Valentine Time

Today, I have been rosy.

I love the idea of Valentine's Day.

Personally, I find Valentines is only really fun if you are single or perhaps in a fairly recently established relationship, because there’s always that little beacon of hope that allows for a real surprise, however unlikely the case may be. If you’re attached, there comes the burden of expectation and if you’re single, it’s not as if you forget that fact on every day that isn’t Valentines day…

However, if you're single, you don't need to be worried about expecting a card or a gift or an elaborate demonstration of eternal devotion. So, if you do receive something out of the blue, it's a pleasant surprise, and you're not left wishing a certain someone had made more on an effort on this single day that everyone hails as the one to show your love.

Despite the "it's only one day of many" sentiment, I do still think it has a place. Valentine's is a valid excuse to tell the people you treasure most how much you care about them. These may be partners, friends, or family. Or may be what I see as the "proper" reason for Valentine's day - the person you secretly admire. Because isn't it quite wonderfully flattering to find someone is thinking of you? It's troublesome territory, it's true. Maybe the object of your affection doesn't return your feelings, maybe it's been long since you could or did have a chance with them, maybe there's someone else in the picture that makes the whole situation rather awkward or maybe it wouldn't work due to circumstances beyond your control. But Valentine's day is the day where you can overcome that. Even if you can't say or do everything you want to, you can let them know, somehow.

So do it. It doesn't have to be romantic inclination, necessarily. It could be a friend you've lost touch with, or someone you care about and sometimes miss. It could be someone you know you have no chance with, but you want to let them know that they gave you something special. To let someone know that you're thinking of them, and this comes again 'round to the fact that you're not thinking of them because it's Valentine's day, but because you would think of them anyway, and Valentine's somehow allows for a legitimate window to say the things you mightn't usually say. Some people say that takes away from the idea of it being "for the one you love" but I say, it's whatever you want it to be. What's wrong with saying Happy Valentine's Day? It's nice.

And perhaps, if you are the recepient of such a sentiment, accept it graciously. Even if it scares you, even if you never expected it from that person, even if you have no desire to return the favour. It takes some courage to tell a person that you like them, that you want them, that you miss them. You're laying your heart on the line and being vunerable can be terrifying. Plus, rejection stings. But, you know, sometimes it's worth putting yourself out there, risking the opportunity that something more may come of it. And if it isn't reciprocated or appreciated? It's a shame, but you'll get over it. It's better to have tried than to have never known.

So hey, why not embrace Valentine's day. Who will you be telling?

Flitterbox: Ellie Goulding ~ How Long Will I Love You

Catching Trains

I...I have to go

Push me away, then. 

A spark tingled my stomach. The gut feeling lasted a mere second before brain thoughts took over. What does this mean? This is stupid. We can't. We just can't. I don't want this, not like this. And I'm going to be late for my train.

Damn you. You can't do this just as I'm about to leave; what the hell, man. We had a pleasant afternoon. Nice. Lovely, in fact. But it wouldn't set the world alight and I knew that coffee and cake does not equate to a date and he's explicitly stated that he's not doing the distance thing, again. So flirting was minimal, from him, that is - I can't seem to help myself, however inappropriate the situation - and when we walk up to the station, I'm kind of sad and he's kind of polite and detached. Nice, pleasant and distant, as ever. Nothing more. Until...

 I can't.

I can't do this. I can't pretend that this is all okay. After the day we've had I'm not even sure it's there. But then one touch sends me into shivers and somersaults? He lightly circles my palm with his finger and oh gosh, I melt as easily as cheese on toast. In the freezing cold of mid-winter, a furnace is burning inside my body; pumping electricity around my veins. And I'm going to be late for my train.

 I..I have togo. I have to leave. I can't stay. I can't stay and slip inside a cosy coat and become intertwined with another body. I just can't and a part of me thinks he's doing this purely to spite me, to prove his point. To show that if we get any deeper into this thing, the feeling will just get worse, every time I have to leave. To demonstrate that distance is a real deal-breaker, not something that you can just forget about because the rest might fit.

