Endless melody

I live in an endless melody. I go through out my life with head phones on. It is the reason that my hearing sucks and the reason that I can deal with the controlling urges of my school and the majority of my peers.
I believe it is the same for most in my family. Dora, dad and me are the worst. Our endless melody like a silent but loud companion that follows us everywhere and anywhere. A faithful servant to our mental stability.
Amongst all the noise and sweet sounds of people doing what others tried to convince them was no way to make a living is mum. Amongst all of it is this quiet British lady who listens to the birds singing gently to each other outside the house of harmonies instead of lyrics and notes of music and verses of bittersweet situations.
I realise that this must be hard for her. To live where endless noise drowns out the singing of the birds. I have a hunch that it would also be linked to the fretful fact that we don’t really care for cleanliness either. The main reason dad would ever clean like a madman and urge his daughters to do the same is because he love mum so.
I know and understand that mum appreciates language and clever people with a talent for rhythm put into song is a wonderful and almost always agonisingly beautiful thing as much as I do and it is something I sometimes have to remind myself of. Leonard Cohen is proof of that.
Naturally the three of us can be very critical of each others sometimes painful taste in what we like. I’m the worst. I have had some really low points. And by low I mean, we’re talking Taylor Swift low. Then again Dora had One Direction so, hot damn, maybe my past terrible taste wasn’t that bad. I can’t for the life of me think of a bad band or singer for dad but I’m sure he has his own ghosts of horror. Either way we have all had those low points.

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A small short story off the top of my head

A great lock pick, known and unrivalled across the land for his thievery and his delicate hand. The lock pick was brought before a great emperor one day and the emperor asked the lock pick “Will you open my door for me, Thief?” Naturally the lock pick hurriedly nodded. The emperor was known for rewarding those who pleased him greatly. He was, of course, also know for killing those who didn’t. Confident that there was no door he could unlock or dismantle the lock pick followed the emperor down deep into the dungeons where you could smell the death and mystery in the air and see it in play out on the walls. The small party of an emperor, a price thief and a few guards came to a very simple door built into the wall. It was small and brown with several scratches covering it’s surface. The emperor saw the thief looking over the door and started to explain that they were where the guards had attacked the door with great speed and skill and an axe. Any other door would of been in splintered shards on the floor by the time they were through with it, but this door simply sat there, mocking them for what the could not have. “I will open the door” declared the lock pick, not understanding how complicated something simple looking can be. He told the guards and the emperor to leave him be to work. It wouldn’t take long, for it was but a simple house door lock. This was level 1 for him. He tried several different techniques and none of them worked. The thief stared at the door and it’s lock in shock. There was no door he could not open so why couldn’t he open this one? No, he could let the blasted door win. For a thousand years he stared at the door. Frozen in concentration. He didn’t eat but did not stave. His Tummy had forgotten to grumble. He didn’t sleep but would not collapse. His mind had forgotten to be tired. He stay there for so long but never did he age. His bones had forgotten to grow old. Slowly he piece by piece unlocked the door. When he opened the door, a thousand years later, with the once great palace crumbling around him, He found a whole kingdom in a single room. But it was a land of destructions. Volcanos erupting, tsunamis, avalanches, earth quakes and every other destruction you can think of. He stood in the door way gaping and staring at this strange vast room with the potential to destroy the land itself. At first he wanted it all for himself. With this power for destruction he could rule every kingdom in the land. If they disobeyed them he could send a tidal wave there way. But, no he didn’t want the responsibility of the land, he just wanted to be as rich as a king. Next he wanted to give it to the emperor and let him shower him with gifts. Gold bars, delicious food, beautiful women. But, alas it was not to be. He couldn’t give the land of destructions to anyone. It was too powerful, too untameable, too vibrant for human minds to control. He sighed and hung his head watching the water and the lava splash together like the forces of fire and water themselves were putting on a show for him. Slowly he closed the door. Never could this beautiful treasure be found by humans. They would corrupt it and would be destroyed by it’s overwhelming power. For another fifty years he pretended to keep on working on the door but in secret created a masterful lock with all of his knowledge of locks of every sort. After he had finally placed the lock on the door he opened the door one last time to see the land of destructions. It was just as he had remembered. Destructive. After the thief had locked the door and left the palace he soon forgot of his a thousand and fifty years of solitude but he never quite forgot the land of destructions. It was always lingering bravely, by the edge of his mind and he would know that he had done the right thing. Destructions still leaked out from under the door from time to time but if the destructions were to ever be let free… anarchy would reign and fear would rain like water from the sky.

