First World Problems

I have a lot of questions that either can’t be answered or just plain won’t be answered. I’m getting sick and tired of not knowing what’s going to happen or how things might turn out. Simple things like what job will I get to fund my India Dream, and others that are just scared little bird thoughts which I can’t force off. You can quieten them with laughter and friends but those murmurs of curling and writhing wonderings are always there, just loitering.

It’s an odd thing, when we are confronted with the truth of the things we’ve feared all along. There is a sort of satisfaction in knowing you were right, followed instantly by that booming dooming panic. What do you do when you think you know the truth of it all? I’ve said before that I can’t quite decide whether I’m cruelly intuitive or maddeningly naïve and that I’ll never know.

You can’t get away from the things you know and you can’t get away from the things you don’t. That’s why I’d like to be four again, when the thing that worried me most was that maybe my Mum might find out I’d lit a match in my bedroom, stolen Dad’s cufflinks or laid down in a puddle. I think there is something in ignorance that us self-pitying folk often overlook. You don’t know it all, and what’s more, you don’t give a fuck. At all.

What I wouldn’t give to have that. To have all of my sorry little first world problems swept away by a brush of innocence, like pulling back the curtain to a morning light which tells you somehow it was all a dream, those things only happen in poorly written tv sitcoms. Fresh crisp air that spikes your lungs, singes your throat as you knock it back greedily.

It’s been a long time and I’ve just realised it’s still going to be a long time before I get all that back. I think that’s alright though. One just has to cope with the not knowing, perhaps even embrace it, this element of life’s many rituals that are just inevitable for the young, good-natured and mildly foolish. It’s far from ideal, debatably fixable… but it’s manageable for now.

It hits us all at some point in our lives, that abrasive truth that as soon as it’s said, we realise it’s something we’ve always known. It’s not like a bullet, more like a wind graze. You know the culprit is right there, but you still don’t see it coming. Then you get home, take off your boots and there it is. A stinging, nagging, pain. It’ll heal. They’ll heal. It’s interesting too, the way different humans heal themselves. Either licking their own wounds or seeking out others or just leaving them open to heal themselves.

There are those who inflict injuries hoping that’ll at least distract them from their own. These are the people that need most looking after I reckon. Everyone just wants to avoid humiliation and feeling uncared for. Everything is relative though, isn't it?

Being Feral

I wish I could impress upon you the notion of the stars curving round to meet the sea. It's something dark, delicate and hopeless. They can't even communicate because as magical as they look from the window of a flying tin can, they are just inanimate substance. To state the obvious. This hopelessness that I feel towards the direction of our kind can only be cured, albeit temporarily, by remembering that there are some things that we can know, innately. We know that happiness and contentment are wonderful. The knowledge that love, true love, is paramount. For family, friends and lovers alike. What other emotion is as inexplicable? Yes, there are plenty that are so strong that they can honestly kill us, lift us into the sky or render us somewhat impossible. But you tend to be able to use some smart little metaphor to explain those ones... even if it does belittle the notion entirely. But that love you can have for another human being is, as I say, inexplicable.

When all else seems dark and we cannot see, we yearn for the light. Even if that light is balanced temporarily and woefully at the tip of a match. We turn it upright so that it burns, not matter how pitifully, for as long as possible.

So, I regularly describe myself as feral. I use this word instead of wild because 'wild' has become associated with something desirable. I think perhaps I would be a little more content if I didn't view the world in the way I do... but I also think that would make me a fucking idiot, so who knows. Sometimes, a lot of the time actually, I just sit and listen to what people aren't saying. It's far more interesting than the drivel that is gushing from their mouths. I can't really explain that either. But people are either scared or blissfully uncaring, or both. Some people just have the strangest priorities, but then again, I couldn't begin to tell you what the right ones should be. I often look at society and find it illogical and ridiculous. It's not what we were created to cope with. We as a species, have done it all wrong. It makes me feel claustrophobic, and every time I feel like that, I find myself running as fast as I can towards any form of nature. And that reaction is as innate to me as survival really ought to be to most.

But if the popularity of MacDonald's is anything to go by, survival is an innate notion lost on billions.

When I think about the things I know innately and often against my will it makes me wonder. Either I know something you once knew or in fact have never known, or I'm the ignorant one and you know it all.

When we live in an existence where even our questions are questionable, and the ground to cling to can be torn from heart and soul in the space of a second, surely that means we can only find sanctuary in the immaterial and inexplicable? I find, as soon as something can be explained, it no longer belongs to us. Because where do we draw the line between imagination and ambition? Right now, they are just shapes on a page.

When I struggle most, it seems to directly correlate with a lack of love, for and from those around me. It turns into a disconnection, a realisation that due to a series of potential coincidences, you know these people. A flip of the coin, a different hand, an alternate role of the dice, and you might never know them. And you wouldn't even have missed each other, because how can you miss something you never knew?

 So the disconnection of us as people, as creatures just drifting in various directions does nothing for me, other than press upon me the importance of making those connections, of falling in love with as many people and as many places as possible.

The heart is meant to be used to the maximum of it's capacity, in every stretch. Whether it's fluttering skywards, getting wrung out like a tired old flannel or being pulled out through the bottom of you stomach by an enormous magnet. At least when you die, know that it's been worn out.

Because honestly, what else can we do with it?
I don't know nearly anything really.

So who am I to even begin to wonder what it is I fear on a nightly basis?

Sleeping shouldn't be difficult. I blame the lack of air, the blind beating the window, the little box I have to call mine. I'd like to go back to the wild please. At least I know what's there is real and doesn't care whether I'm there or not.

Complexities

Nobody is as complex as they want to be, and there is always a reason for the way people are. Humans are not complex, but perhaps the things that have happened to them are. But people are not complex at all, we are all 99% the same in terms of experience, emotion and existence. Using ones own complexity as justification for ones actions is either idiocy or weakness, neither of which I intend to be affiliated with. So that's why I get on with things, I solve my own problems and deal with my own past. To deny help and then behave poorly is the height of cowardice in my opinion.

I truly believe that we are capable of fixing ourselves and each other, in physical, emotional and mental ailments. Too few of us know too little about ourselves and what we as conscious possessing creatures are truly capable of, and that is a scary thing to confront on a daily basis. The unknown is a scary thing. Somethings can be learnt, others can't. That's terrifying. So from that we discover that actually, most of us have no clue why we are here, who we are, what path we are meant to take and how best to react to our lives so far. Scary.

It's whether you trust yourself or not. And those you surround yourself with. And whether you can take responsibility for the choices you make, and can calmly accept that they might just be wrong sometimes. 

