat might approach a mouse, panda eyes alert and watchful, everlasting grin fixed upon his target. Benedict swore and ran. The noise of thudding footsteps followed him, although they were scarily muffled. Ben headed for a public street, which he thought might intimidate his attacker. He burst out into a crowded pavement, gasping for breath. The clown followed.
Haha, and now you're going to have to wait for the next ellipses.
What I really want? Imagine it:
I get the sheet music for
by the Cat Empire, and I transcribe it into all the different parts for a jazz band. I take the adapted music (copyright details have been sorted out somewhere) to Mr Broadbent and he likes it. The jazz band like it. They play it, with various saxaphone, trumpet, trombone, guitar, drum and piano solos. Everyone likes it. Someone sings too, but I haven't decided who that might be. Do I conduct it? If so, I do it well.
That was my dream today.
Wood wood wood wood wood wood wood wood wood wood more wood wood wood wood ow saw wood wood wood I hate wood wood wood wood stupid wood wood wood wood wood wood wood wood have some more wood wood wood wood no thanks to wood wood wood wood wood wood wood wood whole day with wood wood wood wood wood stupid tech catch-up wood wood wood wood wood wood wood wood wood wood wood wood wood wood wood wood very unsociable wood wood wood :( wood wood wood doow wood wood wood wood wood wood wood wood wood wood...
I have blue eyes. Blue smells like water, or clouds. Clouds are in the sky, which should be blue but is often grey. The sea today was grey and cold. Snow is cold, and smells like the taste of tin. Tin also tastes like blood. Blood is red, and is worse than a bruise. The bruise on my arm is yellow, turning to green. Green is the colour of my shirt. My shirt comes from Australia, which is also mostly green and desert yellow. My cat's eyes are yellow, and his fur is orange. I love him for being orange.
Curls, swirls, ringlets, twists, bobbys, baby curls. Thanks to the amazing Stevie Leeks (and yes, she is standing behind me as I write this) who is currently lending me her computer screen as she experiments with her curling tongs. So I'm sitting very still - I've nearly lost an ear once already. I'm joking, I'm joking! It's looking pretty good so far... the right side's nearly finished now. It's quite a lot shorter now it's curled. She wants me to do a 16th birthday party with her, but I'm not sure if I'm allowed. I'd like my hair like this for ball - I might even look pretty.
Benedict looked around wildly, but no one paid them any attention. No wait, a couple of people were staring, but with polite interest, not fear.
He began pushing his way through the crowds, panic clawing at his throat. When he turned again to check on the clown’s advances, he was started to find that the clown was gone. A man approached him.
‘Your buddy’s gone down Oxford way’ he said, patting Ben on the shoulder as he passed. ‘Good show laddie – very realistic’.
Benedict groaned. Of course – the ultimate disguise, the perfect getaway. Who would suspect a clown? No one, because it was just an act - a show that’s all.
He almost turned to go home, but something made him stop. The memory of the clown’s muffled footsteps and practised run. A terrifying image of that same man, creeping along the dusty corridor, gloved hand reaching for the latch of number 7a… No, he couldn’t risk that. Instead he headed straight to the office. The chief inspector would know how to deal with a psychotic clown on the loose; he would go in and relate the incident.
However, when Benedict finally reached the offices of the London Metropolitan Police Detective Department he was giving only a fleeting glace.
There was a scene occurring in the centre office block – a distressed woman, bawling her eyes out into the jacket of none other than the chief inspector. ‘My baby!’ she cried ‘My precious baby – you’ve got to find him!’ ‘Now now ma’am, we’re sure to find him’ said the inspector, patting her uncertainly on the shoulder. ‘When did you last see your son?’ ‘We were watching the mime artists in the square, and I turned my back for two seconds and he was… I mean we were… he was…gone!’ ‘The clown!’ exclaimed Benedict ‘By God that’s it!’.
The whole office turned to face him. He blushed, wary in the sudden spotlight, and looked at him feet. The chief inspector asked him to explain, and he did so in stammered tones, carefully forgetting the machete, for fear of killing the poor woman on the floor from unnecessary stress. After some careful consideration the inspector stood up, leaving the woman in the care of some lesser officers. He beckoned Benedict into his office, and gestured for him to sit across form him.
‘Benedict, that poor woman out there has had her son snatched from under her very nose. No doubt by these egregious clowns which you have had the misfortune to run into. I want you to- aargh!’
The inspector jumped in his chair, and put a hand to his chest.
‘Samuel!’ he exclaimed ‘you scared the living daylights out of my, God damn it!’
Benedict turned in his chair to see a young man emerge from the shadows. His hair was a mousy brown, and his icy blue eyes fixed Benedict with a piercing stare. He had a thin face with a curved jaw-line, and although his frame was slender, his shoulders were strong.
He grinned, showing off a feline smile, and a set of straight white teeth.
‘Samuel Miles Indigo Lawrence Everson’ he said, whilst extending a pale hand. ‘Pleased to make you acquaintance’.
And there you have it. The end... for now.
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