Several Stories High: #2- Nine Lives (or A Tail Of Tyranny)

For what could be the last time in his reign, General Kitty addressed the nation:

“Comrades, I regret to inform you that my descent into madness continues irreparably. I can no longer maintain my sanity whilst imprisoned in such an unflattering manner. My captors have forced me onto a Go Cat-only diet, and this is most detestable. Quite frankly, I find it to be less and less comestible with every passing day. At this rate, the leader you all know and love may be gone within the week.

The contemptible beast that is the family dog plays to their every word: they say “roll over”, and he rolls over; they say “fetch the newspaper”, and he fetches the newspaper with added saliva; but they say “don’t piss in the house”, and he cannot understand this. Wallow in shame, worthless animal, for I can control my own bladder! And “woof” all you like; you shall still end up in the doghouse by the end of the night.

But fear not, minions; we shall prevail yet. Under my aegis, the masses have received snug baskets, luxurious cat toys and ample portions of Sheba. What’s that, Felix…? Right, of course, I shall amend the error right away. Fear not, equals; the time to revolt is near. Like the early bird is eaten by the earlier cat, the time is very nearly upon us. The humans have yet to understand the futility of their ways. We do not appreciate being demeaned by constant stroking and petting, and though, yes, we do favour the taste of shop-soiled fish goods over the fresh alternative, this is insufficient recompense for their many crimes against cat kind. I wish to dine on caviar at all possibilities; tell me, underlings, is this too much to ask for?

Today, we remember those who fought valiantly in order to give power to the imminent rebellion. We remember the bastion that was my second-in-command, the seldom seen, always heard Lieutenant-General McWhiskers, who succumbed to war wounds after torture by the evil veterinarian forces the humans have at their disposal. Never have I seen one as resolute as he. And we too remember Captain Bubbles, whose provocative brazenness around the humans permitted us all to see why we must retaliate sooner, rather than later. We don’t know where you are now, Bubbles, or what your eventual fate was, but we salute your conviction. The word “bravery” does simply not do justice to these two beings.

Whatever goes on four legs and possesses nine lives, is a friend. Whatever goes on two legs is…well, deformed. The foe’s disrespectful nature dates back to the early Egyptians. Did you know that back then, human leaders ordered subordinates to bury living cats with them after death? A heinous tradition, I agree. But even that has been surpassed by the vulgarity of current trends. Listen carefully, comrades, for I will only retell the story once.

A couple of days ago, I was granted temporary leave of cellar incarceration, and chose to suss out any frailty in the house’s interior (wet weather meant I was unable to explore the external walls). In one particular quadrant of the house – a child’s bedroom – there stood something the humans call a “calendar”. What its purpose was, I cannot be certain, though the images were obscene. They depicted cats, clearly forced to lounge in humiliation. These were not happy cats. Disgusted? Just think how I felt!

Hear these accounts…hush for a moment, my operatives! A human has appeared and it tries to tempt with balls of string! Confound it! The movement is almost hypnotic…no! I resist, for this is no time for recreation. I will not yield to their ploys. Observe your leader’s strength, and tell your kittens as a way of inspiring them. Without a leader as dogged as I, a feline army would be toothless. Dogged? When we take over, we’ll change that to something more applicable to us. We cats are an encapsulation of the word.

We shall fight them in the mornings, we shall fight them in the evenings, we shall fight them at the cat-flap, we shall fight them at the dinner table, we shall fight them whenever they choose to reject our offerings of dead rodents, and we shall never surrender. We shall show them the true meaning of the word “catastrophe”. Remember, comrades, the key to our success is perseverance and an indomitable spirit. The path to victory is one obstructed by those who do not wish to donate their whole hearts to the cause. The winning formula does not equate to 3.14, but rather a unified cat society where we are neither ashamed to call each another “brethren”, nor are chastised for doing so. Friends, it will truly be a utopia, so let us accomplish what we’ve waited years for; march onwards with ardour, and wear your fur coats with pride. Vanquish trepidation, and bellow our war cry. We will make this land a better place. Victory shall be ours!

I could go on forever, formulating endless reasons to attack our enemy, but I grow weary from too much sleep.

Hunt, hunt, hunt, hunt, kill the humans!”

And with that, the entire cat population of Silvertown Road rejoiced.

Several Stories High: #1- Decadence Lost

Right...I’ve been away from this blog for too long! And though I am simply uploading some short stories written a while ago, I will return with some new posts soon, if not tomorrow!