But it's like they say, right? You can't win if you don't even try. I figure everyone should at least try to be the best they can be to themselves and everyone they come into contact with. That's the first step to learning how to heal ourselves. 

The Farmer's Wife

At a quarter to six the alarm sounds, beaks gleaming.

One slipper in the larder and the other,

with the collie, beneath the sink.

Burn the toast. Get the post. Pour the tea.

Bills and a card, all marred by spots of rain, mud from the lane

where the postman came and fled

from Pip. The spokes and chain her merry game.

Every morning she hangs her head… her friend has left again.

Feed the chooks, the cows, the bull and the Jacobs, nostrils wet and steaming.

Defrost the blueb’ries, rasb’ries and strawb’ries, ready for pie making.

Pluck the goose. Feed the dog. Biscuit and Tea.

Crumbs for Pip. Most for me.

I look out over our fields spiked with silvering shards.

Gold briefly smothered with winter’s glass.

Pip sits on my toes, pushes her nose into my grasp.

Worth more than metals. This is calm. Content.

Treading snow through the carpet, he comes home

From tending to the Autumn sown.

Coffee and “The Good Life”, a repeat,

Then he confines himself to the office to work.

Poring over papers, numbers, sums and sales.

My husband never made it past Wales, you know,

In the war, his Father passed away.

That’s just timing I guess.

I’m bored of the telly, of dissatisfied youth.

They try so hard to avoid the truth, they flatter themselves.

Kid themselves.

With fame and stardom, with unreachable dreams.

When did life become a contest?

The pining has become grotesque, the whining…

I grew up in this town. A brief spell in Scotland shepherding.

That’s as far as I go. My life is this town.

I thumb through Pratchett…no, Kipling and Armitage tonight,

Squinting through the slowly dimming light.

I wait for him to flick the switch,

“Turn on the lamp you ridiculous girl!”

Pip squeaks, coils around his feet.

“I’ll take her out for a leak, shall I Jane?”

As he trips out the door with Barbour, wellies and dog in toe,

I indulge in a grin. This is calm. Content.

These aren't even the wounds that create scars

I haven't written on here in a while, but I figure that's okay, because I have been writing. A lot of it is just incomplete, unfinished, unpolished. A lot of it I probably won't go back to. It's been like trying to repaint an important room in the house and having a thousand and one things to do, as well as not harm any of the objects in said room, as well as still needing to use that room on a day to day basis. Rooms... these little boxes we keep our lives in. Mine is often a very good reflection of the state of my life. I've been too busy to do any washing, so I guess it's lucky that I have more clothes than anyone else I know. They are strewn all over my bedroom floor, the surfaces, the empty side of my bed. Drawers are open like tongues lolling out of an unconscious head, the wardrobe doors yawning wide. It's busy, messy and disorganised. How inconvenient.

So a lot has happened to me recently, some good, some bad, but all extremely affecting. I feel affected, diseased almost. I wouldn't go as far to say I was trapped, because nobody ever really is... not really. I do crave escape and I know it's nearly here. I've written before about never wanting to hurt people. Looking back, I think I was slightly naive, due to the fact that sometimes you have to hurt people, including yourself, to do the right thing. Assuming that is, that you know that it is the right thing.

Listening to your gut can be difficult, there are so many other vital organs making such a racket. Entirely rude.

These things that have happened... they aren't even the big ones. I'll look back in 10, maybe 20 years and smile at the child I once was, how significant and brutal life's twists and turns felt at the time. These things... they won't leave scars. We'll all go on with our worlds, perhaps thinking back to that person who we gave ourselves to, for any amount of time. I'll look back, and I'll remember growing up. When you look at a scar, the moonlit rise of skin saving skin, you remember what happened, how you got it. You forget the pain. Every time. We fool ourselves, we forget what pain is, because if we didn't, we'd never leave the damned house. This will not leave scars. Only a few should haves and what ifs.

Are those harder to shake off?

Scars. They are formed in a calculated weave of cells, rather than the random formation of our natural skin. They criss cross over to cover the wound, like a patch. We darn ourselves, essentially. Funny thing is, this carefully calculated formation is less efficient than standard skin. It is of inferior functional quality. I think there is something in this. There are only so many times we can heal ourselves, and each time we do it less adequately than the last. It always leaves some form of mark, whether that shows or not. Healing ourselves, albeit inefficiently, is all we know how to do. So we do it because we have to. But there are only so many times you can darn your favourite raggedy old jumper before you have to give up.

It always leaves a mark. I have faded scars that were once far more prominent. But over the years, they have faded. I've forgotten exactly where they used to lie, and how I got them. But those are just the little things. A paper cut here, a grazed knee there. Those aren't the kinds of things that leave proper scars. Those we can fix. Those we can heal. Those we can forget. Those we can lose sight of in our own wondrous efficiency.

Such isn't Life

It's got to that time of term when everybody is flagging, feeling the pressure. Work to do, people to organise, bills, house, bins, recycling, money...or rather lack of it. If this is what adult life is like...well how extraordinarily sad.

No wonder us English are so bloody miserable the whole time! When you think about it, we are supposed to roam free, hunting and eating, because we are animals. Can you imagine trying to explain to a chimp that, for the rest of it's days, it must sit at a desk for eight hours a day doing something boring and tireing? Whose idea was it for it to be normal to loathe our jobs, and therefore a monumental proportion of our lives? Bearing in mind the rest of our time is spent eating, sleeping, doing more work such as bills and answering emails, and parking our arses in front of a tv to watch mind numbing crap, just to give our minds a rest? It seems so stupid.

I've had a glimpse of that over the past few days. Unfortunately I live with seven extremely loveable chimps. Because OBVIOUSLY it's a cracking idea to put three tea towels into the washing machine alone, it seems plain that if anything needs doing, I'm the one to do it. For example, tracking down lost bills, sorting out housing paper work and organise everyone. I resent this. It has shown me a vicious window into my future. Being furious with people I love for not helping, blowing up over things like a dirty hob and the recycling. It's miserable. What kind of a thing is misery to accept?

It requires hard work... concious hard work, to relax these days. Happiness is not a goal, it is a way of life. And I'll be damned if I allow myself to sink into this way of life, where ticking boxes and filling out bits of paper is at the top of my priorities.

It Has Come To My Attention...

That girls are ridiculous. RIDICULOUS. Obviously I've known that for many years now (I didn't go to an all girls for nothing) but I always managed to see that hilarity in other girls, never myself. The fact that a few chemical changes can cause havoc, creating nightmares out of everyday occurrences.

As different as men and women are, we really aren't. In short, we have more similarities than differences, and there are always a million exceptions to the rule. Given, that rule was laid down by the assumptions we build from our experience of society, real and scripted, but we see it as a factual cliche that 'men are from mars, women are from venus.' How narrow.

