My Secret, what's yours?

WELL! In Janurary/February time our drama class at my school were asked to devise a small performance to enter into the Arts Festival - a showcase of the schools musical/dramatic/dancing talents. Katie Hurrell, Izzy Staw and I came up with this idea of 'My Secret', and the video is very much self explainatory. A lot of people who wanted to didn't get to see it, and a lot of people I wanted to see it didn't either. So basically: here it is. Enjoy lads and ladies!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ny1AfmOxJwM

Judge a cover by it's book.

This a narrative I have to write for my English c/w, and I sort of like it. I'm going to pretend I posted this in March so it doesn't mess up my '3 posts a month' pattern.
We had to base it on someone being stuck in a cuboid and couldn't get out - for my narrative I tried to make it so the authorial voice's imagination is the cuboid. Tell me what you think?






Look at him, sitting down, leafing through his tattered book, caressed more often than my own lips. He seemed so engrossed in his own world and unfazed by the low flying seagulls. This man, sitting peacefully opposite me in my local park could easily have been one of the most enticing and thrilling people I’d ever laid eyes on and he was merely reading a book. He reminded me of a pirate; big leather boots (I’d say he was just hitting a size 11), scruffy un-brushed hair, a sheepskin coat, plain white shirt, worn down jeans, and those eyes. Oh gosh, those eyes. He looked in his late twenties but along with the way he cupped his stubble ridden chin with his dirty hands and squinted his piercing blues, he portrayed a lifetimes of stories.
I wanted to sit there all day and study his body language and drink every ounce of him in. I sort of expected him to pull out a guitar from under the bench and start singing – it would be an explanation for his rough ended fingers. This sunny, cloudless day was so picturesque and I took immense pleasure in knowing I had the best view in this humdrum town. I took my eyes off of him for just a second to take a glance at the now terribly boring other inhabitants of the park and I couldn’t deny the fact that they were nothing. Compared to him they were the most dire, worthless and pointless people to grace my world.

St fucking Valentine.

This man, and I mean this when I say it, is a royal cunt. He actually has no fucking idea what 'love' is. For instance he thinks it should only be shown to your loved one ONCE a year?! If you bloody well love someone you should show it to them as much as possible, no questions asked. Why shower them with revolting flowers, chocolates that they probably don't even like, over-sized cards which lets face it, are the biggest embarrassment a woman could ever behold and ridiculous teddies that'll probably be given to the dog when you've gone home. If I'm entirely honest with you all I see no real point in a Hallmark induced holiday that quite frankly makes me want to throw up a little in my mouth.

This Valentines day I spent the day with my best friend and had a really, really nice time. This could've happened any other day, it just so happened we arranged it on the 14th and let me tell you, my god would I have preferred it to an awkward meal that you both would pay good money for just so it could end.

I don't like St Valentine/Cupid/Twat face, and I certainly don't like the idea of a grown man still in diapers being in control of my love life.

Fuck you very much my dear.

P.S All my posts next month will not be as bitter, I promise.

You've made your decision, now please leave me alone.

Distance makes the heart grow fonder/weaker. You're far away but close to me/with someone else.



No.


You think I'm weaker but I'm only getting stronger. Did you seriously think that your pathetic, empty words were ever going to affect me? They've been said before and they'll be said again, and just like yours they'll be as meaningless as a Valentines card. This isn't bitterness, you're the epiphany of bitterness my sweet.

You're having second thoughts? Think again.

Anytime at all.

3 in the morning drunken phone calls are not enough anymore.

Another party, another realisation.

Left in the spare room like a spare part. Not wanted here and know it. Need a hug, need a friend, need some fucking sympathy. There's not much of that to go around for a spare part, though. The lyrics of 'Hand Me Down' play on loop in head. Mistake. Mistake. Mis-takes. And tears.

Cry YOUR fucking heart out. YOU'RE used goods now sweetheart.

"Sometimes I don't mind not being able to go back to who I used to be."

Living through past memories, going over and over until I've bled them dry. Soon they'll be nothing. My words will hold no meaning and my experience will all be just what I've seen in films. I can define parts of myself from my past but where's the line between that and the past defining me? If I speak words of wisdom it's due to self obsession, If I offer gestures of kindness I don't expect it to be taken without something in return, and if I love you - don't expect it to be anything more than a need for you to love me back. I've grown tired of being lodged in a past where I'd become nothing but routine.

I am not my family nor friends.

I am not my successes nor failures.

I am not my regrets.

Hello 2009.