The moral games

The moral games

Tonight I watched the hunger games’ second movie: catching fire. While we were in the cinema my friend leaned over to me at some point and said to me: “if I were in the hunger games I would just eat some poison berries or something before I die painfully” I remained cautiously silent and contemplated why that would never be me. I came to a very simple answer: if you don’t fight against thing that’s giving you a horrible death then you can never overcome it. In other words you’ll never win. I hate that. I am not a particularly competitive person and I don’t think that getting a reward for doing what others think is good is winning. I believe that winning is doing what you want or believe is right rather than going by other people’s terms. Winning is defying what is classified as impossible and in general the system of which you may be forced to live by. Freedom is not living by no rules. Freedom is in making and living by your own rules without forcing them upon anyone else. There are things in this world that are obviously things that are wrong. Torture, murder, rape, so on. These things should be a given within everyone’s morals and those that have committed these should be punished, but in the right way. I admit that some of our punishments I do not agree with and I’m not sure what, exactly, the right way is but somewhere among the moral haze it lies in waiting.
Everyone who watches the hunger games can’t help but picture themselves there and wonder how they would react. Naturally I would instantly be put to death. I am a middle class white girl. There is nothing in me that says ‘survival instincts’. Hopeless would not come close. Nonetheless I have a pretty good moral judgement and I think I would of acted quite differently to Katniss Everdeen. For example at the end of the games when they are about to eat the poisoned berries I would not even get them out of my pocket. I wouldn’t be able to. It would not be within my abilities to lie down like that. I understand that in death they were defying the system but to me death is an act of relief from reality but to do that you are leaving behind everything that makes you want to leave untouched and unchanged. I do not think that their want of death is unjustified, I think that even the strongest of souls would want that. It is whether you yield to that want.
In the movies there is a character called Johanna who at every turn in the film isn’t silently cursing the oppressing capital but shouting it out. She says after she has basically yelled out her hatred and they are all staring at her: “they can’t touch me, it’s not a life that I love”. I think that’s awesome. When you choose to fight back with all guns blazing then you have rightfully won my admiration. When you’re actively fuck you at the people that deserve it then you are someone to be looked up to and in general look up we shall.

And thus I give you The Moral Games. We live in this jungle of how do I do this. How do I hurt people? How do I fight back without hurting the people I love? How do I keep living? How can I be honest without insults?

These are questions we face everyday. We live with this. And yet somehow we aren’t doing too bad.

The hipsters, the classics, the prims, the crazies and aliens

There is a new and rather interesting trend going around my school at the moment. Being the careful observer that I am I have successfully decided to document and contemplate this.
This trend seems to be just a categorising system by personality. This might have something to with the population of my school having a thing about control of the masses. Basically the whole school is separating themselves in to groups. Most of my friends have placed themselves in or have been forcefully placed in ‘The Crazies’ group. Most of the drama kids have been put in
‘The Hipsters’. And the dance students ‘The Prims’ (I’m not even sure what the means). The music students have stolen and hidden ‘The Classics’. There are a few, not fully formed others that I’m not really aware of and don’t really want to.
Apparently I have escaped being put in ‘The Weirdos’ group because I’m to normal and I can’t be in ‘The hipsters’ because I’m too abnormal. I can’t be in ‘The Prims’ because I’m not stressed enough and I can’t be in ‘The Classics’ because I’m not mello enough. And thus I was placed in the smallest group there is. Aliens. We don’t even get a ‘the’ at the front. We’re just ‘Aliens’. As far as I can tell there are about four of us.
My friends, according to them, say I’m smart. I’m not sure I agree with them but, hey, they can think what they like. (I’m not being insecure of fishing for complements. If I don’t doubt my own brain I’ll never make it better). This, for some reason, gives me a reason to put me in ‘Aliens’. This may be a reason but the main things that defines ‘Aliens’ is we are all wacky. Not weird, strange, queer, crazy, insane, or mental. We are wacky. No other word can be accepted because it just wouldn’t fit the description. We are eccentric at best. We have our ways that don’t quiet go with the stereotypical road or conventions of polite society.
The thing about us is that we are being stereotyped by not being stereotypical. We have been put in some made up category because we don’t fit in any other. It is generally a stupid but interesting notion. We are too our selves that we can’t be anything else.
Naturally I feel an odd sense of pride for being given up on in this untangled web of stereotypes. I have been shoved into the high school ranking order and have been spat right back out again.

