Tag Archives: Life

The Loneliest Person in the World

The loneliest person in the world isn’t sitting on top a mountain somewhere in complete isolation. The loneliest person is surrounded by people who don’t understand them.

I’m not the most complex individual, but sometimes I feel like life is a movie and I’m merely an observer. I haven’t yet found where I belong. One day the mothership is going to descend from the sky, beam me up inside and reveal what I somehow always knew to be true. You’re beyond mortal flesh, beyond skin colour, beyond earthly desires, the daily workings of your social construct, the cultures of the human race. 

You are free. A sentient energy unbridled by any construct, any illusion or lie. 

Seeing as that has yet to happen, I shall continue to play my part. The part of the lower middle class female, caucasian, university student. A tax file number, a street address, a mobile phone number, a birth certificate, a passport, a driver’s license, a registered vehicle. I have friends and family, pets, people who love me, but nothing is more affecting than an individual’s crusade. No-one can get inside this mind. 

The loneliest person on this planet is surrounded by those who do not understand them. 

It’s not a simple solution. A person in your life is not the answer to all the crises of living in this state of mind. It would only be a very, very good distraction. It’s even possible to be distracted for the rest of this life. But is it the solution I seek?

“I’ll do it tomorrow.” Is my perpetual answer. 

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You’re The Best Around

I’ve been thinking about something for a while now. Thinking about dreams and why they’re so important to have. You know, life purpose sort of dreams, not the sleeping kind of dreams, like the one I had where I was a Maroon 5 groupie and Adam Levine gave me a piggy back through the snow singing Sunday Morning … well they’re important too, because nothing that awesome would ever happen to me in my waking life … but getting on point.

Big dreams, aka, what you really want to do with the rest of your life, scare the shit out of me. As they probably do for most people. It’s much easier to sit on the sidelines and make excuses why you can’t be or do what is really in your heart. It’s easier to pretend that you’re being realistic, that you’re saving yourself from disappointment, from failure and all those other shitty, ice-cream binging emotions. You may not feel supported, or worry that you won’t actually be very good at thing you most aspire to. There’s a lot of things that seem to clasp on your ankle like a shackle and drag you down with a ball and chain, even though from an outside perspective nothing appears to be stopping you.

So, obviously, in most cases, you are your own ball and chain. All that negative self talk that swirls around your head, telling you that you’re not good enough.

Okay, have I thoroughly depressed you yet? Well, the good news is, and I think I’m saying this for my own benefit, as I do need a regular kick up the ass, is that if it’s all in your head, you have the power to change it.

I like to constantly tell myself ‘hey, you’ll soon be dead’, not in a morbid kind of way, but in a ‘hey, you really have nothing to lose’ kind of way, to put things in perspective. Yeah, it helps, but that doesn’t mean that going after my dreams still doesn’t make me want to crawl back into bed and hide beneath the covers. Let’s just say I’m working on it.

I would quite like to grab the bull by the horns and shake the hell out of it. Put on that theme from Karate Kid or Rocky or whatever cliche you can think of, because it’s time to get motivated.

I’m going to enter freakin’ NaNoWriMo and try to finish a 50k novel in a month. Why not, I need the practise and obviously a reason to drive myself insanely mad. Yeah, I feel better about it already.

OH GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE.

Frack it. Put the needle back on that ‘You’re the Best’ record, because I’m going to do it.

Now, perhaps having images of myself with unwashed, unbrushed hair, severely neglected eyebrows and a piddly bank balance from having spent hundreds of dollars on Osteopathic appointments for my badly compressed spine and rounded ‘laptop’ shoulders …

Did I tell you to stop playing that ‘You’re the Best’ record? No, I didn’t, because I need it, and maybe you do to, so, onwards children, go frolic in the field of unrealised dreams. You may end up looking like a hobo, but at least at the end you won’t be saying this …

Image

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A Real Life Episode of Neighbours Would Just Be 30 Minutes of People Arguing About Trees.

Today my dog almost got his head kicked in by a Shetland Pony. Who knew they could be so territorial? Well, certainly not me. That pony stalked my dog all the way from the paddock behind the macadamia trees, back up to the house mum and I were inspecting as a potential rental. Luckily it was behind a fence otherwise I would’ve fallen to me knees and shouted in terrible distress ‘Run, Max, Run!’.

Anyways, when surveying a potential home you must then go over the pros and cons.

