Hello Happy

I was so sad, then.

Going back, it felt like I was in a movie set of a film I have seen over and over again. I know it so well. A bittersweet tale that pulls at my heartstrings in a way that makes me want to keep watching. There's a character that I identify with so well, but she's not quite me. I wander around the set, drinking in all these sights as if I've lived them, as if I've walked these streets so many times that I can visualise being here, I can feel her emotions pulsing through me, fighting with my own. I wonder, is it normal to experience it like this? The rest of the cast aren't around now, but I can see them in my mind. I remember all the scenes and the lines, the funny bits, the heartwarming moments, but also the gut-wrenching despair. I turn a corner and each location renews a sense of detached familiarity. The main character is ghost-like, I sense her presence everywhere. I can't go into her room, but I feel the melancholy overwhelm me just from being outside, looking in. Somehow, the surroundings are just as imagined, the props are spot on, but I still can't quite grasp the reality of being in the same space she once shared. I go to where she had daily lectures, where she ate lunch, walk the staircase she dreaded every morning. I am there, I am her, I am me. I can't cope with the confluence of the two personalities. How can I be both her then, and myself now? I need time to process this, to conceptualise. And I do, later that night while my heart is bursting, full of lost moments, I articulate the feeling that has been hanging over me for most of the day.

I was so sad. I was so sad. I was so sad.

It is difficult to admit, and I'm not sure I even realised fully at the time, but it is freeing to recognise. I was so sad. But now, I am happy. The girl I left there was full of worry and hopelessness and some days, all she had to hang on to was that one day, perhaps in ten, eight, nine, seven years from now, it will be okay. This too shall pass. And that, it did.

Which brings us to today, things are more than okay. It is hard to express how happy I am that things worked out for her. That she doesn't have to be there any more, that she doesn't have to feel like that every day, any more. It may now seem like a movie set but it was real life, once upon a time. I want to hug her so tight and tell her it will be alright but just as you can't do that to characters in a story, you can't connect to your past self. So I guess I have to satisfy my self of the moment with the reminder that everything is okay now.

I am happy, now.

Flitterbox: Razorlight ~ Stumble and Fall 

Thought Train

It's five to six and I lithely leap onto the train with seven minutes to spare. The carriage is otherwise bare, save a lean, long-haired twentysomething male, socks pulled up, hunched over a bunch of paper containing incomprehensible scribbles of various symbols and graphs. A physics postgrad, I guess, probably bound for the same town as I.

I dump my bags on a warm, sun-heated seat and slump down next to them with a sigh. I allow my gaze to wander to the opposite platform. It's fairly busy and full of the usual suspects; I scan the crowds, looking for something worth watching. Observing people is one of my preferred ways to pass time whilst waiting. Nothing much new to see, generally, although this time, someone in particular catches my eye. A guy.

Do I know him...? The blood rushes to my cheeks as I realise that yes, yes, I do indeed recognise that face. I marvel at the coincidence: that I should be here; that he should be there! Except it's not really that much of a small world and if I'm honest, the idea of a fleeting glance such as this occurring crosses my mind every time I pass through this place.

And now that it has, what do I do?

It's 17.58 and with only four minutes before the train leaves, I don't have much time to think twice. I stand up in haste, gather my bags and I'm out of the doors. Ponytailed Physicist doesn't even flinch.

As I hurry up the stairs to the other platform, I have a million questions rushing through my head, most of which are entirely unhelpful and unrelated to the present situation but a scarce few could be useful, if only I had some answers to follow them. What do I do once I get there? What do I say? How would I even begin? I don't know, I'm not sure and sometimes the only way to get things done is to stop thinking and just do. Before I know it, I'm on the platform and there's a train there and it's ready to leave. My eyes dart erratically across the length of the vehicle and I spy the back of a head that looks almost like someone I nearly knew once. He's looking out  towards the opposite platform, where there's a train setting off, to a parallel carriage that holds a single passenger - a long-haired student, hunched over a paper, highlighter in hand. I am not there; he does not see me, and somewhere nearby, a whistle is blown. 

The train departs and I make my way back up the stairs and across to my platform. The 18.02 left On Time and it's now a forty-seven minute wait for the next one. The area is completely bare, save a curly-haired girl, laden with luggage. I dump my bags on the cool concrete and crouch down next to them on the ground. I rest my chin on my knees and I wonder...what would I have said?

Flitterbox: Bright Eyes ~ Another Travelin' Song
Flitterbook: The Year I Met You ~ Cecelia Ahern

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

Steel Bites

Ever since I was little, I've been eating steel. You know those things you do without really giving a second thought? Rather than trying to face the fear of doing something, I get someone else to sort it out for me and  I swallow a bit of steel. Steel doesn't taste nice, it's a bit like guilt, regret and disappointment mixed into a bite-sized ball bearing, but in exchange, I get something I need or want so it kind of feels like it's worth it and I don't concern myself over the consequences it might have later down the line.

