26 April, 2011

Nothing lasts forever...?

So, being fourteen and all, I'm definitely inexperienced in the ways of the adult, in the ways of life, in the ways of the human. But isn't that the unmistakeable beauty of life? The way that, every time a new person is born, their life stretches ahead of them, endlessly, a beauty, a perfect bounty of plain white canvas stretched across a long road. It's so beautiful, that a person can literally do whatever they want. Every time a baby is born, the midwife looks at it...and if I was that midwife, I'd stare, just for a few seconds, into the huge pools of gummy light that shine out of a newborn's face. Because, just for a few seconds, the first few seconds of an unpredictable life, a million things can be achieved. A million things are possible. And then, the bubble is burst, the spell is broken and just like that, another life joins the billions on Earth. Fade into the black shadows of the background.
My point is that even though a million things can be achieved, how many actually are? Sometimes, you have to go for it. I know that nothing lasts forever. But we've got to make the good things last as long as possible. Or enjoy them while we can. Don't waste your time looking wistfully at her back as she walks away. Come and find me instead. We can dance, and make the most of being young. And celebrate everything we have, and laugh at everything we don't.

Human mentality

I wish it was so straightforward in life. I wish some people could wake up one morning and just think to themselves, 'I'm going to change'. Basically, I wish everyone had my mindset. But then again, everyone does. Or, rather, I wish everyone thought as strongly as I do; I don't mind SOME opposition, being agreed with all the time is exhausting. But then, I wish a lot of people I know shared my values; values of self-respect, of being nice to your teachers and keeping your room tidy. Okay, so I'm faaaar from perfect. I'm hardly squeaky-clean myself, I know that. But still, is it really so hard to want to be...well, normal? To want to have a steady relationship, to want to get through school, to want to do everything that you're told? Maybe I'm the abnormal one?

21 April, 2011

Famous because they're successful? Or successful because they're famous?

Lily Allen has started a clothing business of some sort with her sister-in-law and they're doing really rather well. This is because, what with the traumas Lily has faced over the past year, they ('they' being the frenzied, ravenous media) decided she could do with the PR, and therefore her business has had an awful lot of advertising for absolute free. MORE than free. SHE'S being paid; I should explain. ITV, I think it is, is shooting a reality series about Lily's new venture with her sister-in-law, their game plan, the way they both go about starting a business, and just basically all hte trials and tribulations the business faces and the way they are overcome. Now, unless I'm very much mistaken, Lily Allen was (and possibly still is) a very good singer/song-writer, and moreover one whom is rich and really rather powerful from it all. She is undeniably successful, and even though she isn't particularly appeasing to me, I can't deny the fact that she is very good at what she does; hence so many awards and nominations over the past years, and fantastic album and single sales. But why, excactly, does that get her so much free advertising? Because she's famous. Lily Allen has her own Wikipedia page (which is how you know when you've REALLY made it in life), almost 3mill. followers on Twitter and a Facebook page that is positively leaping off the screen with activity. Lily Allen is FAMOUS. And no matter how much we like or dislike it, being famous opens so many doors. People are much more likely to market a TV series on the new business venture of a former singer with 22 awards and a further 56 nominations under her belt, then, say, my Dad. Because no-one knows who my Dad is, really. I mean, he has friends, sure, (I hope...) but he's not famous. He's never been on TV, or met anybody overtly famous themselves. My Dad is lovely. But he's no Lily Allen. And so, the media won't go for him. Lily Allen will rake in the viewers a million apiece, and whilst I firmly resolve to watch any TV appearence my lovely Dad makes, not many other people will. Certainly not half the country, every other weeknight.