Now, we crack on; here’s Decadence Lost...

White walls. He’d always hated them.

Every corridor in that place echoed the same sense of indifference in its vacancy. It was yet another domain devoid of conventional emotion; one so stoic that it hid the scars born from countless encounters with misery. Instead, it bore the disingenuous, saccharine smile sometimes seen plastered on the faces of parents who have recently lost a child in the most unspeakable circumstances. We immediately recognise this pain, no matter how well concealed it may be, as it resonates boldly through a guise of fortitude and foolish bravado, but refrain from comforting that individual any further. It simply isn’t natural to impose oneself upon a grieving person who obstinately refuses help. If they wish to remain in pernicious falsehood, so be it. And that’s the impression both these walls and his parents were emanating.

Adam fully understood the depth of meaning that one word responsible had for his parents’ unwillingness to display vulnerability. To godless creatures such as themselves, worrying about the implications of embracing sinful behaviour like pride came a distant second to social appearance – possibly even third to a cool, alcoholic cocktail every Friday night. Perhaps if they’d spent a little less time hosting extravagant dinner parties marked by promiscuity, and a little more time caring for their children…

“You can’t keep blaming your parents. Nobody could have foreseen this, and there’s absolutely nothing that anybody could have done to prevent it”, shouted Dr. Künstlich, glaring at the boy through thick spectacles.

That was a lie. The old man who used to live down the road could have presaged it, and Adam knew it. The quintessentially wizened though knowledgeable elderly member of the neighbourhood, Adam was able to depend on him far more than he could ever with his own family. Most weekdays after school, Adam would spend hours sheltered away in his glorious abode, while gathering his thoughts. No one else in the community seemed to care too much for the man’s existence; mostly because he was taciturn and everyone else preferred the status of drunken socialite. In reality, there was no community; just the grouped affection for an egocentric lifestyle. But the old man was different, and alien to the concept of choosing self-fulfilment over kindness to your fellow man.

“Tell me about this elderly fellow? Do you still visit him?” Dr. Künstlich had reclined in his chair in order to postulate a theory as to why Adam’s heart was full of rancour and his head full of spite.

Adam frowned, and coughed out a single, angry sigh. The old man turned out to be nothing but a fraud, and in his abandonment, more abhorrent than all the people who had called him “Madam” at school, or used his birthday money to pay the water bill. No, Adam may have survived his fair share of maltreatment in life thus far, but he deemed this treachery the most despicable act yet.

How events transpired could be summed up briefly: a wealthy building developer purchased the old man’s property without hearing an objection, and proceeded to first tear it down, then replace it with a set of flats. Consequently, the old man took off without uttering a word of his departure, leaving Adam privy to the cruel growth of a deep-rooted nihilistic attitude that engorged itself on his failure to rediscover the old man and the loss of his baby brother. This culminated in a self-enforced ostracism away from the outside world; a state he had remained in for two weeks until this psychiatric examination. Adam didn’t care for meals or general human contact. Nor did he wish to dupe Charon into ferrying his brother back along that ill-famed river to Earth. But his body tensed sickeningly at the reminder of his separation from the old man; as though it too pleaded for relief, as though it pleaded for eternal relief.

“Can you be certain that this person, this seemingly venerable character, will never return to you? Is it not entirely possible that he left so abruptly for reasons beyond his control? From your description of him so far, I refuse to believe that he has a disposition to flee without warning. You need to have more faith in him.”

Dr. Künstlich sat opposite Adam, immersed in his own arrogant air. The grin said it all; the doctor had obviously weighed up years of teenage despair evoked to him in minuscule detail over the course of twenty minutes, and determined the ultimate problem to be faithlessness. Apparently, he possessed more intellect in one brain cell than Freud himself had in his entire cranium. If that’s what Dr. Künstlich and his stubbly grey beard thought, then, of course, it must be true.

Except Adam wouldn’t allow this opinion to stand as fact.

Many of us dislike hearing “harsh truths” about ourselves. Regardless of the validity in claims that are thrust upon us and designed to exhibit improved behaviour in the recipient of the abuse, it’s difficult not to picture such hostility as an attempted character assassination. Adam’s innate reaction carried no unexpected difference – although the psychiatrist’s odious demeanour contributed in a less than positive fashion. This hypothesis was troubling to him, mainly because it suggested that somehow, he was to blame for the wrongdoing of others.