Can we really generalise to the extent that women 'empathise' and men 'systemize'? Can it really be a biological definite that men seek competition, structure and logic over the touchy feely notions supplied by women? There are millions of stats on this, and I guess there is no smoke without fire. But the eternal question lies in whether this behaviour is innate.

I often wonder how I would have turned out if I had either never gone to an all girls school for eight years or even if I had stayed there for another two instead of going to college.

We are affected, not only by those in our networks, but how dense they are. And by network I mean the people you most interact with. An example of a dense network would be my secondary school, maybe 50 or 60 girls in the year who all knew each other well and saw each other in multiple situations; school, sporting events, social events. I learnt today that the Pharaoh Islands have a fairly isolated population of around 20,000, causing their language to remain similar to Old Norse and their lifestyle to be unaltered from the simple yet satisfying rural way.

I would love to know how this affects the human, especially female psyche. Having a social network that dense based on positive things (If you've read my blog before, you'll know I'm a huge fan of the simple things and countryside ethics) is extremely beneficial to the self esteem of people. This simplicity and slight isolation, albeit unprogressive in the world, is the key to ultimate satisfaction in my opinion. Living in a hierarchy where everything depends on beauty, strength, who you know not what you know, winning everything and having the most money, the best car, apartment, designer dog... that type of network is unhealthy.

Albeit productive.

But maybe it's not that kind of productivity the human race needs anymore. Is it productive to squeeze every last bit of oil out of the earth instead of slowly integrating new fuels? Is it productive to give out money to those that barely qualify, just for a quiet life with less paperwork? And at the end of the day, who defined this to be productive any way? We've set rules for ourselves over hundreds of years, a way of life that it would be ludicrous not to follow. The ludicrous thing is actually that we have convinced ourselves of these things to the extent we can barely comprehend another way of life. Money good. No money bad. Winning good. Losing bad.

When will people stop being so worried about winning or losing and realise that there is no real competition. It's something we created. Just like the supposed 'norms' of male and female behaviour. It's just what we created.

A Husband

The fractures of his face wept, broke, withered. Ash,

anguishing for his own, curling flecks of half.

And the curtains close.

The indent in her half, cherry blossoms scent.

Those with no weaknesses have nothing to lose

and nothing to save.

A shy glance at an old frame brought him courage.

Her golden halo below his fourth knuckle,

her angelic ghost.

He picked up his speech and headed to the door.

Her Moses cradle glided down the aisle.

‘My poor darling girl,

my wife.’ And so the walls came fluttering down.

Temporary

Circle of life and death and everything in between. I hope to find my current self truly hilarious once I'm thirty. It doesn't matter how much you smoke, how many allies you loiter in, how many piercings, tattoos or criminal offences you get, it's all been done, all of it. So. You just can't really go that wrong, can you? For those who have read Shantaram, they will understand what I mean when I say it is vital to our survival that we fall in love with as many different people as possible, and cling to that love with everyone until the day we die. It is well known that the English love to surround themselves with a bubble, barrier, wall, whatever you wish to call it. And I think that is a sad way to live. Being reserved, conservative in the non-politics sense, is ingraining in a lot of us.

I write a lot of shit. A lot of profound bullshit that I know nothing of yet...and I have always admitted the latter, but still. Contentment over happiness, right? I've written a few poems about that, but I can't publish them yet because they are going into my module portfolio.

I love getting marks for hobbies I would do anyway.

So It's nearly Christmas and everybody is feeling the burn. Our minds our tired, cognition unfocused, dreary and yet becoming sure. We all know ourselves, even if it seems cooler not to. Everybody, especially in England, wants to relish in the dilemmas of young life at one point or another. Some, like myself, enjoyed that traumatic yet deliciously dramatic phase when I was about 15, loitering in alleyways, making a point of drinking the cheapest vodka, neat, then praising my hangover the next morning amongst the smoke and dirt riddled bodies of my friends. As much fun as that was, I've become too cynical to want that again. It must be said, I am looking forward to being my own adult, instead of my parents'. Not that I'm not grateful.

The Phase of Loving Life's Little Dilemmas. Those years sitting on a cold wall during the early hours of Sunday morning, disgusting and waiting for Macdonald's to open, have been my favourite so far. There is nothing like a common enemy to bind a group of people together, and when that enemy is middle class life in general? Well.

I'm looking forward. Because if you look back with contempt, the future's brightness will be forever dimmed. I know who I am, and what I am capable of...in the future. Even though I feel like I'm 28 and perfectly capable of becoming that suave woman stalking down Oxford Street in a trench coat, Mulberry, screaming down a mobile phone the size of a postage stamp clasped in my haloed left hand, it's become a question of the right now. Dirty dishes, laundry and essays.

Inspiration

What is inspiration? And how does one gain/lose/find it?

We are all inspired by places, things or people. For me it’s anything remotely visual and/or emotive. Art, colour, photography, poetry, generally well written work… that sort of thing. But due to my recent lacklustre for…well…everything, I’ve been pondering on what inspiration is, and how the hell I should go about reviving my spark for all that is beautiful, witty and everything in between. It’s not always positive or negative. Inspiration itself doesn’t have a specific emotion, but that urge is power to a person, a drive to do SOMETHING. I guess it is just emotion, in a raw and bubbling form.

In my research I have stumbled across some theories of inspiration as to how the bible was written. Being Agnostic but from a Catholic background, this sparked some interest. The four key theories in my opinion were these:

Inspiration as natural intuition: The authors of the bible had the natural instinct to write the scriptures, due to a high level of religious insight.

Inspiration as Illumination: God influenced the writers, but only to the extent that their human powers could take them.

Concept Inspiration: Proponents contend that God has inspired the concepts which the authors of Scripture were to write, but left it to the human author to choose the words.

The Dynamic Theory of Inspiration: That inspiration itself is natural as well as a supernatural fact, and it is the immediate work of a personal God within the soul of the authors. That inspiration belongs, not only to those who wrote the Scriptures, but to the Scriptures they wrote.

Whether or not I’ve perceived these theories as intended, I strongly believe they can be stretched and applied to inspiration in general, of anyone. Is it a subconscious pursuit on our own part, an innate need, to be inspired? Something we turn to, that’s within our power? Or is it outside influences triggering…maybe memories, thoughts, wants, experiences… Inspiration that is out of our control, entirely due to outside influences? Or perhaps it’s a bit of both… External influences inspire us initially, but it’s our minds, personalities and life experiences that shape it into inspiration that is useful and acute to our needs.