Instructions to de-cluttering you head By a thirteen year old

Yesterday was my birthday, it was also the day my mum went into surgery. Yeah, I know. Not the most superb birthday present ever but it’s okay. I hold no sentimentality to the day of my birth, sure it’s nice to get presents and be the centre of attention for a few hours but nonetheless I sure as hell don’t remember being born and its not like I did some great thing on that day. I was just born. I came out of my mum’s tummy just like every other human being on the planet. Don’t get me wrong I love my birthday. I think the idea of a birthday is a wonderful thing. Giving each person a day for everyone around them to celebrate their existence.
Anyway, every birthday I have, whatever the circumstances, I always get chaotically flustered. People give me many, many presents and by the end of the day I’m standing their with spirals in my eyes and a dazed look with my arms filled with the kindness of others. Now, this morning, a day after my birthday, with no presents lift to give I had to pluck the spirals from my eyes and reaffirm myself with being a person.
So here is how I managed it.
Step 1: clean fucking everything. Just clean. It’s doesn’t matter what it is. Organise, wash and refresh your space of time. Colour code it if you have to. Just create a place of which there is no clutter.
Step 2: have a shower. There is nothing better than being warm and clean. Just have a bloody shower and its like the cosmos is back where it ought to be. Clean your teeth, your face, you legs, your arms. Clean EVERYTHING.
Step 3: read something. Not some sappy romance novel. Read something intellectual and clever and it almost always help if its charmingly witty.
Step 4: play some Xbox or some other gaming console. It helps if the game your playing in unnecessarily violent. Basically go kill someone made of pixels. It is human nature to be destructive and if your destructive in the real world your bound to cause trouble for the people who love you, but in the gaming world it’s the name of the game.
Step 5: do what ever the hell you want. Your cured.

Thoughts on me

I am very vain.
I am also very brilliant. I couldn’t say what makes me brilliant. I just know that I am. It is my firm but blind religion. I live on a strong intake of vanity. To some less crude or frank people they might call this intense self belief or, the common term, confidence. I am a profoundly confident person. This doesn’t mean that I don’t hesitate or get aggravatingly anxious. I do. Almost all the time. But instead of kneeling before it in submission I simply look my hesitance and anxiousness dead in the eye and lie through my teeth. Lying is an easy way out because no matter how bad you are at lying the person will never quite be able to tell if you are telling the truth or otherwise. Well, that is unless you actively confess to it. It is easy even if the person your lying to is yourself.
People and society in general always say the lying to yourself is bad and will turn you into something your not. But they have no right to say you are. Only you can decide who you want to be and who you are at the moment. When I say that statement it often sounds like you have to strive to be in a category of people. Like I want to be a badass or a book worm or some other stereotype. This is silly. What I mean is to create your self. It’s like creating a house in mine craft, actually it’s more like renovating. Changing for the better. Or for the worse depending on what mood your in.
It doesn’t matter what state your in you are always yourself. Always. There is no way you can get out from your skin. Even if your acting like someone else. That decision to act is still you.

An arsonal of rage part 2

Fucking shit balls. Fuck a doodle do. Shitting monkey demons. I’m so incredibly enraged. For the love of god is the laws of physics and probability formed against me and my family?
Fuck, shit, fuck, shit, fuck, shit. Fucking shit.
Surgery. Nineteenth. Birthday. Mine. Fuck.
And what’s worse about this god almighty terrible situation all I can do about it is swear at it. I’m powerless to do anything. I want to punch someone but nobody deserves the pain. I hate this. I hate this so much. I want to scream and shout and destroy everything. I know it’s selfish to want something gone so badly that you want the whole of everything to just go away for a while but I do. I am a bold selfish person.
I don’t want to have to explain this shitty situation to my teachers and my friends who are also powerless to this god forsaken time.
As I sit here in my chair in dads office, crying for the first time about all this shit, I want to just sit here and scream. But I don’t want anyone to hear me. I don’t want to be what they think that I ought to be. I’m not. I’m not crying because I’m sad or I’m breaking. I’m crying because I am so fucking mad. I am so mad that there’s nothing that can calm me down. There is nothing I can’t deal with but just because I can deal with it doesn’t mean that it’s not painful as fuck holding it back.