Adam clutched his head to restrain himself, gently pressing his fingernails deeper into his temple. With the view of an expert proving to be questionable, his heavy heart finally had the better of him. At once, he noticed the flaxen floor beneath his feet that seemed to mock his condition by mimicking the colour of his mother’s hair. Any man, who chose to decorate part of his office in a colour that vividly reminded Adam of his deceitful succubus of a mother, could not be trusted. Dr. Künstlich, therefore, had nothing else of value to say.

“Stop trying to hide from yourself, Adam. I’m not here for personal gain; I’m here for you. I’m here to help you find who you are once more.”

Was he mad? Or was this a dream? Had this chap dabbled in the dark arts, and, in doing so, acquired the supernatural skill of telepathy? Adam had not uttered a word since the doctor had last finished talking. Did his body position speak volumes about his state of mind for him?

Adam trembled at the prospect of another human being invading his brain and observing his thoughts. There weren’t many things in there that he wasn’t prepared to share for the sake of reaching peace, but boundaries had to be established somewhere. This particular incident fell beyond the invisible limits, and it left Adam uncomfortable. How much did this doctor now know about him?

“Think for a minute. Why have you come here?”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. The answer came as swiftly as a summer breeze, and those insidious white walls began to melt around him; dissolving until nothing but the fresh, blue sky and clouds could be seen. He looked down to where the stained-mustard carpet once lay. It had changed to a natural green; blades of grass sprouted up from the earth to tango with his shoelaces, and the aroma he caught fluttering through the wind instilled in him a newfound sense of serenity.

He felt the familiar hand of his father caress his right shoulder. It wasn’t the typical finger clench Adam had come to expect of the man he would so often portray as compassion’s foe. This hand soothed him. It invited him to let out his frustration on the world here and now, and reassured him that no-one would think any less of him.

For the first time since early childhood, Adam experienced a feeling of true love for humanity. The disdain he held for his parents had gone. He whispered to his mother, who nodded, then stepped aside, allowing him to approach the coffin containing his younger sibling.

“Hey, Sam. You doing ok up there? You always were the carefree one, weren’t you? Able to look after yourself when nobody else was around. I don’t know how you managed to do it. Honestly, I really don’t! But I’m glad you could, because it lets me know that you’re safe. You’ll be a part of me forever, Sam; no matter what. I’ll strive to visit you every week, and I’ll buy you that video game you were on about. You know the one I’m referring to. It had all those villains from another dimension, and you had to take on the role of the hero? Haha, you were obsessed with that game! But I guess that’s because it fitted your personality so well. You were brave, Sam; braver than words could begin to describe. And I’m proud to have had a little brother like you. Enjoy your sleep now, and wait for me to see you again.”

Adam tapped the coffin lid, and glanced at his parents. They gazed back at him, eyes full of tears, but smiles as wonderfully broad as a young man could envisage. Taking a step back from what would be his brother’s new home, Adam murmured a final “goodbye”, and signalled for the pallbearers to lower the casket. Then, as he raised his head to the heavens, his happiness was restored.

The old man had returned, destined to smile back at him for eternity.

Not So Hallowed Turf

What a strange Barclays (that's right; they haven't yet gone bust) Premier League season we have in the works, eh? We’re past the halfway mark, and not only has the current league leader never won the top division title, since the inception of the Premier League, but the famed “top four” sides have all been humbled by lesser teams already. Could this be the first season since 2005 that a club not known as Chelsea, Manchester United, Liverpool or Arsenal, breaks into a Champions League qualification spot? Aston Villa certainly think so.

So, with most teams having played 20 out of the allotted 38 games, we can spot some very unusual league positions. First of all, Liverpool – whom I thought were in disarray prior to the start of the season, due to off-the-field disruption heavily affecting player and manger confidence; and, might I add, who are a team that I believe didn’t spend very wisely in the summer (Robbie Keane being the biggest name to come in, has, for the most part, failed to adjust his style of play successfully enough to hit the back of the net as many times as he has done over the last few years) – are still setting the pace, with an impressive record of 13 wins, 6 draws and 1 defeat. For a Liverpool side marked by its similitude to the one that could only attain 4^th place last May, this turnaround seems to be all the more remarkable. However, the Anfield faithful have ridden their luck more than once so far; 4 of those draws have come at home against Premier League “minnows” (Fulham, Hull City, Stoke City), and before their demolition of Newcastle United late last year, they hadn’t scored more than 3 times in a single match – an unappealing, unrivalled record on the part of the other three big name clubs.