Personally, I think it’s that last one…a bit of both. But there is a part of me that thinks, even wishes, that it were something deeper than mere understanding. It is often declared drunkenly at university parties during discussions of religion and souls (and everything in between…over and over until the subject it in useless tatters amongst various cans and bottles) that a weight disappears from the body at the moment of death, and this is rumoured to be ‘the soul’ leaving the body.

“So, out of six tests, two had to be discarded, one showed an immediate drop in weight (and nothing more), two showed an immediate drop in weight which increased with the passage of time, and one showed an immediate drop in weight which reversed itself but later recurred.”

Even though I dislike the word soul, because I find it too limited, I rather like the idea of some unfathomable place deep within the body that is not dissimilar to what lies outside the universe; incomprehensible. So now I come to a fourth inspiration theory. It is some supernatural, unintelligible, unfathomable wonder, slice of gold that reaches out from the depths of our (for the sake of argument let’s say) souls.

That zing…not quite butterflies, but a vibrancy that lifts your body when you’re inspired by something good is golden and bright. Where it comes from, I don’t know, and it is yet another thing that I am more than willing to accept that I will never know. But as long as I can keep my half an ounce yearning, striving and surging forward to great things, all will be well.

Stars

Sometimes I look up at the stars and can’t help but think how gorgeous they are. I’ve always liked sparkly things, and I’m pretty sure I saw mars on the way to work last night.

But then I remember the story of the house with the golden windows. For those that don’t know, It’s about a poor little girl who used to admire a house with golden windows a few miles away that she could see from her home. One day she missed school and cycled to see the glorious windows. It took her all day, but when she got there, she realised the windows were nothing but plain glass. She sat and cried, but when she stood up to cycle home again, she saw her own house, and saw that her own windows were golden in reflection of the sun. She smiled and realised that her house was just as beautiful, especially to whoever lived in this house.

When you look at stars close up, the are just whopping great rocks. Space, close up, is just a shit tonne of darkness and soaring dirt. However, saying this, maybe there’s something out there that sees our little planet like a house with golden windows. Beautiful and distant, a place they might try and get to some day. That’s how we think of space, so it’s probably the same vice versa.

We do the things we do.

I find it odd that as a species, we have unanimously decided that the here and now, what we have and what we want, finding that perfect pair of shoes or having the best new car, is all far more important than the long term. You know, the fact that our world (the only one we have got don't ya know) is royally fucked.

I'm not about to start whining about saving the Earth. In my opinion, the universe has created ways or ridding itself of the species that rules the place when things get too out of hands. Weak example being dinosaurs. Have you noticed the sheer amount of natural monstrosities that have hurled themselves our way recently? Hurricanes that turn into tropical storms, tsunamis, etc etc. I am of the strong opinion that we are on our way out. That's okay as well. We've ruined the world quite enough for one portion of minutes, maybe two, that we have existed in throughout the span of hours on the face of a watch. Time doesn't really exist. Money certainly doesn't, and neither does long term hope. Again. This is all okay. Personally, I am happy to mull along in ignorance of the future and of what lies beyond. I have chosen to prioritise the here and now. Why? Probably because thinking about anything past lunch next Tuesday is difficult, complicated, undetermined and potentially highly depressing.

So there it is. I really do wonder why we just didn't bother worrying ourselves too much about the future. The end of our existence seems so far away and unthreatening, we choose to get frantic about people who have the same shoes as us, and how much everything costs. Sigh. Money. I hate the stuff. Why though? Why do we just not care that much about the end of everything we know? It's bizarre. We do this on smaller scales as well, hide bills between the sofa cushions, leave exam results unopened for days on end, as if these actions will cause the horror of it all to cease to exist. Silly.

We are an odd lot aren't we?

Be good. Be bad.

Be happy. Be sad.

Be crazy. Be sane.

Be fury. Be tame.

Be explorer.

Be teacher.

Be student.

Be vagrant.

Be royalty.

Be rich. Be poor.

Be nothing. Be more.

Be all.

I guess what I’m trying to say, is whatever you may be at this current time,

just be.

Belonging

Belonging is a state that every human, I think, must experience in order to feel right enough to be able to feel at ease with others and the world. Admittedly, the places and people where I have felt I have belonged have altered slightly over the years – but that will come later. First I want to think about why the notion of belonging, of fitting in, is so important to us.

Obviously and initially it’s basic instinct to fit in with the pack. We want to feel like we can label ourselves (even if it is as someone who is unlabelled) so we know where we and others stand. A label, it seems, puts others at ease. So what was it in my younger years that made me venture into my very conservative, let’s say, preppy secondary school wearing pink skinny jeans and a yellow flat peak? Was I making a statement? Or was I inadvertently rejecting that particular pack? And why?

I guess it didn’t suit me, that world.

When it comes to people, a lot of your label comes with how you dress. I discovered this in its truest form on a recent excursion into London where my father showed my around some of his favourite haunts from his lawyering twenties. As he showed me around the beautiful buildings tucked away in the secret gardens of London, I felt extremely relieved that I had opted for a pair of smart jeans and a blue and white striped shirt. There was a garden that was not specifically reserved for the lawyers studying at Grey’s Inn, but would anyone else venture there willingly to be surrounded by all that class, education and pinstripe? Those training to become barristers must dine in their hall with the older and more experienced barristers as part of their education. This is a remaining tradition, because young’uns can learn a lot about the business from their elders. But I couldn’t help the nagging feeling that it was also to instigate the notion of ‘a way of being’ in those young minds.

As lovely as it was, I didn’t feel I belonged there in the elegant halls, the sweeping gardens, the French bistro or the wine bar that had not so long ago held onto a tradition that they would not serve anyone at the bar wearing jeans, trainers, or who was female. It was all very exclusive, but not exclusive to those with money, political views, career or anything I can specifically put my finger on. I’m pretty sure someone who feels at home there would have done a better job than I.

It is not unknown among those who know me that my favourite place in the entire world is on my uncle’s farm. I am more attached to that place than I am to my own home, in which I have lived for seventeen years. I am not at all attached to my home, for which I can give absolutely no reason. But striding about on that farm is often the happiest you’ll find me. It is also known among those who know me that I take part in pheasant shooting. Yes, they are sold and eaten before you get all uppity about a bird twice as idiotic as slugs. It’s traditional and brilliant fun. I don’t shoot, I’m a beater (easy with that imagination of yours reader) which means a strict line of us rumbles through the woodland scaring birds into the air. The shooters pay, the beaters get paid. Two very different types of people. I know which activity I prefer, but noticing the difference between these two ‘clubs’ of people, once again puts me at unease.