As I say, I've been eating small, controlled portions of steel for a while now and, as you should know, steel is magnetic. So, any time someone gives me a bit of steel, I will become more affected by their magnet. They are likely to be aware of this fact, but it's not deliberate and it's not malicious, it's just one of the common laws of science. From a simple viewpoint, it seems that the more steel I eat, the more rewards I get but it comes at the price, in that it's hard to detach myself from their field of influence. This inability to take control over my own position and pathway can be severely problematic and becomes worse the longer I let it go on.

Glass Houses

I don't quite remember when I first met Billy, or how. But somehow, we kept bumping into each other and then there was never enough time to talk as there was always somewhere else to be and so, eventually, we met up for tea (we both really like tea) and chatted there instead. Billy likes tea with two sugars. I have none. This is something we have always disagreed upon. Billy and I have a rather tempestuous relationship and perhaps that's because we are both complicated people with complicated feelings and perhaps that's because we're both quite similar in some respects. Or because we're complete polar opposites. It's a fine line.

Pooh Sticks

"When you are a Bear of Very Little Brain, and Think of Things, you find sometimes that a Thing which seemed very Thingish inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it."

Once upon a time, a very long time ago now, about last Friday, I sat up for a long while with a boy and a beer and we chatted about cake and earrings and other Nice Things. I was sad and he was friendly and we talked in a way we hadn't before. We talked in a way we haven't since then and I'm not sure we ever will again. For shame

Shower Power

You know, how in movies and dramas and that, they'll have this poignant scene with someone in the shower, just sitting, staring into space or whatever? And they're probably clinically insane or have just killed someone or something, so you think, well no-one really does that, do they? But you know, it's oddly comforting in a weird way.

Chocolate Lab

Imagine you work in a chocolate shop.

It's a wonderful, cosy hove of tasty treasures, stocked to the brim with exquisite home-made treats of all sorts. It's a cushy job, you know, the chocolatier allows to have anything you desire from the shop. In fact, you needn't even ask, if you want to try something, you can, whatever the delicacy, whatever the price. You feel privileged that you're in such a position, to have this opportunity, after all, plenty would pay big bucks to just have a taste of such delectable confectionery and you get your pick of the lot, without paying a penny?!

Indeed, you are such a lucky, lucky person.

Forbidden Fruit

There's something awfully attractive about a someone that you can't or shouldn't have.

Pursuing that person can be wicked and cruel, not to mention a cause for tortured souls, but ultimately that is what is so delightful about it. Much of what is so deliciously exciting is the purely illicit nature. Maybe a smidgen of schadenfreude, but more than that is the sense of superiority and control over another person, even if it's not strictly in anyone's best interest. The knowledge that one has the ability to draw the favourable specimen away from its chosen prey and lure the object of desire to a focus elsewhere offers a sort of rush that is hard to rationalise. That you must be worth the potential risk, in some respect, for something to happen in the first place. Everyone loves to be in on a good bit of gossip, and to be at the core of a secret is the most exhilarating part of it. Teetering on the edge of being discovered, that tantalising mystery that surrounds every encounter creates a bittersweet taste that is hard to resist.

It's difficult to admit the challenge of the pursuit is what you like most.

Poppy Seeds

Today, I have been silent.

I am a horrific hoarder. I hug grudges for far longer than necessary. I harbour signals from ships that pass in the night, even though it's clear that boat is never going to rock up to the port. I keep feelings of people, of times gone by, locked up inside of me for what seems like an eternity. I also have a clay gargoyle I made when I was thirteen still sitting on my shelf, but that's a more tangible proof of the point. It's broken into several pieces and besides, I never was that good at art.

Today, I have remembered. 

Banana Pancakes

 The leaves are turning
yellow, like Bananas and
Cheddar and Sunshine.

I like bananas. I like them chopped on cereal; I like them dropped in my handbag; I like them dipped in custard. I like banoffee pie; banana milkshake and banana cake. I like peeling away the skin like it's a present and eating it as if I were a monkey.  I like the fact that they are yellow, since so few foods are and it contrasts nicely with my predilection for purple clothes and accessories. I like candles that are shaped like bananas and I have longed to receive a naked banana in the post.

I like bananas. So when someone told me to blog about them, I took to the suggestion with gusto (albeit with a slight delay), despite the fact that I suspect it was a throwaway sarky remark about my nonsense nature of my approach to writing...

Blackberry Picking

Today, I have felt the fall chill.

It's coming to the end of summer. Start of September, you know the drill. Except, except, this year it's different. This year, for the first time in eighteen years, I will not be going back to full time education. This year, for the first time in over twenty-two years, I have no planned out path for my immediate future.