Pros: Fairly private, rural, access to free macadamias (because free food is my highest priority. Pretty sure I only wanted to move into my fifth family home because of the Mulberry tree), big cupboards to store inordinate amounts of crap, two bathrooms with plenty of space for all our products (enough to fill a small pharmacy), and the wardrobe, in the room I sprayed my mind juices on, is roughly the size of a bomb shelter, etc.

Cons: My dog might get eaten by a Shetland Pony. Amongst other things.

We have recently been considering rentals with vicious miniature horses, ever since the new neighbours relayed plans to remove all trees on their side of the fence, which would leave our lounge room, bathroom and mum’s bedroom window exposed to anyone who may have an accidental looksie.

Whaddya mean I can’t strut around naked in my own bathroom without the curtains drawn, let alone anywhere else? Suffering Succotash…

‘Yes, never mind the removing of the atheistically pleasing trees that provide deep and natural shade, we’ll replace them with a 6ft high paling fence!’

Oh, how wonderful, watch me wither and die in the heat of an Australian summer, why don’t you? Along with my dog, who has a coat like a freakin’ sheep.

I’m just overreacting. That’s what you get for growing up on acreage where the fence line isn’t just an arm’s reach away.

Mum once pondered ‘what is it with humans and their privacy?’

I say it’s because home is the only place where you don’t have to give a crap.

The moment the old dude down the back starts waving to you at 9am, while your hanging out washing in your cartoon sheep pajamas, and you haven’t showered, you’ve got ratty hair, droopy, bloodshot eyes, and, after waking, have the mood of a disturbed Tasmanian Devil, is the moment when you realise privacy is paramount not only to your own sanity, but also to the matter of public safety.

Home is the place where you rely on the fact that nobody can see you in your ‘I only date superheroes’ Justice League t-shirt, or hear you belting out Queen, most likely out of key (as your mother so kindly reminds you so), or any other stirring power ballad.

That shit is private, I say.

Private until you tell the entire world – or the twenty or so people who actually read your blog – on the internet.

But at least you can neither see nor hear me. So, that point is clearly invalid.

My god, how did you ever get reasonable marks on your argumentative essays…

Because, I’m Batman.

Batman is the answer to all life’s questions. That and bacon … and possibly free food.

What was I talking about again?

(Oh, yeah, and don’t you think the title of this post sounds like one of those ridiculously long and unrelated Fallout Boy or Panic at the Disco song titles? I mean, how can I possibly remember or differentiate tracks when one’s ‘Lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off’ and the other’s ‘I’m like a lawyer with the way I’m always trying to get you off’? What? Do they say that in the lyric? Is there any correlation at all?! WHAT DOES IT MEAN? I’m sure if I truly cared I’d figure it out, but I just want to know what the hell that song is called that I heard on the radio!)

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21 yr old F seeks…???

As I sit here now, at my desk, wondering how to begin this post about my most recently acquired item, the item itself sits on my lap, my arms around it in an emotion that can only be described as adoration. A few days ago my mum brought home a soft toy monkey, yet it wasn’t just any stuffed animal, it had a little wheatie bag in its stomach that you could take out, warm up and replace, making this toy the cuddliest, cutest most squee inducing thing I have ever come across, (that wasn’t breathing of course). And when I found out that this little squishy thing wasn’t for me, I had to, with inescapable compulsion, buy one for myself.

I call him Monkey, and he keeps me warm on these cold autumn nights…eh hem, so move over imaginary boyfriend…(but, seriously, if there are any Northern  New South Welshmen out there reading this who would like to replace Monkey, I like action/adventure movies, Thai food, trivia nights and rambling incoherently on the Internet. Message me. *wink*) But, seriously, again, I’d like to fail at meeting people the ‘normal’ way before resorting to failing virtually, namely with online dating. Cue segue…Yes, I have already browsed RSVP, but the idea of actually creating a profile makes me squirm like a neurotic, panicky worm. Another contributing factor to my aversion, being my mum looking at the profiles and already matching me up. Calm down, woman, I’m not even on there! Just writing this makes me want to hug monkey and hide under my pink and blue, puppy dressing gown. Yes, I’m 21 years old, but don’t rush me. It took me two years longer than everyone else to learn how to ride a bike and drive a car and I figure it will take me just as long to get used to this concept.  Especially the notion of summarizing your whole personality in one little log line.

