while i was listening to the music, i noticed i did love you. when you said it i was tangled and unaware of what i held in my hand...but since you've disappeared i have found the true reason why i think of you and cry and laugh and get mad! i just realized what i had, what i had in my hands was you! the music didn't make me feel this way, it was my heart, i had been waiting so long for it to give me a little hint on what path i should take. the path it chose, wasn't the one less traveled on, yet it was the opposite!i was sure everything was right, perfect, lovely as a new baby! no it wasn't we were torn apart, millions of miles apart, but i spoke to you as if you were still with me today. as if you were still picking me up in the morning, as if we were still kissing in your truck, as if we were still taking pictures, and arguing about prom! i miss that, that way you would hold me, the way you would pull me so tight that i had no other choice… read more
My friend, who I know from experience likes to listen more than to speak, usually while sitting with a half empty pint of ale in one hand and a cigarette in the other, nodding and smiling in rhythm to the words of his current companion, not feigning an interest but genuinely sympathetic, black hair unkempt and long with the promise of a thousand brush strokes never made, scuffed leather shoes and tweed green sports jacket giving the impression of an ex-public school boy down on his luck, his brown eyes glazed through a fog of tobacco smoke with a vagueness resulting from a thousand drinks bought for him and by him in equal measure (for my friend always kept company in pairs), discussing the cricket, also able to play when the mood took him and capable of bowling a mean curved ball, but picked less often for the team than he could have been on account of missing as many matches as he made either through sitting too often and for too long in his local or lying in a hospital bed as a result, it saddens me to say, is dead.
Jack did not die, as you… read more
I am running through darkness, completely naked. The ground is covered by ice and snow causing a sharp and bitter pain to run through my legs with every stride. Though my sides are splitting and I have little breath left I don't turn around and I don't dare slow down. Without the knowledge of why I am running, I am struck with the feeling that I am running toward something and not away from something. Completely void of emotion: I am neither sad nor glad, I am not excited or frightened. I just am. I am running, cold, and in pain... nothing more.
Suddenly I am stopped, flipped over, knocked flat on my back by something, I don't know what, but there is a stinging, burning pain at my waistline, across my stomach. I roll over and draw my knees underneath me to meet my chest. I reach up slowly into the utter darkness until I found what it was that had sent me tumbling. It's thin barbed wire. Two strands run close together.
My body frozen, I can feel the warmth of my blood turning cold as it rolls down my abdomen and over my legs. Blinded by the darkness I feel for the damage. I… read more
Sad to still be here, but happy to be alive. - Stars (Musicians) read more
Sitting reluctantly in front of my pudding, a few cold prunes covered in a layer of tepid custard, I patiently endure my reprimand, a friend to my left, the deputy headmistress scolding me from across the table, her icy tones echoing down the stone passages of this cold and impersonal school, whose spires seem to reach for the clouds, their pinnacles embossed with patterns of blue and gold, real gold, treasure plundered from the distant islands of the Caribbean by an old seaman, some would say a pirate, reformed of late, who, attempting to make reparations for past misdemeanours, had taken in an orphan, a small girl of two, whom he raised as his own, until, at age twelve, he dispatched for an education in England, an education my father had paid for with gold, the very gold I now fix with my gaze through the murky windows of the dining hall in an attempt to avoid the probing eyes of my tormentor.
“Eat your pudding,” she booms.
I look across at my friend, then down at the contents of my bowl. I have no appetite. read more
heres a new game a run off on the one we finished in complete, seemed like everyone got into it that time lets all get to know each other again!
ok the rules are....make a sentence using the alphabet in a sequence.
instead of the same letter for the whole sentence like last time.
at least 5 words no more than 8 until we go around once so we can get more people involved.
EX. Andrew Began Counting Down Everything...then the next person has to add on.
hope this one catches like the last one did. read more
Walking through grassy corridors, hemmed in by lines of cars, looking for that elusive bargain at my local car boot sale, I spotted a statue carved in ebony, an African dancer, perhaps six inches tall, kneeling with hands in the air, as if praying to a god in a magical trance. Without a second thought, I purchased the sculpture, knowing exactly where in my house it would go, seeing it standing on my mantelpiece between clock and candlestick, a happy figure to keep me company. But having positioned it in the chosen position, that night in my bed, I woke with a fright, sure that I’d heard a noise, perhaps of splintering wood, a sound that reverted to a silence so deep I could not bring myself to break it by breathing for what seemed like a lifetime. Lying there in bed, my mind started racing, not letting me sleep, leaving me wondering what the noise had been. Perhaps the statue held evil, its magic infecting my home, its witchcraft seeping into my house, its very presence invading my space. I tossed and turned, not able to rest, too afraid to rise out of bed, growing weaker and more… read more
Who blinds tears
like a weather report
Waters love ya
and they don’t know why
Who flashes flesh
like memories
in the eyes of
the beholder
Meat and nature
love ya
just like a song
medley thing. read more
Paint As You Like And Die Happy (Henry Miller) read more
Monday
Walking through the gates is the most depressing part. That’s why I always linger, smoking whatever cigarettes I have. 9:00am. There should be a law on coming in this early.
Then again, it could be worse.
Many of my friends have either gone to another college, work or straight to the Dole Office. I couldn’t be bothered to replicate that existence; I’m not being sanctimonious, it’s just I think there has to be more out there than a simple 9-5 job.
This is why I came to Regis College. So I can go to university. And follow the timetable of getting a job, meeting a woman (getting her pregnant) and then without ‘provocation', getting married. Then getting a house. A dog. Then raising a child whose going to resent me because I’m nothing like Billy Whoever’s father down the road.
Fuck, it beats being poor.
I finished my last cigarette and walked through the gates. The same feelings of dread tightened in my stomach. Damn, I need another cigarette. College was full today; numerous students were stood around. They wore their designer clothes; laughed at their pretentious jokes. And to top it all off, gave… read more
It was evening, it had just rained. I flexed my stinging fingers. My heels throbbed more and more as I ran. My wet footsteps. Every now and then I stopped to look back at my home, as if I didn’t want to get too far. Both lanes of the main road, filled with cars. But both lanes were going the same way, west. The racket of the beeping pierced my ears; I squinted trying to bare it. Nothing made sense. What was happening?
I stopped to catch my breath. I bent over slightly in exhaustion, place my hand on my knees; trying to keep myself from collapsing. I had to slow my breathing down as the freezing air stung my throat. With my heart beating so fast it hurt my chest. I held my breath for a moment and convinced myself to continue investigating the situation. I took a deep breath, the air still reeking of the exhaust fumes. I raised my head to find a girl standing a small distance away from me. Her head hung down, her short blonde hair blocking her face from my vision. She held something in her hands, it emitted a… read more
Now the man is thought to be proud who thinks himself worthy of great things, being worthy of them; for he who does so beyond his deserts is a fool, but no virtuous man is foolish or silly. The proud man, then, is the man we have described. For he who is worthy of little and thinks himself worthy of little is temperate, but not proud; for pride implies greatness, as beauty implies a goodsized body, and little people may be neat and well-proportioned but cannot be beautiful
Pride, then, seems to be a sort of crown of the virtues; for it makes them more powerful, and it is not found without them. Therefore it is hard to be truly proud; for it is impossible without nobility and goodness of character
Aristotle read more