We like who we like and the opposite. We appreciate those things that remind us of good in our lives. We associate ourselves with those who have the same hobbies, interests as we do. However, sometimes, for example being thrown together with a random group of people at uni with none of the above seems to work too. We are a group with wavering lines like a tide line. Maybe it’s because I’ve only been friends with them for a year, but they are not a pack to which I heartily belong such as my old clan from school…but then again I have known them for a good eight years… but is time that much of a factor? As in studying language, I see the make up of a person come from variables such as their education, class, raising, home town and most importantly (in my opinion) life experiences.

I don’t know all the places and people to where and to whom my soul belongs truly. I am too young and have not experienced enough. Parents, obviously. First loves, obviously and for who knows how long (although I am of the mind that everyone you have loved keeps a piece of you…not soul or heart or any cliché like that. However, there are a couple o’ pieces I’d like back) but I’m heading to bed thinking about what experiences in my life have led me to automatically feel right among some folk and places and not in others. I am good at being myself. It seems an odd thing to say, but consider how often you reveal your true colours to the world. After many years of trying not to, I just do now. It’s easier. Being yourself brings you that little bit closer to maybe potentially knowing yourself. So at this point, we have to settle with knowing what/who/where we feel…simply right with. Where we fit. Take care though. It’s going to be a long while until we know why.

Judge

A normal person fills their life with millions of not so special days, not so special moments and not so special events. We can remember the grand affairs, the dismal tragedies, birthdays, Christmases, traditions. However, the memories that mean the most to me are those that stretch out from dunned days when you least expect it. They brush your soul lightly with gossamer-clad fingertips before they’re gone. An utterance lost on the air, but something that remains with you for your whole life.

When I was maybe seven years old, I was told that, instead of going to church, our family of four was going to put on our best and head to London to have lunch with my Grandparents. My elder sister had originally decided they were to be called Gamma and Ganfa when she was learning to talk, but this was dismissed as too informal, even if it did soften the fire in my Grandfather’s eyes.

My Grandfather was the cleverest and fairest man I knew, with an uncompromising respect for truth. He taught me how to play chess, but never let me win. “How will you know when you have truly beaten me, if I let you win?” There was no finer stereotype. His Honour Judge Jarlath Finney, sitting in a favourite threadbare chair, book in one hand, whisky in the other, face embellished with abundant whiskers, staring at his granddaughters with searching eyes, a colour that looked like the feeling you get when you put frozen winter fingers under hot water. I always had questions for him. In my child’s mind he was omniscient and the fundamental figure of authority. These questions were often along the lines of “how many bugs are there in England?” “What’s at the bottom of the ocean?” “Why do I have blonde hair and Daddy’s bald?” The one question he never had a chance to answer was “How many countries are there in the world?” I hate to admit, I’ve never sought out the answer.

That day, seemingly a couple of lifetimes ago, my sister and I rapidly got bored of the adult conversation. The attic in the house in Hampstead Garden Suburb was a wonderland of junk. Costume jewellery, photographs, a bust of a formidable looking man, dusty mouth organs, and probably anything one could imagine. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Aslan had padded out from behind one of the tottering piles, roaring dust clouds. The one item that remained painfully pristine, on a small desk facing the even smaller window (home to a cluster of dead spiders) was an old typewriter. I couldn’t tell you what model it was, how old it was, or when it had last been used. To this day, it is my favourite thing, even though I haven’t seen it in years. That was the first time I saw it, but I didn’t dare touch it. It was like a pulsing talisman, a portal to history, tales untold, lost words, scrapped ideas and secrets. I was not arrogant or foolish enough to consider using it then.

Some years later, as every twelve year old does, I gained that arrogance. It was the first time I had been in the house after my Grandfather had died, and it had become a cracked and withered shell. It was dirty and without the flare of vibrancy my Grandfather had brought to it unknowingly. Colours faded. He was noticeably, and viciously, gone.

I took myself off to the attic in a jealous sulk; eyes masked green. I thumbed through books and posters, nosed through drawers and eyed up the treasures I found there, like a plumped magpie. It saddens me that the first words I typed on that typewriter, sitting exactly where I had left it guarded by the spiders, were malicious. I whinged heartily about my mean friends, my meaner family and asked why nobody understood me. A slight cliché, but c’est la vie. When I had finished releasing my venom, like a coward I threw the paper out of the window.

A few weeks later my Grandmother called. She had found the thing in the garden, and that feeling of young doom that we have all recognised from parents and teachers rose up into my chest. I thought I was in trouble. She was not angry, but impressed. She effusively praised my writing before offering to post it back to me. I declined this offer; I did not want to see the cruel lyrics again, but I wonder now from time to time what I actually wrote.

I relish in the questions unanswered. My Grandfather was a craftsman of words and ideas and there is a part of me which feels that any over-simplification in learning is a crude insult to his memory. I learnt how to write with passion on that typewriter, but I learnt how to question the world with passion from my Grandfather.

Games

There is a moment in every child’s life when you’re outside playing, your mother will call you in for dinner, and that is it. That was your last play, your last childhood game. Such a significant event gone unnoticed. We can’t remember when our last play was.

I came across this concept in a play called Dice House, where a psychiatrist expresses the notion that people are constricted by the rules and regulations of modern life to the extent that the only way they can overcome this and be truly free is to leave all our decision making to a pair of dice. Obviously this strategy is flawed and the play was extremely silly (and brilliant) but it got me thinking about that last childhood game.

I think that there is a lot more than one of these moments that fall into the category of growing up. Alongside the last childhood play, I’ve experienced the last use of plastic cutlery (other than camping,) the last watch of Pingu and the last time I got told off for having messy hair or a skirt shorter than my kneecaps. Then there are the firsts. The first time I wore a floor length dress. The first time I went on a plane alone. The first time I won a game of chess against my Dad. What I’m really going for with this post is finding those really significant moments in one’s life that goes completely unnoticed until you realize you can’t remember when it happened. Not the clichés like first kisses, first steps and first jobs. Pinnacle yet forgotten.

And there are so many more to come. I’ve just finished my first year of university and I haven’t changed at all, but I have grown up a bit. So many things in life that seemed so important have lost priority. Wearing full make up every day. Getting trashed. Watching television shows religiously. Now even I could have told you that then, but I don’t know how to really tell you about this new state of mind. Put it this way, I’ve gone from not knowing or really caring how the rest of my life turns out, to having ‘the super unrealistic life dream plan’ of multi millions and a career resembling something out of Ugly Betty, to having a strategic plan for the next 4-5 years and thinking realistically about my career and future.

I’ve made the decision that it is ridiculous in these times to assume that your life is going to fall magically into place. We can’t let things happen by chance – how many stories are there of people getting exactly what they want and need by rolling a pair of die? In this day and age, us budding kiddies need plans. Friends. Tactics. Maybe it’s a sad notion being so willing to leave childhood games, but it seems there are a whole load of new ones I need to learn the rules for in order to be a successful and satisfied adult.