I’ve thought about this. I consider myself a writer, yet cannot for the life of me come up with a sentence that best showcases what a strange (yet, endearing) little person I am. What works best? Something humorous or sincere? The absolute truth or something more mysterious? I know that humorous doesn’t really work for me. Thinking I’m funny enough to do that, I feel, would be a great act of narcissism on my part, and trying to be funny always ends up lame. Sincerity on the internet is daunting as hell, the absolute truth may be disturbing and I can’t be mysterious whilst keeping a straight face, in this case a virtual straight face….I know a favourite one of people’s is ‘I’m not really good at this…lol’. I think I would steer clear of such dull expressions and definitely incorrect spelling. ‘RU lking 4 fun? Cuz I m awsum…’ Oh, and rhyming, and puns and lines from Police songs, ‘Cause every little thing she does it magic’. Puh-lease.

Perhaps I’ve thought about it too much. I mean it’s a dating profile not a University essay about finding relationships in a post-modernist era, critiquing the idea of the essential self…And who am I kidding, it’s all about the profile picture anyways. Yet, I have enough trouble picking a photo for my Facebook profile, let alone for this. At least I know I won’t choose one with the edge of my face missing because I cut out an ex-partner (I don’t have any of those, but on other people’s profiles that shit is awkward).

Actually, I do know of a picture that would definitely send hearts all a flutter…

It's Monkey!

Aww…Did I mention he also smells like lavender? What a catch.

Disclaimer: This post does not endorse bestiality or objectophilia, so you can stop looking at me that way…

And, no, mum, I am not considering creating an RSVP profile. There’s enough crazy on the net without me adding to it. (Not including this blog of course…’What were you thinking?’)

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I believe in yesterday…

Yesterday…all my troubles seemed so far away. Eh hem, sorry, I just couldn’t help myself. Anyways, yesterday was my first day back to uni after one week off for study week, or more appropriately, for some, ‘beach’ week or ‘bludge’ week, or for me ‘stress out of your brain how much you can’t bring yourself to finish your assignments, but get over it and do them eventually’ week. It was a big day, starting with passing an accident where some person drove into the ‘Welcome to Lismore’ sign on the roundabout, and ending with me having some sort of emotional breakdown for no apparent reason (humph, women! what are you gonna do? Blame hormones, that’s most likely…)

So, I’m back in class, listening to some post modernist, post structuralist, post colonial…stuff. When, bam! An unexpected emotion hits me – amusement. A brief moment when my intellectual, insightful lecturer describes a chair as ‘being in a material world’ and I immediately think of him as Adam Sandler in The Wedding Singer saying ‘ – and I am a material girl…or boy’, and how much I love that movie, and probably how much I’d rather be watching it at that very moment. Nevertheless, I am somewhat intrigued by the tutorial’s subject matter, and as usual, want to contribute my brilliant thoughts to the matter. Yet, my opinion, in this instance, is like a gastric brooding frog, not in the way that it gives birth to a bunch of tiny, baby opinions from its own mouth, but in the way that it is scarce and endangered. Oh, sure, my opinion is kicking around in my brain alright, self professing its awesomeness, but it just can’t transpose into verbal form, unless of course I had perfected my telepathic skills, unknowingly.

Well, that was the first disappointment of the day. Secondly, was the possibility of a freebie gym membership being cruelly snatched away. Nobody, I ah say nobody denies me what I think I’m entitled to. (And the importance of that sounding like Foghorn Leghorn, I don’t really know. When I make a point, for some reason, I speak like a cartoon character, a British gentleman or Pee Wee Herman…because they obviously hold more weight than myself…) I thought that apparently anyone playing a social sport was entitled to one month free gym membership at the uni gym, but it turned out that it only went to the team captain. I figured that pretty much sucked, as, if I had to sit on my bum for eight hours straight in class,  I should be afforded the opportunity to stave off blobbery and a soft mid-section. Because, don’t you know people, that there is an obesity epidemic in this country? And equally as important, an epidemic of poor uni students, whose boxing bags are so old they brake and nearly crush their dog? (exaggeration, we all know my dog is fine) But really, in other words, this is just me not wanting to pay for gym membership because I’m stingy. I did end up paying $10 casual rate to use the gym that afternoon, and I didn’t care if I nearly died of exhaustion, I got my money’s worth…

So…obviously this day was just too much excitement for little ol’ me, as at the end of the night I wound up getting all emo like I had just watched ‘A Walk to Remember’ or something (don’t deny it, that movie is horribly sad). Okay, so nobody wants to hear about someone bawling their eyes out for no reason, but seriously, what is it? A stress reliever? Maybe for me, but not for my mum trying to get to the bottom of some deep seeded personal insecurity I may have. Woman, your constant mood swings make no sense! (cue perfect segue) And neither does this blog…

So, tune in next time for another nonsensical dramatisation of my otherwise ordinary life. Bonsoir.