I pass through the barriers and he doesn't even smile at me as I leave: detached, distant, done.

Gone. I turn away and bite the inside of my cheek to stem the tears.

I can't.

Flitterbox: Red Hot Chili Peppers ~ Scar Tissue
Flitterbook: The Language of Flowers ~ Vanessa Diffenbaugh

Flying Kites

The right kind of day for kite-flying is hard to come by. But sometimes, you get lucky. A bit of a breeze, but not too blustery, enough to pick up the kite and allow it to swiftly swoop in the most deliciously satisfying way, like your stomach does on a roller-coaster ride. Even with the appropriate wind speed and direction, there is some concentration involved in the process. The correct amount of tension in the strings that connect you to the kite, managing the way it glides through the sky. The many forces that need to balance in order for the kite to stay soaring, slight friction, not too much, with a bit of resistance. All these aspects come together to give the perfect flight and when it works, it feels fantastic, like you're making progress, like you've learnt something. Being aware of the stretch in the strings, knowing exactly the pressure to exert in order to control how it turns. It takes practise, sure, but once you've sussed the basics, you can work it any way you like.

Until, all of a sudden, there's a change in the wind or you move your arm a little too quickly, the string slacks somewhat. The kite stumbles. Sometimes, it picks up again with the next gust and the panic subsides. Sometimes, it falls, abruptly, without warning. A nose dive, straight to the floor. The gravity that was doing so well in keeping you grounded has won out and the kite sits there, lifeless. After a few more attempts to get it up again, you decide to give up and go home. It's a lot of effort for a small reward and it's just not as fun any more.

I don't tend to fly kites all that often; the right kind of day is hard to come by.

Flitterbox: KT Tunstall ~ (Still A) Weirdo

Butterfly Heart

What a wonderful weekend.

It snowed and so we went to a butterfly farm!!! From sub-zero to sub-tropical temperatures in an instant, surrounded by fantastic colours and creatures. Amazing! Then we ate a divine meal at lovely restaurant and popped into a music shop, where my presence was completely legitimised by my drum-playing companion, and I could secretly check out the plectrum collection for further earring creations and wonder whether I should pick up my instrument again and re-learn the fingers so I can play songs from a few of my favourite things. The cold weather guided us towards tea for two and hot cake in the afternoon like proper posh peoples, innit darhlin'. After painting nails, a few slices of pizza and planning a trip abroad, we dressed up and ventured out and spoke in faux accents and downed shots of tropical cocktail, poured from a teapot. It was fabulous and we made a toast with each sip in a kind of Thanksgiving way, whilst commenting on any groups or individuals that fell in our eyeline. Clink, clink, drink, drink, wink, wink. Then we danced and laughed and fist-pumped and jumped about until it was time to go home. It was ace and sadly served to confirm my feelings that boy and girl can not just be friends in the way that girl and girl are Just Friends.

But maybe that's okay.

Flitterbox: Razorlight ~ Vice

Words Worth

 Today, I have only words, and words are all I have.

"Sixty percent of all human communication is nonverbal, body language; thirty percent is your tone, so that means 90% of what you're saying ain't coming out of your mouth."

The subtle and subconscious concept of body language fascinates me. The little clues, hidden meanings that are wrapped within a single twitch of the lips or displayed in a momentary lapse of concentration in which true feelings slip out involuntarily. It's quite astounding how much these signs, sometimes almost undetectable, can have an effect when making decisions on the basis of character, the difference it makes to people's judgement, the large part paralanguage plays when aiming to gauge a person's real intentions, contributing to the gut instinct you have about someone.

This is part of the issue with internet interaction. As you have nothing other to judge a person than what you seen on screen, it means it's easier to create your own concepts of what the person is like, why they're acting like that, what they're really feeling. Indeed, it's far simpler to overcome the initial barriers one may have when meeting someone new, there is less of the awkwardness, uncomfortable silences don't feature and often, quite readily, a false sense of intimacy is created. You are able to say things you wouldn't dare to utter aloud, you can test boundaries in a way you wouldn't be able to in regular communication. Without verbal or physical clues it's more likely that one could misconstrue a situation or a comment.