It scares the hell out of me.

Solitary Sickness

Today, I have a disease.

It’s not contagious, though it is wide-spread among the population. Generally, the illness manifests itself in early teens, or at least that’s when you become “A Sick Person” rather than just “A Person”. Not that there are particular symptoms, as such, indeed people with this disease have the capability to live long and fruitful existences, albeit arguably with a marginally lower quality of life than those without the condition.

I have had the virus for a while now. Initially, the diagnosis bothered me, but more recently, I’ve found that drawbacks usually associated with this illness haven’t affected me so much. In fact, I’ve felt a little like I may sometimes be better off for it; I tend not to mention that though. I think sometimes people prefer to pity those in this 'unfortunate' circumstance, and those who don’t have it don’t always understand that you could be happy with it; that you’re used to it; that it may not affect your daily life all that much; that you manage just fine as you are. They don’t understand why you’re not absolutely desperate to find a cure?!

That’s the odd thing about this virus, you see. There are plenty of people who once had it and have now been cured completely, but there is no one-pill-for-all solution. The medication relies heavily on the interaction with your specific DNA and as such, is different for each person. There are a lot of remedies to try out and while some of them ease some of the minor symptoms, or may relieve your system of the virus for a while, very few can rid you of the disease for good. People who have never really come into contact with the virus don’t really get why you wouldn’t try every chance out there; why not take any medication you can get, surely statistics dictate that one of them is bound to work eventually, then you needn't worry about this treacherous virus eating away at your soul.

Feathers Flying

Today, I have had my feathers ruffled.

When I went to secondary school, I made friends in a matter of days, weeks and soon we were sitting next to each other in lessons and going to birthday parties and having sleepovers and all the fun you have when you're a growing teenager. It was fun and I have a lot of good memories from those times. But I'm not the same person I was when I was sixteen.

When I went to university, I made aquaintances in a matter of hours, days, and friends over a couple of years. Soon enough we were sitting next to each other on the bed, going to bars and clubs and sharing houses and all the fun you have when you're a growing twenteenager. It was fun and I have a lot of good memories. I changed a lot as a person over university.

Consequently, when I meet up with people from school now, it's good to reminisce and compare lives and chat about what now and where next. But in some ways, I feel like I'm playing a part, a character that I was five years ago, but not really the same person I am now. I don't think they'd get the incongruence -  you see people how you believe them to be and that view can change, but only if you move with it, if you're there to witness it. If you're not around to see someone grow up, it's hard to grasp that they could be that person that those stories are about. While it's nice to spend time with the friends I have 'round here, when we get the chance, it's just not the same. It's just not the same. The relationships you form at university are different because you're relying on each other in ways you haven't had to when you're living at home, with family. 

At university, my housemates became my surrogate family, though this has only really been the case over the last year or so. I've spent several days with them in the last month or so and it's weird because it's so normal but at the same time, it's only suspended reality because we no longer live together, which is really quite rubbish. Finding out you can fly, you can leave the nest, you can explore the world, meet new species, only to return back and have your wings clipped and tags fastened to your legs is thoroughly frustrating to be honest. I suppose that's why I empathise with this girl:

"We would warn people not to approach her... She has no fear of humans and she could give someone a very severe bite. Her beak is designed to tear flesh apart."

On the jukebox: Nelly Furtardo ~ Try

Cute Couple

Today, I have been someone's girlfriend. 

It was a hot night. Humid. Stuffy. We took a break outside, away from the crowds and into the smoke. I don't mind the smell of tobacco, in fact, if it wasn't so frowned upon, I might even say I kind of liked it. Hell, I can't pretend I didn't long for a drag on a cigarette in recent stress-filled times. But I resisted, of course, because I'm a good girl, most of the time. 

So, we went outside so that he could smoke and I could get some fresh air. We stood to one side, him in his dark jeans and indie-rock cardi and me in my princess dress. And a couple of guys came to chat, you know, as drunk people have a tendency to do. They were talking about random stuff, full of bravado and arrogance and made the natural assumption that we were a couple.  While one was telling his friend to leave us alone so we could get it on, the other was trying to convince us that we should split up, telling him that his girlfriend was dragging him down, that he was an eagle and I was his anchor, tying him to the ground when he needed to fly. It was a beautiful metaphor and I was living a beautiful lie.

Still, we played along with the pretence and it was fun, in the surreal and bizarre way that the injection of alcohol brings to many situations. He referred to me as his girlfriend. It was nice. Not because, you understand, I am actually his girlfriend. Nor because, you know, I would want to be his girlfriend. But because, on this warm Summer's evening, this pretty lady was someone's girlfriend. I don't want to pick up a random guy in the smoking area of a city bar. I don't want to be chatted up by every man who likes the look of my face and wants a body for the night. I want to be someone's girlfriend. That would be nice.