20 April, 2011

The Hormonal Arms Race

Who's going to be the first one to have sex, to take drugs, to get their whatever pierced? Who's going to be the first one to loose their friends, to go out at night, to alienat themselves from their parents? Who's going to be the first one to get drunk, to smoke, to party all night? Does it matter? Somewhere along the way we forgot what's important, to enjoy being young, to enjoy being free. We're not tied down by bills, by a job, by family. We can do (within reason) whatever we want. But no, someone came along and say 'Hey! Let's do what the grown-ups do!'. So we did. And we still do. The stories that hit me about people passing out in the street after a night out, about doing stupid things when they're drunk, about whatever the hell they do...it makes me feel sick because, to be honest, I look after THEIR childhood, and I gaze at THEIR childhood enviously. It's not right. I've changed an awful lot in the past year, and I'm forever changing now. New hairstyles, new friends, new attitudes. I have so many different opinions, reflected in what I wear, how I act, what I do. If ever there was a person who was the biggest mix of...everything, it's be me. Me and my friends. We understand how important it is to have a little bit of everything thrown in. Makes you who you are. Much like collecting a momento everywhere you go on holiday, my personality is an eclectic mix of bits and pieces and feelings and actions that I've collected and strung together. It makes ME, ME. And I'm so happy to be me. To be lanky, and blonde, and prone to sunburn. To have strange eyes, and a loud voice, and be an awful dancer. To be sarcastic, witty and cynical. To be trustworthy, understanding, and head-over-heels in loive. I don't care if what I wear looks a bit strange. I don't care if what makeup I have on, if any, it too much or too little. If, for some reason, really black eyes and eyelashes with a totally bare face ever come into fashion, I will be AWESOME. But until then, me and Morticia are off.

19 April, 2011

Everyone's changing and I don't feel the same,

Thinking back to last year, an idyllic time when none of us thought about sex, drugs and rock'n'roll. We all listened to the Top40 on Radio 1 in our bedrooms on Sunday nights, had all our schoolwork completed and thought we were going to be fine. This year, it's about looking cool, not trying, really trying, be brave, not being too brave, being original, not being attention-seeking, trying something new, not changing your routine, letting yourself transform and mature, but NEVER, EVER, EVER loosing your routes. This year is a smorgasbord of contradiction, and something that none of us ever hoped to encounter. It makes me slightly sad and very wistful to see all these fresh, plucky young Year Seven's, full of hope and imagination. I'm still very full of imagination, but now also more cynical then I could ever have imagined. I'm sad because I see them all, I see myself in every scampering, excitable last one of them. But I know where they're headed. Some of them will go on to lead a life of hollow popularity, trying and failing to be the person everyone wants them to be. Others will stick it to the man and pay the price. This tme two years ago, I was juggling boys, singing the Beatles and generally Being Happy. This year, I'm holding a relationship, singing Blink-182 and generally Being Annoyed. I feel like I've aged a decade in two years, like there's something worth holding on to that I'm desperately missing, every time I pine for my seemingly lost childhood. I wish I could be a Year Three again, all small and bubbly. I wish I didn't know half the things I do know. I wish I didn't have some of the experiences that I do. I wish I was younger. But hey, fourteen...not quite over the hill just yet... In other news, my best friend, Melissa Daisy, has only gone and made a blog, inspired, allegedly, by my humble self...PAHA. http://stonedonabridge.blogspot.com Check it out. I refuse to give her any guidance, I want to see her words flow on to this blank challenging cyber-canvas, splattering the bare paper ruthlessly with thefintricate, swirling paint of words.

11 April, 2011

If I could have just a minute of your time?

This is the first and the last time, I swear, where I'll be that emotional on my blog. You readers don't want to see me loose control. I feel like I'm about to, but I can't. So that's that. ^-^
Have you ever felt like you're totally fine, but at the same time at your lowest point? Like you're sad, but you have no right to be? Yeah.
This morning, I logged on to Facebook, as I do most mornings, and put a status imploring people NOT to like their own statuses. I then liked it, to demonstrate irony. Not hypocrisy, not anything akin to stupidity, i-r-o-n-y. I then got a few comments, all of which made me laugh. One of my friends was so impressed that he'd been able to identify said ironic themes. Then, I got another comment from a friend. The comment read 'hypocrite.'. I know that sometimes she's blunt with me online for comic effect, as I am with her. Such is the nature of our relationship. However, her next comment, after my response of 'irony', was something different; 'Seriously, just get down of that high horse of yours'. Right. Well. This comment was liked by three of her friends, and I knew what was coming next. The 'humorous' spelling fails in comments posted by said friends set my teeth on edge. Something to do with the fact that liking own statuses and comments makes them feel special. Then a comemnt from the original disdaner, almost shooting down the page with the amount of sarcasm draped fauz-lazily over it, the words 'Woops...I liked my own comment...'. This in turn was greeted with cool responses from me, enquiring politely although indifferently as to whether she has a problem. She demurred and assented. I said OK. We moved on. What made me shake with rage was the fact that I have done nothing. Go to a local prison. Pick an inmate, any inmate. Ask them if their charges are true. The answer? No. I realise that it's almost physically impossible to admit to your own wrongdoings But this time, I'm serious. I. Have. Done. Nothing. But no. Just as I'm getting a little bit confident, a little bit sure of myself, they cut me down. There I was, making new friends, FINALLY feeling brave enough to approach someone higher up the fodchain than my humble self. And they had to. They had to cut me down again, for their own amusement, presumably. There's something irresistable about the urge to punch someone. Just imagining it makes you feel instantly more powerful. Next time, they had better pick the 'victim' more carefully. Believe me, this is not melodrama. I feel lysically sick, imagining the tribulations forced upon me by girls, mainly, who thought they had something to prove. They need to be better, so by making me look weak, they become more powerful. Yeah, it's just teenage bitching. But if they were adults, they'd be sick and twisted. In my eyes, they are. I would never wish my time as the Underdog upon anyone, not even those responsible for it. They have no idea how much my friends mean to me. To them, sure, it's dispensible. Yeah, they're so popular they don't need anyone. They could have another best friend within a week. Which is why my friendships are better. Because they're simple and honest. And my friends make me strong. They make me who they are. A friend to a cowbag? Just another Primark accessory :)