Chivalry

As long as there are still men out there making a conscious effort to be chivalrous, chivalry won’t die.

The question of the presence of chivalry in modern society has been a constant debate over the last 40 years. Personally, I am a huge fan of it and have complete faith in its existence, but there are some who are not. ‘Chivalry is dead’ is a phrase often tossed about the drunken halls of university (along side religion, sexism, class and plenty of other viciously opinionated topics.)

The initial thing to note is where it came from, and how the modern world (especially the progression of women) has changed it. It originated from the Middle Ages, and applied to those honoured with knighthood. They were trained, not only in combat, but also in pursuing a noble way of living, seeking to preserve beauty, truth and honour. This was translated into fairytale, princesses locked in towers being rescued by their knight on a white horse. Of course there is the notion that once rescued, they would marry said knight, give him lots of beautiful sons, then cook for him and fuck him until the end of her days. Instantly, we have a problem. The fact that I even thought of that latter part shows that I have been exposed to a world of “modern women”, a notion truly defined by firstly the suffragettes (not the suffragists I hasten to add) and secondly the eighties.

The fact that women have rightly taken a more prominent place in the world has created difficulty for these poor men. We want to be respected as equals, independent and allowed to follow any life path we choose. However, we also want our meals and cinema tickets paid for, doors opened for us and to be gently moved to the inside of the pavement while men naturally take the curb side. How on earth can we expect the poor chaps to know what we want? It’s tough. But a balance can be achieved.

I have a friend back home who is a gentleman, chivalrous, I guess. He jokes and teases but is fiercely loyal and protective of the women in his life, at the same time demonstrating all the typical traits of a gentleman. In the time I have known him, I have never felt beneath him, stupider or less worthy of things like work and education than him in anyway. Traditional yet accommodating. Kudos to his parents, I think they have raised him well. I think I could count maybe a maximum of 5 men I know to have this quality of opinion and behaviour. It’s a shame it is that little, but I’m hoping that number might grow in time.

I also know some who are convinced chivalry is dead, that it is a fantasy. Maybe this is true of the fairytale strain of it. But in my opinion, if we broke the word down it would separate into these components:

- Politeness

- Kindness

- Slightly old fashioned yet modernised social etiquette

- An innate generosity (personality wise, not "buy me lots of diamonds please" wise.)

- Pride

Men just aren’t attracted to the idea of being these things anymore. As in the case of women, men have changed. Inevitably. In an extreme example, we take rappers/singers such as 50 cent or Justin Timberlake. In their music videos they are sat on their arsed while women fling themselves at them. Somehow, this is respected. Is it that men now want to be pursued? Why is there a recent lacklustre in being seen as a white knight in shining armour? (A point to make, but one I cannot be arsed to go into, is the fact that the modern woman often goes for ‘bad guy’ characters. This is yet another cruel blow to the chivalrous male. Well done girls! Morons…)

However, I don't think that men should have to do all this work. We are in a new era of equality. I'm a poor student, as is my boyfriend and we are both jobless. Boo frickin hoo, still doesn't mean that he should pay for everything! This is not me being a feminist, this is just good sense. If women want to be treated equally, logically, we have to act like equals. Money can be such a big deal, especially in reference to chivalry, but that's where I think people get the wrong impression. Chivalry is NOT about money, it's about character and behaviour.

In conclusion, I think chivalry is alive and well, but the problem is a combination of some women rejecting it, believing it to weaken their sex, and men having no pride in it, seeing it as being “whipped” instead of knightly. A crying shame, because it is a quality many women look for, and no matter how the world changes, little girls will always grow up dreaming of their prince.

Shame Disney seems to have managed to big up a lot of men out of proportion and has underestimated how douchey some women make it their life’s work to be.

Writing

Writing songs, blogs, music. Painting. Filmmaking. Dance. Art. It's all about expression, expressing something that deserves more than just a conversation, words that are just utterances. Lost on the ears or eyes of the ignorant, dead moths swept away in a breeze. It's a compulsion. Personally, I have to write. Otherwise, I don't quite know what I'd do with myself. For others it's different, obviously. Could even be knitting. But the point is, everybody needs a personal outlet. A route carved by our innermost thoughts that even we don't fully understand. What do we hope to achieve by allowing them to flow out into a public world? Serenity? Peace and quiet? Recognition that we aren't quite as barmy as we initially thought...Maybe it's because beauty is admired, therefore everybody wants to create something beautiful...something to be really admired. Would I write so much if I didn't think that maybe, somewhere in this crashing world, someone might just read it?

You know what. I would. You, reader, are currently witnessing my direct thought process, so excuse me if it isn't as eloquent as some of my other bits. Why why why do we express ourselves...Why is it something we need to do. Inspiration. Curiosity? Some would explain it away as part of the soul, that unexplainable weight that leaves us when we die. The soul...expression...needs...compulsions...art...masterpieces...beauty. Turmoil.

The universe always presents away for getting rid of the strongest creature of the world. For dinosaurs, it was partly a bloody meteor. Casual. Maybe more subtly, for humans, it's humans. But there is a reason we are at the top of the food chain. Intelligence, yes, but I think it's also this soul thing. The soul pushes us to do more than just to survive and recreate. It encourages us to write. To sing. Etc, etc. I'm going around in circles trying to explain the unexplainable. I guess this just adds to the long list of things we will never know, maybe not even after we pop our clogs and barefoot it into the light.

I fucking hate that list.

It's not a great one, but it'll do.

My fist too large to clutch your thumb,

My hands can meet around your back.

My ears are wise to old man's pun,

My eyes too keen to see your lack.

You are protector and teacher.

You are annoyance and joy.

The guide I need and my lawyer,

The beaming smile that brought me toys.

A CD walkman in a church,

A glass walking cane by the sea.

But these material objects,

Are never needed to keep me

Close. We are the same, you and I.

We shout, we shriek, faces turned pink.

We curse, we glare, ice in our eye.

You make me so angry, but think

Of times well spent in grassy fields,

Games over played in summertime.

Deep debates over cooling meals,

A night spent talking over rhymes.

I am ashamed that I forget

Treasured memories, moments so dear.

True, Father, I owe you great debt,

Just remember to give me years

Of future times, of genuine trust.

Secrets unlocked, teen angst faded.

Promise your mind won't turn to dust.

Pending friendship, not evaded.

Change

We only hate change when we can find no reasoning for it. It is a well known thing. People don't like change. Which is partially true. Dare I use Facebook as a reference, but every time they alter the layout there is uproar and fury. But change is necessary. In everything, from language to activity to relationships to...well, life I guess. This piece is about self-motivation to stand up and do something that's difficult, rather than fun and difficult. We work hard on the things we love. For me at the moment, that is a play, drama. What I need to do is sort out the other kind of drama. I'm going to keep it obscure, but let's just say, in this case, change is vital.