 

It's raining today. Quite a lot.

Semper Fidelis

 

On the jukebox: Keane ~ With Or Without You

Pretty Crystal

Today, I have no flower.

Not too long ago, I was given a gift. A sculpture, constructed from a few moulded glass capillary tubes with a magically grown copper sulfate crystal attached. It was beautiful. It looked like a royal blue chrysanthemum sitting atop a delicate transparent stem. And what's more, it was hand-made, specifically for me. This heartfelt creation took pride of place upon my shelf. 

That is, until this evening, when I realised that somehow it had fallen to the floor and smashed into pieces. My pretty crystal flower is no more. I am sad. Not only for the fact that I have lost a flower, but also, to realise that I can not share my loss with anyone. No-one saw the structure in all its glory, because I was too afraid to show it off; too worried that it would be seen as gloating; too concerned that it might seem like a simple sculpture was an subtle offering of something more substantial and too ashamed to admit that, although I appreciated the gift, I didn't want it to mean anything more than that. 

On the jukebox: Sweet Female Attitude ~ Flowers 

Okay Whatever

Today I have received a surprise package.

When encountering these kind of situations, whether it be a mystery parcel or a covert text, I tend to conduct an elaborate story in my head of how I should best go about the questioning of who it is from and why it has been sent. As all good liars know, it is best to keep it simple and not expand unless probed. Stick to a line that sounds plausible and everything will be fine. So I have this explanation which is mostly truth but may need to be embellished if inquiries delve deeper. Now, you may wonder wouldn't it be easier to just tell the whole truth, rather than concern yourself over exactly what to say. Well yes, perhaps, but I never did choose the open path.

The thing is, I always imagine these outlines of how the conversation could go if I were to be asked all these follow-up questions and you know, if they're persistent with the asking, it might have to eventually lead to the total truth. But rarely do I ever need to put the plan into place. Because the sad realisation is (and this is a snippet of wisdom that I first heard many moons ago), well, you have to remember: nobody really cares.

Break Point

Today, I have an aching elbow.


"Never fall in love with a tennis player. Love means nothing to them"

You know, when you're playing tennis with someone, a pleasant pastime for a sunny afternoon, it's good to get a little rally going. Nothing too competitive, just a few hits to and fro, keeping your mind and feet active without getting too exhausted, counting up the hits as you go. But after a while, you want to step up the game a little. It's no fun if one person is constantly missing the points, but it makes it more exciting to make the other player work a little harder, you get a kind of satisfaction from being able to get one up on them. As long as it stays just a friendly game, jovially batting it back and forth, there's no harm done. However, once you start trying to catch each other out, really slamming down the ball, whacking it way across the court, so hard they couldn't possibly try to bounce it back, or sneakily just tipping it over the edge so they don't quite see what you did, it can start to become less of a friendly banter and more of a bitter battle. It's not as fun, then. Perhaps you should stop, slow things down, be more open about the serve you're setting up, and yet, you don't want to do that because although you're not playing to win, you still want to keep score. The thing is, though, even if you do succeed, the victory isn't nearly as sweet as it should be and you wonder whether you should have put down the racket a while back, and just gone for ice-cream instead.

I'm running out of energy, but I'm not ready to stop playing the game.

Stuck in a net

On the jukebox: 3OH!3 ft. Katy Perry ~ Starstrukk 

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

Cookie Crumbs

Today, I have no cake.

Oh, I hate turning down options. It's just like, well, if I didn't have the option, it would be rubbish, yes, but then at least I'd say to myself, well, if I had the option, I'd take it, it's just that I don't have the option. But then I get handed the option on a plate, ticking all the right boxes and hardly any of the wrong ones. And it's like, so where's your problem? TAKE THE CAKE, it's yours for keeps. But suddenly, it's like, but I dunno, I don't think I really want this. But why? I don't know, it just doesn't smell quite right, I'm sure there's something missing. But what? It's cake, and it's hot and it's fresh and ready to fill your tummy with sugar and spice and all things nice. And I'm like, but really, will eating that cake actually make me feel good, or will it satisfy the hunger for a bit but then I'll wish I had some flapjack instead? GEEZ, IT'S JUST A SLICE OF CAKE. It wouldn't kill you to try it, and if you don't like it, leave it, at least you'll have had a taste. And so you deliberate for a bit longer, really make 'em wait before deciding that no, I really don't want cake, thank you. So it's like, fine, someone else can have the cake, I'm sure that they'll appreciate it. And I'm like, cool, it's better to eat something you really want to eat rather than waste energy on something you don't. And wouldn't it be selfish to have cake for the sake of it when someone else might actually really, really want that particular cake...?

You'd better hope you find some flapjack, then.

On the jukebox: Micheal Bublé ~ Haven't Met You Yet