This is it.

Is it ever possible to feel so wound up that one word could be fatal? The next word someone says to me could cause me to shoot like a rocket, exploding in a flurry of tears and anger and shooting stars and broken promises. I want to shout, to scream at the injustice of it all. I want to be able to run, as fast as it's possible to run, and to curl up in a ball and watch the world dwindle away. I feel trapped, as though everyone can see my true colours but all I can see are facades. I feel like the only one unmasked at a Masquerade. I feel like I'm staring through everyone else, like I'm transparent, like no-one can hear me. I'm screaming to be let out of this box, before it tips over and smashes, cutting into me mercilessly. I cannot break free of the bonds holding me down, trying to force me into a different shape, to concur with everybody else's wishes. I can't be who everyone wants me to be. I'm not the girl I was before, I'm not the girl I'm going to be, I'm just venting. I feel like I'm being held down, like I really need to just go. I need to go. I don't need anyone. I can't have anyone dragging me down anymore; I know people love me. Some people. But maybe sometimes, just sometimes love isn't enough. I need someone who knows what I feel, who is ready to take me as I am, every single day. Not just the person I am with them. I AM real, to my friends, to my boyfriend, to my family. BUT...it's a different person each time. I don't know what I am anymore, how can I tell when my mood changes like the posters on my walls? I'm keeping it together when I want to scream my heart out, to rage at the unfairness of the world, to have whatever everyone else seems to have; control. A million people feel the same as me right now, and STILL I feel alone. There are three other people in this house, plus four animals, and STILL I feel alone. There are 6.6bill people on Planet Earth, and I feel like no-one can hear me. When we were little, we said we'd love to be invisible, so we could stay up later. When we were older, we said we'd love to be invisible so we could hear people speak the truth about us. When we were older still, we said we'd love to be invisible so we could watch the object of our affections. As we get older now, we say we'd love to be invisible so we could do what we want. But when will everyone learn that really, being invisib;le is the worst thing in the world? No-one is there to mend your broken heart. No-one cares enough to stop and search for you. Even though you can't see me, I still want to be touched. I still want to feel loved. I need it. I'm sorry.

Fridge words!