It's harder to convey raw emotion - pure elation, fierce anger, complete desolation... all reduced to nothing more than stark words on a page, it's harder to feel the pain, share the happiness with only words. Words are an insufficient medium for the expression of feelings. Without face-to-face interaction, it's not possible to show someone they're out of line soley from a raised eyebrow and steely glare; nor to enjoy a private joke with an exchange of a secret smirk. You can't dissolve tension, fear or sadness within a single hug of mutual understanding; wit and humour doesn't always translate as intended. It helps to be adept at using the written language, but really, that's not enough. When lacking the nuances effortlessly portrayed through body language, there arrives the necessity to derive assumptions from mere words. Words are not enough. But they are such a perfect place to start.

If you're born with a love for the wrote and the writ

People of letters your warning stands clear

Pay heed to your heart and not to your wit

Don't say in a letter what you can't in my ear.

On the jukebox: Johnny Flynn ~ The Wrote & The Writ

Dream Weaver

Today, I have daydreamed.

I think about you. Not all the time, but often enough. I see you. Someone with your hair, or of your height, and I have to look twice. It's not you. Of course it's not you, you're not here. But I see you. I sit across the table from him as we drink. I admire his arms, his hands. They're not like yours, I know, but I can see the attraction, I can. I do. I come back to thoughts of you. We chat, it's stilted. We flirt, it's subtle. For a while, I thought I wanted you, I did. I do. But I know you don't. Or at least, not enough. And neither do I, not really. But I want to see you, I want to talk to you. We could be friends? We couldn't be together. It wouldn't work, I know. Yes, I had a crush on you and if you turned up one day with thai food and flowers, I'd be surprised, but I'd let you in. Because truly, in my heart of hearts, I believe I will see you, someday.

An idle Tuesday, at four pm, perhaps.

On the jukebox: Electric Light Orchestra ~ Hold On Tight -  Accroches-toi a ton rêve  

Tick Tock

Today, I have started the final stretch.

It's odd, you know. I've got to know so many people in the last six months that it's strange that in three weeks time I will have nothing more to do with them. Friends? Sure, I guess you'd call them that. But how much of a friend is a person that you've known for such a short while and won't keep up with after that time? I'm really quite sad at the moment. I'm trying to block everything out and not think about it too much and at the same time treasure each little pretty moment, even when it's not going to plan, there are still smiles to be spread, somehow. It's so hard because underneath I feel the clock is tick-tocking and it all be over in a heartbeat.

Have you ever played those video games where you work your way through the area and different parts of the map become revealed to you as you achieve particular goals or find secret passageways or whatever? Well, sometimes I feel it's a bit like that. As an undergraduate, you know the lecture theatres, you know the teaching labs and you know a handful of professors, namely the ones that teach the modules or take the tutorials, and you don't see much outside of that box and you go home and play with your actual friends who doss about as students are wont to do. Standard behaviour.

Once you get to the point when you're working in a real research lab, all day, every day, you begin to discover faces and places you never realised existed, or at least not in the same way you might have imagined it and the strangest part is that you're a legitimate feature of  the whole scenario. This has been somewhat like being a fresher, in respect of finding your feet, getting to know new people and working your way around the area. It's only now that I'm beginning to appreciate the inner workings of the department.

For three years, the postgraduates were our superiors. Now, they are not quite equals, but somehow we've moulded into their routine, become a part of their exclusive group. We socialise together and all of a sudden these previously untouchable boys are joking with me and acting as if I am one of them, albeit of the opposite gender. I am still patronised, I am still near enough the bottom of the academic pile and if there's a dirty job to be done, or an experiment gone wrong, it's bound to be me who's responsible. But I'm not talked about as a third party, or seen as an inconvenient nuisance all of the time. I am a person who has conversation and opinions of value, who has something to offer beyond chemistry. I am a colleague, a companion, a friend. 