It is, of course, extremely rewarding to spend your time doing things that may be difficult, but you enjoy them and you know they are going to end well enough. Where is the motivation in talking about things you don't want to talk about, going out of your way to do things you don't want to do? Personal Gain. That is what drives us, and it is a pitiful thought. Who is really selfless? Even the little old woman who gave her sixpence (all she had) to charity must have felt a little pleased with herself, it's natural. This is a very cynical view, but with selflessness comes an immediate lack of it. Automatically.

We overcome this by doing as much as we can to help other people. Fine. But it must be acceptable to help oneself, to put yourself first a couple of times. And this isn't having a long hot bath instead of doing the gardening, or reading a magazine instead of writing your essay. This is forcing yourself to talk, to stand up for yourself, and not try to control the consequences. It has to be done. We will see what it does.

I got to thinking about how tense the English have become. Pinched, as my dad would say. I’ve gotten to know so many vague foreigners (by vague I mean English speaking lovelies from afar…Namely Ireland and America) and this has made me notice that the stiff upper lip of England that I am so proud of has been replaced by an array of excruciatingly tightened sphincters. We sit and pay enormous amounts of money for food that we would not choose over bangers and mash or a good shepherd’s pie. We pretend to like music, we pretend to like films, books, news items, jobs, people…so much so, that we are tightened by the day to day full time occupation of being English. It must get very tiring for those who can be bothered to keep up appearances. Today got me really thinking…what are appearances? Especially eating frois grais (however the bloody hell you spell it), sucking wine through your teeth, not trimming your ear hair because it makes you look…I dunno, profound? Intelligent? There will probably come a time when I will take out my nose ring, will consider money for printer ink to be more important than money for festival tickets, or restringing my ukulele and will actually have to care what people think of me. It’s a shame. Tainted by the norm that we have created for ourselves. Like when raindrops fail at tracing their own routes on windowpanes. They just slide innocently into an already trodden route

Deterioration

The corners of our minds are dusty. This is because, as a race, we have decided that using a mere third of our brains will quite suffice, thank you. The brain...it's such an odd thing. Scientists started around 8 years ago trying to replicate that of a rat and still haven't succeeded. All a rat does is survive. If you think of the wealth of knowledge, emotion and memory we shove into that little third. But for what? Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, Dementia and even just general old age. We live a life just to forget it. I've often said I'm not afraid of dying, but what if I forget that fact? I am a hoarder of photographs, tickets, postcards because the thought of forgetting the little things in my life horrifies me, and I'm only eighteen. To forget those you love. To forget everything you have achieved. To be scared and in the dark until the day death takes pity on you. That, has to be one of the worst ways to go. We are just machines at the end of the day. Not built to outlive our guarantee, to slowly fall apart. And you can only fix a broken plate so many times before it's just shards. Off the dustpan, into the bin. Then you forget about it. You forgot it was ever there.

This is a post I deleted a while back...

Soul Mates and Using the Word Inevitable Too Much...

“Oh somebody tell me why I’m on my own, if there’s a soul mate for everyone.”

It’s okay Natasha Bedingfield, it’s safe to assume that everyone has felt like this at some point. Listening to my guilty pleasures playlist on my computer, Miss Bedingfield’s hurt seeped through my ears and I began to wonder about soul mates.

Personally, I don’t believe in soul mates, serendipity or fate really. My outlook on the world is that everything we do, everything we choose is a choice, but one that was inevitable. Not due to some big life plan, but to sheer logic. It’s quite a confusing concept, but I figure that we are who we are, and we make the choices we make because of who we are. Things like how we are brought up, what life experiences we’ve had, our likes and dislikes.

The best example I can think of is my deciding to write a blog. Even though it was my decision, because of all of my history before the moment, and of all the history leading to that history, the choice was inevitable. If I look at a menu and think “chocolate cake or toffee sponge?” The choice I make may seem in the moment, but it was inevitable due to all the choices that had lead me to that one. Because of everything that’s ever happened to me, I was always going to choose the toffee sponge. Think of the start of your life as a straight line, and every single choice you make, no matter how big or small, splits the line into a fork, and you pick a prong and keep living.

Hope that makes sense…

Anyway, so back to soul mates. Plato wrote a myth called ‘Symposium” and it was essentially a story explaining the creation of man. Plato had a whole concept about how the initial stages of learning are bedtime stories, therefore they should indicate good morals. In Symposium, human started as a singular rounded form, with two backs, two heads, four legs and arms, then works. This form would travel via cart wheeling everywhere. The God’s came to notice that this being was too perfect and too strong. Zeus decided to weaken them by sending Apollo down to cut the creatures in two, thus creating two entities – man and woman. “Man’s original body having been thus cut in two, each half yearned for the half from which it had been severed.” And so the concept of soul mates comes into existence. Plato wrote that the reason people hug, kiss and have sex with multiple people is because they are desperately trying to find their other half and to stick themselves back together, which is quite sweet in an odd way.

However I just can’t bring myself to believe in soul mates. What if you find them and they die at the age of 24? You can never love again? No. I believe in compatibility, that there can be more than one person who is absolutely perfect for you. But the thing is, slotting in with my previous theory, because of every choice you make, the chances are that the person you believe to be your soul mate has made suitable choices to get to that point when you meet too. I say suitable and not similar because what two lives are truly similar when you get down to the nitty gritty?

Everyone has the potential to be truly happy. And everyone has the potential to fall in love. And if you see what I’m saying and think “well if I’m miserable your theory is that that is inevitable because of the choices I inevitably will make, then I will always be miserable.” Don’t be silly. Maybe it was the choices you were always going to make, but when you make the choice to change something, to get out of the rut? Something that you have lead yourself into will trigger the change you yearn for.

It’s inevitable that if you want something to change, you will make it happen. And the low points will spur you forward, creating more choices.

What do you think?

Motivation

I’ve been thinking a lot about motivation recently. Motivation to do something other than nothing. I know it has a lot to do with bravery…an acceptance that sometimes you have to be vulnerable. Sometimes, you have to surrender to win the fight…if there even is a fight. It has come to my attention that the only time anything has ever happened is if I have actually gone out of my comfort zone and done something…seems obvious, no?

I am baffled when people seem so content doing nothing. Watching telly day in, day out, just because it’s easy. We are odd in that sense, that we have been soothed into such a lull in this country, that we have that seemingly eternal and ruining luxury to just do nothing. I say this…but I am just the same.