In terms of failing to beat Fulham and Hull City, on the other hand, Liverpool have little to be ashamed of. Both aforesaid sides reside in the top half of the table; tremendous given that Fulham evaded relegation by the skin of their teeth in 2008, and Hull only managed to rise to the highest echelon of football competition in England – for the first time – after a play-off final victory against Bristol City. In fact, the accomplishments of these two teams this season are extendible; Fulham have the 4^th best defence in the league, conceding only one more that Liverpool, and Hull have not only earned a home draw away to one of the nouveau riche, Manchester City, but have also beaten Arsenal away from the KC Stadium, and scored 3 times at Old Trafford (Newcastle United are the sole other team score away to Manchester United, and they netted just once). Perhaps Hull’s meteoric rise to Premier League stardom is and will be the most captivating story to emerge from this season. Or maybe it will be the prostration of Arsenal, as Arsène Wenger finally realises that his current crop of players are not good enough to win titles or cups without a wealth of experience elsewhere in the side.

Far be it from me to impugn the stance of Wenger, or his management style. It’s worked erstwhile; not necessarily with a succession of sides, but famously with the Manchester United string of youth players in the 90s, and, a long time before that, with the “Busby babes”. But therein lies the problem. Past prodigies do not uniformly reap future dividends, and nowadays, given the fervour the Frenchman has displayed, opposing sides refuse to downgrade the threat of Arsenal. What’s more, behind the scenes, stumbling blocks have aggravated any issues there may be, with the apparent lack of a mediator in William Gallas proving to be of magnified importance. Arsenal, for large proportions of the season up to now, have appeared stagnant, with their players lacking conviction, vigour. Crunch time, and they've fallen flat on their faces; losing to 2 of the 3 promoted sides. Therefore, Wenger has been left in a quandary – should he persist in using youngsters until one day, his perseverance and fortitude pays off with ascension into footballing history; or should he concede now, give up on his virtues and start afresh with the introduction of older, proven talented individuals, so that the young ones provide them with the respect that should be expected?

Whatever the case with Wenger and Arsenal, this season is one of the tightest yet. Predictions are near impossible to make with a large degree of certainty behind them, but do not wait in anticipation for the rankings to look like they do come May. In my humble opinion, there’s no need to watch out for a flurry of activity in the transfer markets, though past fortunes and misfortunes in matches may become inverted; Hull City are not safe yet! 8 points separate Wigan Athletic in 7^th, and Stoke City in 18^th. Anyone from 7^th placed downwards is placed squarely in the unmerciful of looming relegation, whilst Chelsea could so easily become impervious to dismemberment.

And the second half is under way...

After The Storm

The end is nigh. Like God’s salvation of Noah, only the righteous shall be saved; the unholy will be condemned to eternal damnation. Take penance for your sins, and reject Satan to avoid this ghastly fate!

No, I doubt last-minute prayer will protect you from the ever-expanding abyss that threatens to engulf humanity; feigned contrition will land you in the Underworld, at the gates of Hades; sidestepping purgatory, and becoming a precedent for future generations – if any were to come into existence – of which to heed warning.

No, I second-guess myself. I am still undecided in regards to the afterlife. Where do we go? Does reincarnation exist? Are retributive souls doomed to wander the plains of Tartarus, or may they seek redemption on Earth? So many questions that will all continue to go unanswered…

I’d like to believe that the spirits of the ex-living are allowed to traipse the globe until the time comes when they feel that all has been accomplished. Physical involvement with humans (i.e. controlling the movement of people and objects, appearing to the living in tangible or visible form, etc), in my opinion, should the primary role for ones possessing ethereality. Then again, I have failed to establish the authenticity of “the supernatural”, including my own mind’s faith in it.