In three weeks this will all end. I don't want to do a PhD. But nor do I want to leave university.

I'm really quite sad at the moment.

On the jukebox: Donora ~ Shout

Burning Desire

Today, I have danced with flames.

Who started the fire? Who knows. At first it was just playing around with a couple of matches, a couple of embers, a few sparks here and there. They'd die down as quickly as they appear, but it's always fun while it lasted. It was a game, see who could hold out the longest before hurriedly blowing out the flame before things got too heated.

It's always been just a bit of fun, a way to brighten up the day, nothing too serious, it's not as if we're really doing much at all. The thrill of the burn, the excitement of the dancing fire. Testing, testing, see how it goes. Unpredictable. Sometimes, you get hurt. Sometimes, you get burned. But it's so worth it. Because somewhere in there still, you know you can make the fire again. You know it may not last long, but it still does work, sometimes. Sometimes you burn out all the matches, wasted away and your thirst for the fire is left unfufilled. It makes you sad, it makes you angry, but there's nothing you can do, except hope it works better next time.

But don't you sometimes wish it could be more than the casual flipping of matches, more than the odd spark which sets your heart alight. Sure, creating the fire purely to put it out is fun. But it's also fun to watch it burn. Allowing it to become wholly consuming, letting it greedily swallow up everything in sight. Observe as it grows, from such a tiny speck of light in your life, to a strong, roaring, powerful flame. Let it progress from something you control, to something that you have no order over. Sure, it's as scary as hell - what if you need to stop the fire? You need to be able to control it. You need to be in control, otherwise, who knows what could happen?!

On the jukebox: Johnny Cash ~ Ring of Fire

Femme Fatale

Today, I have been fazed by complications.

It is Sunday evening and I have once again lost my weekend in a haze of crazy nocturnal activity inbetween lazing around in bed. In fact, my whole week has been unproductive in its entirety.

Here's some tips:

If the boy you're kind of seeing (but not really seeing because you've only actually seen him once so how can you call that exclusive but that's besides the point) calls you up at half two in the morning when you're with your friends who are down for the weekend except that they're not really your friends and you kind of might have had a little thing with one of them at some point, then a) don't answer the phone and b) do not let the boy who you kind of had a thing with but not really and who is quite attractive with an amazingly sexy voice and also a proper Real Doctor take the phone from you and speak to the boy because the boy who you're kind of seeing but not really seeing might think that you're the kind of girl that does that kind of thing every Saturday night, when really, you're not that kind of girl at all.

Oh dear.

I am so so tired. I am so confused. I have been like this for over a week. I have a report due and a viva voce next week and I can't think and I'm not sure and I just want someone to talk to who is a) a girl and b) understands. Someone who doesn't resent me, because it's not as if I do go around suggesting that all of the boys are after me but I can't help it if somehow it's true. I'm not trying to be a homewrecker or a cocktease or arrogant bitch or whatever you want to think, I just want to get along with people. I just want to be friendly and have fun and yes, maybe flirt a little, too. But so can you, you know.

This is why I don't want to drink. I do not like myself when I am drunk. Alcohol is not an excuse.

Oh dear.

On the jukebox: Elton John ~ Are You Ready For Love?

Chasing Cars

Today, I have chased.

I'm racing around to try to catch a wisp of a ghost. It's utterly ridiculous and I'm disgusted with myself, but I just can't help it. You know, when you're think you're so over it, so past it, so beyond the need to think about it everyday. You know, you think you've got it made.

But then that shadow of the past collides back into your life and it's so much harder to let go again. Because you know you can do it, you know you've gone x months or whatever without it, but then it happens again and it taunts you with flippant gestures that hold more weight than is intended. And you know it's all a bit of banter; disguising the real meaning and disregarding the history, but at the same time, you hope it's more than just that.

Hope dangles on a string
Like slow spinning redemption
Winding in, winding out
The shine of it has caught my eye

So your friends start gossiping, and that's when the real issues start, because it's easier to talk yourself out of it when you believe it's all in your head, a one-sided mess, but when other people start to notice and comment on it, too, well, maybe there's something in it?