I wonder sometimes why I feel dissatisfied with nearly everything around me. It’s because we do not go through the effort of fulfilling ourselves. It’s not even a matter of potential, more just trying not to waste this preciousness that is life. We CAN’T know what comes after, or before, so I figure make the most of what we do know. And what is it that we know. It is theatre, places, books, countries, numbers, feelings, weather, nature, cities, substances, wanting, hoping, striving, people and everything in between.

Yet…and yet.

I sit here in a messy university room, in my dressing gown, not doing an essay…not doing anything.

I do theatre, I play a bit of broken music, I write. I laugh with my friends and have fun. Great but…what is this? It is what, as a member of a middle class society, I am supposed to be doing. And it makes sense in that sense. I need a degree to get a good job, to get money, to survive, to afford to die. What a shameful thing it will be to make so small an impact on the human race. I can deal with the fact that we as a species are a mere blip on Earth’s existence, but within the realms of ignorance of anything outside of what we know, I’d like to be known. To be remembered as someone who did SOMETHING beneficial. Someone who had motivation.

I don’t want children because they will tie me down, tie me to the trodden track of adult life. It’s muddy, messy. I’m itching to clamber down the track that doesn’t even exist yet…but then again, why haven’t I started? From Surrey to Kent is hardly an adventure…I have friends all over the world, from all over the world, doing what they want to do.

Yes, this piece is very I, me, I. But it applies to everyone, I think. Then again, if everyone strove to do the extraordinary, who would be the ordinary? Hmmm.

There is no conclusion to this. Only that I need to escape the lull, to decide what I want to do, where I want to go, and what I need to do to get there.

Adiemus

Just listen. It's beautiful.

Create a playlist at MixPod.com

Significance

I think it’s significant when you want to just be in the same room as someone. There’s no need for conversation, but contentment comes from an amicable silence.

I also think it’s significant that we relish in being bored at university, but it’s torture at home. At uni, everyone you want to talk to tends to be a maximum ten minute walk away. Either that, or varying stretches of a thin corridor; the parody of a trodden phone line.

The beauty of being surrounded by people whom you enjoy all the time is that you never have to be alone but if you do find yourself sitting in your room, listening to music on your tod, it’s because you have chosen to be so. Every choice I make here is as insignificant as it is significant, if that makes sense. The time I choose to eat, what I listen to and how I spend my time. These are luxuries in their simplest of forms and I am so glad of them.

I wonder at the number of naked or threadbare feet that have padded along these corridors, drinking tea, holding heads in cradling hands, or clutching favourite games, movies. A soothing union of hangovers, students and equals.

That’s the thing I appreciate most about uni. Everyone is so severely equal, it fits the cliché like a glove. It’s true, we look after each other. After all, friends are just the family you choose, or so they say.

They mock you without judgement.

They insult you without malice.

They watch over you like siblings in your every time of need.

No cruel opinions, no need for lies. All there is is love. We are allowed our secrets, not guilted or goaded into revealing the enemies from our past even if they occasionally trace routes down your face, painting lines for all to see, and for a select few to sweep away.

These are the ramblings of a student thrilled with her situation. I’ve worked hard to get here, to be solid in my own knowledge of the things around me and those things I have chosen to leave behind. Choice…such a minimal yet substantial comfort. The knowledge of choice helps to give you that slap around the face whenever you are feeling low or lazy.

It saddens me that this only seems to occur in the microcosm that is university, otherwise people wouldn’t always bang on about how they are the best days of your life. A peak for sure, but it can’t be all down hill from here. New life creates new challenges…but I think, for now, I’ll have a cuddle and a generalised, philostudental ponder.

At a Violent End, Everybody Prays

We forget exactly how much of what we know and what we want is actually something that has been ingrained into us, stitches in a wound, something that began many years ago, and has led us to this point. Wherever this is.

At a violent end, everybody prays. Religion is something that is still inherited from our parents, and being us? Well. Only seems natural to defy that. We are vicious and determined atheists some of us. But when there’s a gun to your pulse…then what is left to help you? Suddenly, there is a God; a god whom you really, really hope can hear you.

Dark, hey. I escape that loophole of hypocriticality (I’ve decided that’s a word) by being sure in my completely unsure way, that I don’t know, so I currently don’t care. I’ll decide when I cross the shiny bridge of seeing my life flash before my eyes.

I guess I just think that we like to kid ourselves that we are something we want to be. That’s not the same as pretending to be something you’re not, but maybe a more gracious and gentle relative of that concept. Who are we copying anyways? Who is it that we are trying to convince that we don’t care about anything besides living in the moment? Maybe it’s because spontaneity has been a consistent factor of being young, wild and free.

We live our lives the way we want to. Don’t we? It’s not like we haven’t even made a dent on the outside world yet. Oh no wait. As for me, I’ve shuffled gleefully from microcosm to microcosm, finding my place in each one, finding happiness. Happiness is the drug, yearning for more is the weakness, and feeling like you are not fulfilling your potential is the come down.

Potential. A certain comedian called Dylan Moran has some funny words on the business.

“On releasing your potential: Don't do it! Stay away from your potential. You'll mess it up, it's potential, leave it. Anyway, it's like your bank balance - you always have a lot less than you think.”

He’s probably right. Wanting to be awesome and blasé comes with the territory of youth, alongside invincibility, pride, and assuming that you are the first person to have done, well, ANYTHING. We play games. That’s all youth is, really. A game to get you ready for the real world. A game entirely for getting things out of your system, so you don’t fuck up your real life of work, family, happiness and consistency.

I believe I get bored of consistency. That’s why I keep myself busy. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it. But you know, when I really think about it, I haven’t done anything. My parents raised me well, and their parents raised them well, and so on. Everyday life is injected into our very being. You get the odd few who are brave enough to do what we all want to do, and are then punished for it. I can’t decide which would be better…A life of certainty, or uncertainty?

In my seminar this morning I had to define sense from reference. Reference is when you refer to something in the situation/universe around you in your sentence. Sense is when you need nothing but the sentence to know what it means, a common knowledge within language. Now extensions are lists of everything that could be defined by a particular term, for example, “car” can represent any car that was every in existence and will ever be in existence. An extension is in the real world. Our universe. A prototype in the most popular member of the set, baring in mind this depends on the culture. So a prototype of bird for me would be a robin, being English and all. But in America they might say an eagle, I don’t know.

While deciphering these concepts, I wondered how it is our place to define them. Sense. Something that you just know. But we must have learnt it somewhere, and not known it at some point, otherwise we wouldn’t be aware we know it now, see? Ingraining. That’s all language and the process of a lifetime really is.

Just depends how you use what you’ve learnt, and how much you realize you know without even realizing it. Hmm.