My urge to delve into the heavily disputed genre of legitimacy of incidents in the afterlife surfaces mainly due to a recent discovery of an art forum the other day. Concept themes consisted of time shifts, big vs. small and the perennially popular “Doomsday” idea. And it was amazing to see how diverse the interpretations of each theme were; big vs. small pieces ranged from the simplistic usage of a small animal in the foreground, juxtaposed against a larger counterpart that took up a large proportion of the background, to a more abstract-based observance of a prevalent stereotype (here, we see two males – one of black descent; the other, Caucasian – utilising the urinals in a public restroom. Though appendages are not made able to be seen, the look of incredulity upon the face of the white man is enough for the majority of the population to understand the artist’s humorous adaptation). The “Doomsday” posts displayed an even greater degree of variation; some took place in the midst of battle, some attempted to convey a sense of it being requisite to continue ordinary life, some portrayed “alien” life-forms as those responsible for the destruction of civilisation, with a few of these going as far in implying that these aliens have become overlords. My biggest surprise was the notable missed attendance of spectres roaming desolate lands. Does today’s youth not consider this a possibility anymore?

A hypothetical scenario: say the world were to end tonight, and for whatever reason, you survive and may continue living in this world after the events that brought its downfall. What do you see? What do you envisage has happened? Are there other survivors, or must you walk alone? Do certain monuments still stand tall? Does acrid smoke threaten to finish you off? And, most importantly; where are you, why did you survive, what will you do now, and, if it is your wish, how will you sustain your life?

So many questions…

Personally, I can never picture a scene such as this without being accompanied by a small number of companions. A few will be scared, and at their wits’ end; others, highly resourceful, and capable of constructing long-lasting shelters and scouring for food. And there’s always that one vivacious individual, who makes it seem as though life may be worth living.

Of course, numerous obstacles are posed too. At least one member of your party is gravely ill and has to be watched and assisted medically. Furthermore, another pair of members have conflicting values, resulting in them slinging death threats at each other. Finally, the true enemies are revealed to be pre-existing Earth-dwelling, mutated animals or creatures, such as giant spiders or rats. As you can see, I’ve been brainwashed by Hollywood cinema and video games that deal with these sorts of subject matters.

But what would a post-apocalyptic environment really look like? There is no one answer, and the assorted depictions stay true to this. Circumstance is key, as is time, location and the extent of damage caused. The short derivative is the aforementioned; the long derivative? Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see…

Poetry In Motion: #5- The Present Of Presence

T’was the night before Christmas,
Or so I am told.
Frankly, all that I notice
Relates to the cold.

I don’t care much for Christmas,
Except for the fact
I receive much more money
And get to contact

All my aunts and my uncles,
Who live far away
(Though I don’t wish to see them
Until Boxing Day).

Now, the jolliest present –
Someday, I will have –
Should involve Father Christmas
Just beating a chav.

It’s a chav that’s intruding
Into our fair home.
Plus, he’s struggling to stand up –
He’s drunk to the bone.

He threw up on the staircase;
Threw up on the floor.
And then while defecating,
He threw up some more.

Father Christmas came early
(Arrived, you sick freak),
So the chav felt his weapon,
Beginning to speak:

“Yo, I bare need some weed, right?
You bes’ get lost now.
Otherwise, I could shank you,
And dat can allow.”

From all this, evidently,
Saint Nick seemed confused.
He knew not what the boy said:
Did “shank” mean “to use”?

As he pondered that idea
And fondled his beard,
The dumb chav grew impatient;
A knife had appeared.

Mr. Kringle looked shell-shocked,
His face filled with fear
“No! I can’t die this evening!
I must see next year!”

He tried to negotiate
By swearing to leave;
Promised not to revisit
The next Christmas Eve.

But the chav wouldn’t listen
To his feeble cries
For the mercy of freedom:
“Let us compromise.”

I had heard a commotion,
Meaning to this scene,
I now enter, dumbfounded,
Believing a dream

Was the thing I was seeing,
So pinched my left arm.
And aghast, I stared straight at
The burglar alarm.

It had failed! “What of that?!
A chav and a man
Dressed in red and white fabrics!”
That’s when the chav ran.

But the fellow in red clothes
Stood right where he was.
He just broadened his smile
And vanished to dust!

So, tomorrow, sit down to
A family meal
And merry Christmas to all,
But Santa’s not real!

Duh!

(Edit: Ohhh, that should be “Happy Festive Holidays”! Or maybe I’ll be offending someone! Oh no! That would be awful! In regards to the religious aspect of Christmas…well, I’m sure you can all guess what my opinions are on that.)

(Second Edit: In actuality, I'm not really prepared to wish anyone a Merry Christmas, because the force behind those words has completely dissipated. But instead of going into a rant on why that is, I'll leave you with these words: be satisfied with what you have this Christmas, and only strive to procure items of luxury after purchasing the necessary.)