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This is What Happens When You Don’t Get Enough Vitamin B

You know you should get out more when you’re still tired three days after your big night out. It’s kind of sad. I feel kind of sad, and not to mention unmotivated to do anything…especially a 1500 word essay on Jane Eyre and feminism. Right now I think watching the new Game of Thrones takes priority over such things, and it’s not hard to convince myself of that.

Seeing as though all I feel like doing is having a cup of tea and a piece of sunken, perhaps undercooked banana bread (yay me and my cooking skills), I thought I’d just dredge up some random thing I wrote on Australia Day but did not publish. Prepared to be marveled…or not. You know I should probably just blog when I have something worthwhile, but I do want to consistently be in people’s faces. Try as you might, you can’t escape the ramblings of the blog monster. Just like a bad horror movie you can keep killing the thing but it always comes back with new and creative ways to murder screaming, blond bimbos, like with a bowling ball or a robot with the soul of some guy’s dead girlfriend, murdered by her father pushing her down the living room stairs…(P.S. I saw that movie when I was little and it scared the crap out of me. Damn you daytime cable TV!)

Eh hem, anyways, this one was called “Red Wine and Reminiscing”

“Red wine and back yard barbecues give me a bad case of nostalgia for the ‘good old days’. Not necessarily the days of drinking wine and charing chicken nibblets on the hot plate, but of the days when I was young and fancy free, of my old houses, my old town and so forth. The days when my parents would go out with their friends to the local ‘UpFront Club’ to see a band, and my little self would fall asleep under the table wrapped up in mum and dad’s discarded coats.

My parents used to be involved with the local community theatre. There are many great memories of hanging out with the cast in the room below the stage, watching from behind the stairwell curtain and the over zealous director scolding me for doing so. When I was in primary school I used to help my mum remember all the lines to the songs she was given to sing, thus being the reason an 8 or so year old would know all the lyrics to ‘Like a Virgin’. I would also like to thank the musical director of the ‘Maleny Players’ for putting Abba songs in every single play – I did not get tired of hearing Waterloo, Mamma-Mia and every other classic, over and over and over and over…

I was not immune from following in my parents footsteps, I too forayed in the dramatic arts, with my stirring and insightful portrayal of the Dodo from Alice in Wonderland, and my equally moving performance as the Eight of Spades. I’m telling you I could have been Alice, if I was about a couple inches shorter and could hold a tune on my own…

Do you know what else I loved about my childhood? Well, pretty much everything. I was extremely lucky growing up in a place where I was free to be a kid – perhaps a little longer than usual…as you can probably tell from the advanced maturity of my writing. Yes, one day I hope to bring my kids up in a small country town and allow them to create the same memories that I look so fondly back on today.

And maybe if I drink enough red wine I’ll tell you all about it someday.”

No! Don’t go down into the dark basement to check that fuse box, that’s where the ghost of an 18th century Japanese girl lives who was consumed by fire and wants to eat your eyeballs for some reason completely unrelated to her motivation! If you kill her with that broken power cord of the vacuum cleaner she’ll only come back twice as badass…just like this blog will…

Until next time, bonsoir victims.

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Help…brain aneurism!

I’ve just submitted my first two university assignments ever and let me tell you, it was stressful. With shoulders so tight they were just about up around my ears, I went over my essays with a fine tooth comb, or in this case and a fine eye comb, because I don’t really see how you can comb a Word document…I checked and double checked everything before going into online submissions. There, I couldn’t find the appropriate link where to upload my paper. I began to mildly freak out, yelling at the computer screen. ‘Where is it, it should be under assignment submissions, but it’s not, why isn’t it here? This PDF instruction manual looks nothing like what I’m looking at! Max stopping woofing at me! (My dog, impatient for his dinner, I just didn’t understand why he could not wait, I was in the process of minor meltdown after all) Where the hell is it!…oh it’s right there, where it’s supposed to be…dumbass.’

There’s a certain amount of dread in uploading your work into the ether. There’s just no possibility of getting it back. It’s done, finite. What if I made a grammatical error?…dun, dun, dun. *Whirl around, dramatic look down the barrel of the camera* But after a few moments of distance and reflection there comes a sense of relief, a tiny realisation that you were completely and utterly irrational, and if I may say, a little bit of a loser nerd (and, I can say, I don’t know why I’m asking permission to insult myself) It’s not the end of the world if everything isn’t exactly perfect. I must dispose of these high school ideals I drummed into myself of maintaining A’s across the board. It’s just not practical in this new university setting, as it may turn me into a hunchbacked hermit, not to mention a spinster, my brain may explode, I just might turn into an obnoxious pseudo intellectual *shudder*, or be buried underneath a pile of papers so deep I’ll need one of those funky little helmets with the flashlights on them.