I will do a more serious post later tonight but for now, I wanted something a bit light-hearted, because I've been made to think a LOT today and that's not a good position to be in regularly. Remember how when we were younger our parents would buy lots and lots of tiny little magnetic words and word-endings in the vain hope of getting us to become literate before the age of 3? We re-discovered said words a while ago and had much fun making sentences. They're all jokey (I think) but when I read some of them, they seem to me little, genuine pearls of wisdom. Also, I really think that we could learn by some of them. Others are, of course, just to make you laugh. I don't know how many there are, excactly, but then again, each one is worth about fifteen normal words, so :)
~~~
Flatten his old-fashioned spawn
Massive canter
Slumber in vanilla delight
I quake
Ignite the paint
Army knoll
A cheery frozen skyline cycle
Cradle those manic oranges
Freedom
Hope & Insanity
No reward
Touch your emotion
Toe vendetta
Your cruel splendid occasion shall create fruit dust
Deluge on mirrored paint
Glown then depart
Spear tears
Rub dark liquid in
Man can fly
Will the angel care
Fragile bubbles
Below a million
Theirs aren't crimson
My spirit
We go around Neptune
Notice autumn forget
Glide hideous amber knight
pardon our invisible tail
languish on ruby flame
Nothing legend
We like sugar cake
Pulp fizzle
Truly any moral
Sleazy and droll
Be true
Her kinky manoeuvre
Me is you so who is she
Intone cream fur
Put it off jungle brute
Sat mistaken and interrupted
Performance invent me
Adore his fuzzty pop
Exotic dragon is feisty
My clever turquoise breeze
Snowing east but gather west
Swirling father no stoneless eight
Create our summer
Yet under gentle
Cherry Heaven
Depart but gorge on electricity
Bang him up
She's of ghostly malice
Commit here
Beg for a melting planet
Make a ginger throb
Learn and strike
Useless harmony
Usefully intoxicated
Wet and whirlpooly dew
Did milky Venus float
Spring and radient slumber
The North spiral
Tide and ocean
Solace in nougat
Rode at us
Beyond his tall violet whistling
Corrupt my thumb
Promise in anger
Inspiration embrace
You could be everything
Emotional sob

Goddamn! My family are so poetic!

01 April, 2011

Millie and religious songs.

I'm at my best friend's house! Yay, best friend! ^.^ Woo. I like that title, it makes me feel special on the inside. Millie Stonebridge IS really rather special actually. She's funny, kind, amazingly caring and patient, always there to listen when you need her, and although I lament the fact that I've only known her a mere month, that past month has simply been a foresights into what lies ahead. This friendship will stand the many tests of time, growing-up and education, I'm sure on it. If, for whatever reason, we do fall apart, then at least I can say that our times together were always good :) she is the kind of girl who makes me want to be a better person, keep my room tidy and be kinder to my teachers. Also, when I'm writing a blog post and I know she's listening as I read whilst I write (very deadpan), it makes writing somehow instantly easier, and the words just flow off the tip of my tongue. She is inspiring, even more so that any of Da Vinci's muses or Jilly Cooper's heroines. I believe that one girl has the power to change the way we all think for good; with her stunning looks, amazing personality and easy, loping grace, why not let it be Millie? Changing the subject swiftly, and rather randomly, I attempt to illustrate a topic that has been playing on my mind for rather a few days now; hymns, especially at school. In Junior School, as I went to one middle-class Junior, in one of the many suburbs of Berkshire, my school personally did not have a wide range of religions to cater for; the majority was CofE, interspirsed with a few Catholics; I don't quite know what the teachers' personal religious preferences were, but I do know that my teacher of two yeafrs, Mrs. Bowden, was a Christian, and led most R.E lessons with ease. It's interesting, looking back on your primary years with eyes afresh. I think that if I was back in my Junior school now, three years on, give or take, then I might just find everything to be wrong. For primary example, the fact that every single day, without fail, we would have an Asembly. It would average about half an hour, and the years 3-5 would sit on the floor (3's at the front, 5's at the back, 4's in between), whilst the Year 6's would be privileged enough to sit on benches at the back of the hall. There would be a blank screen dragged down before every congregation; I say congregation, because that is what it was. We would sing hyms, like 'Sing Hosanah', 'One More Step Along The World I Go' and 'The Animals Went In By Two, By Two', all about God and Jesus being Saviours, all about the Bible teaching us the ways of life, and we would be read passages from the Bible itsself. Now, I'm not a Christian myself; I don't believe in God. However, it really riles me that these teachers evidently thought it prudent to foist THEIR beliefs on US, and WE, being innocent 8-11 year-olds, thought no better than to question it. We were YOUNGER, we didn't really have a special preference. But I feel a bit cheated; I feel like the whole religion, God-bothering thing, was sprung on me when I was too little to do anything about it! You would neer get a Year Five going to the Head's office, telling them that they tohughts Religion was a load of Bull and that if they didn't get removed from each Assembly, they would protest with a violation of their Civil Rights. Now, I know that's a cliche, BUT how unfair is it that all across the country, and in different countries too, I'm sure, we never get a choice in singing God's praises (literally), even if we're not overtly religiou, or haven't made up our minds yet! It's UNFAIR.