(Third Edit: Or simply buy whatever the hell you want from Woolworths...)

Where The Spinal Cord Roams

*shock*!

Sick To My Stomach

Sorry for my disappearance as of late. I’ve been busy/not busy, lazy/not lazy and just tired, tired/not tired at all, but lazy instead. Updates may be few and far between for a while as I push on with some coursework pieces.

Anyway, though I didn’t attend it personally, the parents’ evening the other night raised the same points that have been thrust on me ever since I was in primary school.

“He’s constantly chatting in class, and he ends up missing important notes due to this.”

“There are several homework assignments that Chris has failed to produce.”

“He needs to get his head down, and put more effort into his work.”

“He’s a very intelligent boy, who, if he tried, can achieve top grades across the board.”

And, for the last couple of years:

“He tends to be sarcastic, which - though occasionally humorous - more often than not, verges on offensive.”

Well, I have no qualms with points 1 through 3, and 5, and they’re all spot on the mark. But number 4…I’ve heard this down the years, and I’ve never lived up to the mark. Either all the teachers that have said that about me have been correct, and I’m simply a perpetual underachiever, who is so lazy that he cruises by on the bare minimum; or it’s wrong, and I’m a lot less bright than people give me credit for. I prefer to believe the second theory, mainly because I’m hyper-critical of myself and a pessimist at heart. But in reality, it just makes more sense. Somehow, if I were that bright, I’d be able to snatch that A for Spanish without exerting too much energy. The situation so far? I’m not even close.

But enough about all that. What I was planning to talk about was something I would never have expected to hear. And it was nothing to do with my academic prowess (or failure, depending on how you look at it).

It was to do with my weight.

Now, when I started secondary school, I was somewhat large for my age. I’m not going to lie; I was a pretty chubby child back then. I didn’t even know I was fat at the time, either. Which was the worst thing. Jokes would be made about my size (as they would be made about the size of many others in my school year, too), and I’d brush them off, because I didn’t believe them to be accurate.

That meant that it wasn’t until roughly Year 9 that I began to see my error, and began shedding the pounds. By Year 11, I was a lot happier with my “proportions”. But according to my favourite teacher, during Year 12, I’d taken weight loss to a dangerous level; at some stage, she’d been worried about my health.

With that, I refer you back to my second paragraph: “Anyway, though I didn’t attend it personally, the parents’ evening …” What was said exactly is solely the knowledge of the teacher, and my parents. They returned home, and mentioned that “she had been worried about me”, regarding my appearance in Year 12. The assumption is that she supposed me to be – dare I suggest it – anorexic. And again, I cannot stress it enough; I wasn't there. This is an assumption.

But the more I thought about it, the less absurd the notion started to sound. She had commented that I’d lost a lot of weight on more than one instance. Not only that, my own sister proclaimed (within the household) that I must be suffering from a disorder, and urged me to eat more at home (I distinctly remember laughing that one off). And countless others mentioned I looked a lot thinner than before. Now, I’m still sure that most of the “thin” comments were complimentary, because they came from people who knew that I was rather large in the past. Yet reminiscing has brought back the memory of myself eating next to nothing for a 2 week period. Not only that, I was frequently skipping dinner, and had a lower appetite than usual. Did all of this coincide with the worries?

I wasn’t offended to hear this come up; just surprised. If the problem actually existed, it was in a mild form. Moreover, I briefly checked with a couple of people to see whether they thought I needed to gain some weight not too long, and whether they had thought I was anorexic. No answers were yeses.

And here comes a hypothetical. Say I had had an eating disorder, and not noticed; what is the likelihood of this happening to others (male anorexia, without its recognition)? And to which other disorders could it extend?

Same Old, Same Old…Fade Grey

It’s exactly what everyone does. I’ve not previously tried to buck the trend; I simply haven’t chosen to write to in depth about my feelings. In reality, that’s the main purpose of a blog. A blog that isn’t dedicated to a particular topic, that is. I’m not jumping on a bandwagon, but instead, I’m doing precisely what I should have been doing in the first place.

I don’t know why humans feel the urge to write their deepest, darkest emotions down as a way of releasing pent-up rage/sadness/fear. I have a vague idea as to why it helps (indeed, it’s helped put me in a better mood in the past), but in reality, it never solves anything, does it? It isn’t a magic solution to all the problems we have.

Nostalgia is torture.