I over dramatise, yet manage to put forward a succinct and poignant argument (Hunt, 2010, p.1)

Oh, I forgot one thing, it may cause me to reference everything I write…

Until next time, bonsoir. (See, this is becoming a regular sign off…I actually have a sign off. Groovy…)

P.S. Mum, I appreciate you proofreading my every post. Please let me know if there are any spelling mistakes, or god forbid, grammatical errors! dun, dun, dun…

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Woman, just put the phone down and back away slowly…

‘Sometimes I wonder…’ is what I uttered to myself today, after I jammed a straw into an overfilled takeaway coffee milkshake and it spilled onto my skirt, only to serve that very milkshake to a nice lady, a regular customer, who asked ‘did you just spill that on yourself?’ with a playful smile. ‘…Maybe’ I answer.

Yes, sometimes I wonder about myself and my fleeting common sense. Though I do like to regard myself as reasonably intelligent, on many occasions intelligence has absolutely nothing to do with my actions. I blame general and occasional fits of airheadedness, that, and my phone. Well, I blame my phone for my most recent gaff.

Since acquiring said smart phone quite recently, as I’m the kind of person who doesn’t get rid of their old hand-me-down Nokia until its battery’s bursting and it dies whenever you answer it, I have had a penchant for snapping photos of local wildlife on my newfangled contraption. Yes, I am also the kind of person who sees a frog or a lizard and feels the need to share it on Facebook. Luckily for me my most recent photo didn’t make the irreversible journey into cyber space. I was sitting outside talking to my dad on my whiz-bang calling machine, when I see a snake on top of the dividing wall between my neighbour’s back patio and ours. After I hang up, I go over to the snake cautiously, its scales shining in the sun, still as the pleasant afternoon air, and tell it how pretty it is, getting my camera ready, squinting my eyes from the harsh setting sun. I take the picture, I look at it. I move around the snake to try to get a better angle. ‘Oh, you’re so pretty’ I say. ‘Wait a second…’ I say. That red thing poking out of the snakes mouth looks fake…wait a second. The friggin’ snake is fake! My neighbour’s kids must have put it there to scare me and I friggin’ take a picture of the thing. Stupid phone. I’m more concerned with getting a picture of the thing than actually looking at it properly.

But, seriously, I can’t blame my phone. It’s not Sony Ericsson’s fault it’s so damn addictive, with its convenient, quality photo taking abilities,  its virtual scrabble and internet connection, making it possible to have a whole universe of information available in my pocket. Curses. Must…resist…becoming…attached to an inanimate object. I swear I can sit still in a moment without having to be constantly engaged by technology. That’s my thing. I could stare out a window for an hour, merely amusing myself with my imagination. But that phone, that piece of intelligence that fits in the palm of my hand, so accessible, so awesome. I won’t be sucked in, I won’t… *eye twitch*

Well, I don’t know why I seek to publicly display my own humiliation on this blog, but I just did. So, no shame for the perpetual dimwit, it seems.

So, until my next humiliation…bonsoir.

This post was proudly brought to you by Sony Ericsson Xperia 10.

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The Adventures of My First Car, Jet, and the Tale of the Ugly Key Ring

There’s a certain attachment developed with a first car. They are usually treated like a newborn child, christened with a name, looked on adoringly and even referred to as ‘My Baby’. My first car, a 1998 black Holden Barina City, was thoughtfully named Jet after her nightshade colour and tendency to sound like a small jet upon acceleration, as well as taking off fast enough to survive any quick getaway during a Zombie apocalypse. It was first suggested that she should be called another shade of black (a name I shall not mention, like wizards and you-know-who) – but I quickly reminded said suggester that the name had connotations with someone from my past that I was not very fond of. That’s the polite version, I’ll leave it up to imagination what was actually said…biatch.

So my car was officially Jet, and let’s just say that Jet is a tad temperamental. Of course, probably through no fault of her own, but when you personify your vehicle with a name you imagine certain personality traits.

Me and 'My Baby'. Aren't we a cute couple.

