my glorious

if you haven’t yet noticed, i have taken something like a holiday from my writing. it was never intended, actually. It just happened like that. This is by far the longest break i have ever had, on this blog anyway.
I often have an urge or two to jot some words down on paper, but often lately the jots haven’t been able to find any contact with anything substantial. And the results? no writing.
Half of the problem is that i’m reading too much. Now thats a bit of an oxymoron isn’t it? Doesn’t reading inspire writing? Well i guess it does. But i think the more i read, the less capable i feel, and the less confident i feel in my own writing and words. There are some beautiful pieces of writing out there. Do you ever read something and just sigh and sigh and sigh because you couldn’t think of anything that could be more beautifully constructed? I have found myself doing that over and over lately. Sometimes i think i should just give up writing on this thing altogether. Ill just state quote after quote after quote. because no doubt, everything that i want to say and will want to say in the future, has got to be said by someone somewhere already. Right?

Don’t worry, i’ll write something soon. this isn’t really a post, just a blog explaining why im not.


studying politics

i guess I’m just a square trying to fit in all the wrong circles. sometimes it feels like my mind is wrapped in cellophane, everything is just tainted a little bit different from what the real reality is. scream shout and kick your way to something new, try and pretend you’ve begun a new chapter. That you inside that skin shell of yours have begun something fresh that is different from the last five depressing years of your life. Lets start to touch the eternal things. Circles are terribly overrated, the issues you have now should have been dealt with ten years ago. God are we completely missing the point? Continue reading

9 crimes

i love to read what other people write. My friend amy said once that writing is better and more beautiful than speaking because it isn’t affected by the rush of conversation. it takes time to spill out the words. Wherever you are, on a beach with a notepad or stuck in a room with a computer, words written take their time to express what needs to be said. Writing is another expression of a personality. People say to me sometimes that i write the way i speak. But i don’t think i do. I write how i write, which i believe is completely different to how i speak. Its another facet of me, another bone for people to pick with, another part of me for people to dislike. Continue reading

worlds apart

You sleep so perfectly, as you lay sideward, content and comfortable in your bed. I put my ear to your chest, to hear your heart beat. A smile comes across my face. The sound of your life is beautiful to me.
I wanted to speak with you today, I had lots to talk to you about. I wanted to share my heart with you. I wanted to exchange thoughts for thoughts, uno, like you do with your friends. I had hoped for us to talk when u were getting ready for bed. Sometimes we talk then. Continue reading

milk and honey

fill me with everything that im not. take away all the ugly bad parts, leave me bare with nothing to hide. this shame cripples me inside, it obviously isn’t meant to be here. it doesn’t feel right, its like a stranger in a foreign land, an alien to another world. since when were machines meant to fail? humans meant to die? i was meant to feel full life and everything that it entails. i was not created for shame.

i dont know enough words that are the right ones. I wish to change you with these sentences, but im unsure as to how exactly they are to be constructed. sometimes i get sick of cryptic messages. can i just say exactly what i want to say without having to rely on you intepreting it the right way? Continue reading

cling and clatter

it was just normal church that sunday, a normal overcast day, normal message, normal music. I would usually do something with my friends after church, but everyone was busy, so i just went straight home. There was no body at home, my family was out doing something too.
I floated around my house for a little while. Made myself a drink, cleaned my room, went on the computer. I tried to fill my afternoon with many little small things, but that only lasted so long. I soon found myself wanting to talk to someone. So i tried a few people, MSN, phone messages. No one was replying. Then i tried to ring some of them. None of them would pick up their phones either. I literally tried like ten people and no one would answer, they would just go straight to voicemail. Continue reading

writing on the walls

Smack! he was out, and who knows how long for. something hit him pretty hard and he was out like a light.
After quite abit of time blank he wakes up on a bed. The room is quiet and boring. The bed covers resemble something of a deep, subtle, blood-like red, the bed in the middle of the room, with old 1950’s dark green patterned wall paper peeling off at the edges. The room wasn’t very well lit, with just one light in the middle, a light that wasn’t doing a very good job.
He didnt recognize the room, and looked around trying to find something he could associate with, just to let him know where he was. He got out of the bed and stumbled towards the doorway to find something else he could recognise. Adjacent to the bedroom was another room, slightly bigger. This room was similiar, green wall paper. A single couch sat in the middle of the room, in front of a old television, which stood on a wooden stand. The television was off, with knobs on its right side inviting it to be switched on. Continue reading