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Tuesday, September 19th, 2006
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11:18 am - Entry #6: Blank.
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| Wednesday, July 26th, 2006
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2:31 am - Entry #5: A Metaphor.
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The rainbow, it looks so great, the spectrum of colours bowed across the sky, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet, all so innocent, all so fragile. It hides the darkness, they hide the black inside, the absence of light, the part that swallows your soul, eats your mind and destroys emotions. The rainbow walks as if everyone cares and it cares not, as if all of the people around it admire it, but those who know it despise its superficial value and know what it is.
It is a cancer.
It is a danger.
It hurts you.
It is not what you think.
Black is the absence of light.
Brown does not appear in a rainbow because red, orange and green combined make it, those colors are not adjacent in the visible colors of a rainbow but still exists under its superficial exterior.
It will chew you up, love you, care for you, make you happy and then spit you out like a bad taste.
current mood:  drunk
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(comment on this)
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| Monday, July 3rd, 2006
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11:32 pm - Entry #4: Numb
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When you don’t know where you are.
When you don’t know whom you want.
When you don’t know why you are doing it.
When you don’t know what the point is.
It’s when you’re confused about everything.
When you feel empty and don’t feel like trying.
When the girl you like doesn’t even know you exist.
When you feel like shit every time she walks by and doesn’t acknowledge your presence.
When you miss her every time you make the effort.
It’s the way you get rejected.
The way it tears you down.
The way you think everything is o.k. but never works out.
It’s the lust for the girl you haven’t see in years.
You know? When you feel the emptiness in your stomach, "butterflies"
That thing, the emotion we regard so strong.
I don’t know what it is, or how it feels.
It's when you don’t know where you are.
When you don’t know whom you want.
When you don’t know why you are doing it.
When you don’t know what the point is.
current mood:  rejected
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12:16 am - Entry #3: The mind is a terrible thing to waste, it's also a terrible thing to nurture.
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So, people say the mind rots? Maybe it's just those people that think it does it happens to, maybe it is all psychological, maybe the people who think their brain is rotting it actually does, or maybe they are right, who knows. All I know is that the mind can be a scary thing, it can produce what you do and don't want to see without even asking it to, it can scare you if you hear a noise in the dark, it can make you feel good if you hear some music, it can make you feel bad if it rains, worst of all, it can create demons, demons that survive in the back of your head, the things you dont want to see, the things that come out when you are where you dont want to be. The demons can be whatever, animals, people, shadows, noises, smells or feelings they can catch the corner of your eye and make you question your sanity, you know? The kind of things you see on TV, the kind of things where there is a person in a building you know is empty, but you still think that they are in there and waiting for you, where you are scared to turn a corner, or fear to look behind you in-case something is waiting to take your last breath away from you, to rip out your vital organs with a blunt object, or hold you so tightly your ribs fracture and pierce the sacks in your chest named lungs.
Don't let your mind rot, don't let your mind rot you.
current mood:  thoughtful
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| Tuesday, June 13th, 2006
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12:02 am - Entry #2: Lost Blog.
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So, I had this amazing idea for a short blog story last night.
I was a bit drunk, but yeah, it was still good.
I searched the hotel room for a pen, paper or anything else to scribble down my drunken imagination onto.
I'm sure that it wouldn’t be that amazing, but the point is, I thought it would be at the time.
I wish I could even remember the basic idea of it, but its lost.
So I’m writing these basic sentences instead in hope to gain inspiration, and it is currently not working.
Bud didn’t care anyway, he was just some drunken football lout, I told him but he didn’t listen and he can’t remind me today.
Bud is a large guy, the kinda guy you don’t wanna meet after his team have just lost and important match, you know, big fat hairy arsed broken nosed evil cunt.
I don’t really like him, but he likes to get drunk and so do I, we share a common interest, we are also sunburned.
He's into his one night lady friends, I cant understand that, well I can but I choose not to accept it, it all seems a bit strange to me, especially when she asks for her money at the end of the night.
But, it isn’t his fault he chooses this path, its just another kick, like jumping in front of a bus or something; I don’t understand people who do that either, that seems kinda pointless however thrilling it might be.
Bud comes from down south; he’s a Chelsea lad, proper cunt.
I don’t like him, but we like alcohol so it’s ok.
Then I went home.
...Alright, I set myself off again, I don’t know who Bud is.
Good-fight, goodnight.
current mood:  indescribable
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| Friday, June 2nd, 2006
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11:29 pm - Entry #1: This guy.
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So there was this guy, he wasn’t the smartest in the world or the most popular, he never had enough money and never wished for more. He liked his life even though sometimes it was shite. One day he was talking to his friend, the telephone, but not an ordinary one, a big red one in the centre of the vast city the people who passed by looked at him funny, those were the people stuck in their nine till five lame jobs wishing they had a better life and more money, the man never wished for anymore, he didn’t work a shitty little job and he didn’t wish to have more money, nor did he hate his life, he loved his life and his friends, even the stubborn ones like the pigeon with one leg that wandered around the building he visited frequently. He left his friend in the city and travelled back to the café, the man there wasn’t very friendly, wasn’t warm and really didn’t care, but he always asked if you would like your barm-cake buttered, unlike the friendlier female member of staff, so he got his buttered.
The time passed while the man was in the café and he realised that he must go, he needed to walk home and retire for the day, so he walked, it took him around 27 minutes and 56 seconds to reach his destination, but when he arrived the shell, formerly known to him as home, was empty, there was nothing, his Ikea suite, his modern yet old fashioned lamp shade or even his haven, the mattress on the floor, everything had gone. The man was confused and started to panic but then he went. On the way to wherever he was going he met a new friend, the lamp-post next to his former home, he had never talked to this warm inviting chap before, maybe because he had never seen the beautiful but strange glow that it gave, the orange cast upon the dark, he was never out late enough. The time passed as he sat and drank milk with his new friend, they talked and talked until it was the lampposts bedtime, he slowly faded away and the man was once again alone.
I don’t know what happened to the man after this rather eventful day but I’m almost sure that he is living his new life and talking to his friends.
The end.
current mood:  hot
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ghartley's journal
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