No.

Yet still, I'm leaning on a lamp-post at the corner of the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of a grin, a twinkle in the eye. I don't know why, and I wait all day and maybe if I don't look, it might show? Maybe. But maybe that's not so.

Should I give up, or should I just keep chasing rainbows?
Even if they lead nowhere.

I like to be in control. I do. I like to be right and I like to win. And if I can't win, I tend to not play at all. But apparantly, the regular rules don't apply for this game. I'm fighting a battle I know, for certain, I can only lose. I'm racing around and around, chasing dreams I know I'll never reach.

But you know, sometimes, it's fun to go for a run.

On the jukebox: The Cardigans ~ My Favourite Game - dear, I fear we're facing a problem

Ripe Apples

Today, I have itchy feet.

After 15 weeks,
over 3000 miles up and down and all across the UK,
I am going back to where I began.

I still haven't packed properly.
But I do have a new toothbrush.

There's no place like home.
*click*

On the jukebox: Alisha's Attic ~ I Am, I Feel

Perpetual Nomad

Today, I have packed.

I am the eternal traveller. I move with the seasons, never staying in one place for more than three months at a time. Britain is brilliant, and I have experienced more of it than ever before this summer - roaming from Land's End to Scotland with many stops in between - my city visits of the past few months sound like I plucked them straight out of the Sunday Times Good University Guide: Bristol, Bath, Oxford, Warwick, Nottingham and beyond. I've been to three of the four capitals of the UK, to the beach, on a plane, in a tent, on a boat, to see buildings, to see bridges, to see sights, to see shops. Life is dandy.

It's been wonderful, it really has and I've been able to spend time with many friends along the way. But juggling so many different activities, spending days with all these distinct groups and individuals, means I've barely had time to pause for a moment; too tired to think. On the hours in which I've had a second to spare I inenvitably waste it, spaced out on the computer or lying in the sun, which is not always a bad thing, I suppose, but sometimes I wish I had a bit more time to focus, you know? Honestly, what will become of me?

I feel a little like I'm losing touch with reality, I've got a heavy heart and an anxious mind. Saturday is the last day of my current occupation. Monday, I start anew in a fresh house in a familiar city. That's one day to gather together my drifting thoughts, sift through scattered belongings and haphazardly stuff them into the trusty transporter to start yet another trip along one of the many motorways of this country. One day to reflect on the season past; one day to ponder the ones to come; one day to worry about the next chapter of my life as it stands.

I don't think one day is enough.

On the jukebox: Nelly Furtado ~ All Good Things - I'm like a bird.

Keep Swimming

Today, I have consumed a packet of chewing gum.

Three cups of tea. Two bowls of museli with honey. The not-quite nervous breakdown appeared again this morning. Half an hour of text messages exchanged and a brief phone call later, the storm has passed.

"You always do great"

True, but that doesn't stop the irrational fear of failure and persistant panic, propelled exponentially by the sight and sound of peers' perfect notes and superior knowledge. Lack of routine leads to a wandering mind, one which is reluctant to return to full concentration once it's left to drift away. Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming...

"Fancy trading revision for the real world?"

There arrives the perspective. Of course, revision is tedious, arduous and downright depressing. But probably preferable to the alternative. Revision means that I can afford to spend the day under a duvet and fit in yet another birthday meal (fifth one of the fortnight, win!) in a longer lunch break than would be permitted in The World of Work.

I'm not ready to give this up.

Exams start in two days.

On the jukebox: Anna Nalick ~ Wreck Of The Day <3

Crossing Over

Today, I have butterflies.

Today, I am meeting a friend, right here in this city. This is someone I've known for a while, but we haven't seen each other since like, forever. It's a bit of a weird situation. I'm not quite sure what exactly this whole meeting deal will entail or what it'll be like to see each other after so long, so I don't really want to talk about it to anyone I know; I don't think they'd understand.

But hell, I have to tell someone.

Today, I am meeting a friend.

On the jukebox: OMC ~ How Bizarre