One being, ‘She doesn’t like being left out in the sun’. Jet’s roof is a bit faded, so she’s spent her fair share of time under the UV rays, but unlike me when exposed to these rays she goes a little less black. I, on the other hand, after being a little too zealous that the sun had finally shown itself after days and days of gloomy rain, failed to sunscreen certain parts of my body whilst at the beach. So…Hello human Neapolitan ice cream! Worst – tan line – ever. Except for those people with goggle tan, I feel sorry for those people. Anyways, back to my car. She doesn’t like it in the sun as I, cursing that I had lost my previous car space, parked her in full 32 degree heat, no cracked windows. Result? Two lovely little blisters where I burnt myself on the steering wheel, and a short drive back home in a mini sauna, barely able to shift gears (did I mention Jet lacks air conditioning at the current moment?). Lesson thoroughly learned.

Number two, “Jet must hate my singing”. The stereo has turned itself off twice now for no apparent reason, refusing to come back on, much to my dismay. When I’m alone in a car I must be able to sing at the top of my lungs. Must be a lonesome thing, because when my music died I continued to talk very loudly to myself in strange voices similar to that of Pee Wee Herman. I’m sorry that my dulcet karaoke tones belting over my new Kelly Clarkson album offends people, namely my car, but it is my god given right, heck, everyone’s right, to sing like nobody’s watching in the comfort of their own car, in between cursing at tailgaters and people who don’t know how to indicate.

I have been nice to her though, on most occasions. I polished her with such serious wax on, wax off action that I was surprised I wasn’t a black belt in Karate by the time I was finished. I bought her things to make her all pretty, like girly butterfly seat covers, oh yes, and I spent too long on making my own key ring. Luckily the thought was there because, man, is that thing ugly. I have come to the conclusion that I’m not very crafty. I get an idea in my head of what I want, but instead of it turning out like something from Better Homes and Gardens, it looks more like something from the arts and craft table at the psychiatric ward – who am I kidding, it’s never that good. I don’t know how much time I spent on it, sewing those beads onto cut up pieces of old leather shoe, but I started somewhere near the end of The Biggest Loser, right through Please Marry My Boy, and stopped somewhere in the middle of Q&A – Joe Hockey annoying me so much I could have poked him in the eye with my needle and thread…

And so concludes the Adventures of Jet and the Tale of the Ugly Key Ring. Tune in next week for another story probably completely unrelated to this one. Good day, and always be watching the skis…I mean skies.

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There’s an Ewok on my Bed

This, quite possibly, could be the laziest post in the history of this blog, and quite possibly, the most insightful at the same time. Not because I’m trying my hand at a Dalai Lama impersonation, but because you’ll get a greater insight into what I’m about. The laziness of it? Well, these little musings below are just what I scribble down in times of boredom or waiting for videos on the internet to load. I just put my orange, green, blue or purple (amongst other colours) pen to paper and write down whatever inspires me. Usually I just ramble, lately that ramble has crossed over into the rhyming variety.

Yes, don’t run away. I’m going to say it, so please calm those tenth grade English flashbacks. Poetry. The most personal thing you could ever share and I’m about to, right here for all to see.

These two little ditties are about the one thing in my life that appears constant and unwavering, you know, besides my family, my spirituality. No, I have not been smoking the special stuff…that was yesterday. You see, I kid about this because I’m delaying. So whaddup angels? This one’s for you, you crazy cats.

I write to express myself
To release my worries
And not store them on the shelf

This is what brings me peace
and some sense of calm
Speaking with my angels
Those who keep me from harm

I believe that they are always there
To guide and watch over me
To help me dream and love
And teach me empathy

I am never lost, nor hopeless
Never alone, nor afraid
I feel them standing beside me
For they have never strayed

Give me the strength, let me live
A life free from fear
One where I’m free to give
Openly and honestly
Without limit or grief

… and this one’s for you universe

Waiting here for life to begin
To fall into the vortex
And embrace all within
To conquer fear
Frustration and sin

To fly amongst the universe
Through the ups and downs and traverse
Over the illusions made by man
To see it all, everything I can

To feel the light inside of us all
To take great risk
And still stand tall
To aim as high as possible
Unafraid to fall

To hold destiny in the palm of your hand
To spread the word across the land
That you are god, and so am I
I call upon angels on high
To see beyond the earthly lies

Well that’s it. I call it free verse to avoid any such ‘rules’ of poetry. I built it up too much didn’t I?

PS. Another one of my subversive titles – but there actually is a stuffed Ewok on my bed. He’s keeping Simba company…

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