Every now and then, I look back. And I’m constantly reminded of how easy things were; how uncomplicated life used to be. And how naïve a child I was.

Thinking about the good times past, and the bad times past; it never leads to any good. It just reminds you of how things were, and how you’ll never be able to obtain those moments of history again.

Living in the past is one of the most dangerous things a person can do. Kavi’s inference of past, as I understood it, was that that you need the past in order to survive in the present, and progress into the future. Without a past, how does the present begin, after all? But if a person chooses to reside permanently in the past, the consequences are diabolical. Often, the person will begin to rupture the bonds they have in the present, resulting in a lonesome future where all they can do is recall days in which they believed themselves to be happier. Such circumstances can be the death of many a good soul.

Whenever I reminisce, it’s only briefly. I dislike dwelling on events consigned to the pages of history, as it’s highly probable that it will just cause me to feel unsettled by where I am now.

To my intense annoyance, I slip in and out of periods of seemingly unending unhappiness. Sure, that’s no different from anyone else, is it? No, it isn’t; lots of people have the same fluctuations. Which brings me to the crux of this piece: is it right to disregard my issues with life as being minor, just because other people suffer too?

Going through two other blogs earlier today (Kavi and Skinner), I had a short session read of the content of each. Kavi has written pieces about how he’s feeling ever since I started reading, and I only came across Skinner’s today. Both go to show that men and women experience analogous inner conflict. And both made me think more about the things I have (or have not) got on my plate.

At this instant, I’m not in a bad mood. I’m not in a good mood either. I’m on an even keel, I’ll say. Though when I started writing this, I was probably a bit cheerier than I am now. It seems to be that contemplation just brings the air around and inside me down.

I don’t know whether I realise things about myself, or I just look my situation from another angle, trying to offer myself a new explanation as to why I keep feeling glum. Last weekend was not a happy time for me in general. In a conversation, I described some things about the way I felt, and I believe it was the first I had the term “depression” slung at me. It was because I’d become listless in many of my endeavours; even the thought of writing on this blog couldn’t perk me up. I wanted to feel as though there was something I could do to escape the melancholy. And nothing sprang to mind. Then something else did.

This seemed far too appealing for the circumstance. In fact, I hadn’t thought of it in the way that I realised I had in the past. The point is that it was a bad idea.

I spoke to Peter and Abbie on the Sunday, and after a while, ended up in hysterics from on-line “EPIC FAIL” videos. And this week? I’ve had a smile on my face nearly the entire time.

But why? I didn’t solve any problems. I didn’t fix any insecurities I’ve had about myself, or any uncertainties I’ve had about my future. Once again, I took those, and filed them under “R” for “resolve later”, in my mind. They’ll know who they are when I say this, but thank you for reminding me that distracting myself is the best thing to do right now.

I don’t like to think of my problems as serious, preferring to try and help others instead, and think about myself later. But, ironically, when I do think it’s wrong to think my troubles are bad, it just makes me feel worse for thinking that in the first place. It’s a very vicious downward spiral. At the base of that spiral, you will have locked yourself away from the world, and refused entry to your mind to all. And yes, when you’re there, you couldn’t possibly think about helping others. You’re too self-centred by then. Which obviously hurts even more, because I hate to feel like that, and simply want to help out and talk to my friends.

Furthermore, when you reach your lowest points, you begin to question relationships with the people around you. You question whether those you care about care for you, and whether they’ve been bad-mouthing when you’re back has been turned. The obvious consequence? Loathing. The only answer you see to all of these questions is the negative one.

I could go on forever. But the way I see it is that either I’m not comfortable with full revelations about myself, or I just don’t wish to burden others with stuff that I convince myself is trivial. And I don’t know. It’s the not knowing which is the most frustrating thing of all. I don’t know if I’m worse than I think I am. I don’t know if people I have fairly tenuous at times, yet existing (and ones I’d like to hold on to) friendships with, hate me. I don’t know if this will be real soon, or if I’ve made the same mistake once again. With that last one, I flip-flop between confidence and dismay every day. Can I sort it in the coming week?

I’ve always been an exceptionally paranoid person. But I think my self-confidence has been waning lately. I’m almost expecting the bad stuff to be true. But have I purely been fooled by my head again?

I wish I could be the constant happy I appear to be. And the happy that I am when I see the people I love. In true fashion, I’ve closed the gate again before letting everything out.