Words that crash.

In a day and age where technological advances have skyrocketed and the internet is surely close to peak capacity of almost insignificant knowledges, it seems near impossible these days to stand out, be different and do something unique. Original content is almost unheard of and everything that is new is considered a rehash of many other things preceding it.

Thoughts follow this same wavelength.

It's borderline laborious for me to write in this blog already because nothing I can possibly say or do is anywhere near original or new or different. Every thought, every emotion, every subtle little hint of ingenuity has already been explored in extensive and meticulous detail and it leaves the most troubled of us exasperated and deflated because we just pale in insignificance.

Take this blog for example:

I look back occasionally on the words that crash out from under my fingertips and all I see is just a bunch of empty adjectives to intensify some lost and burdensome feelings and, in all truthfulness, it's fairly arduous to write something worth reading that hasn't already been spouted before. In better detail. By a better writer.

I always considered myself a decent writer. Hell, sometimes I think that with the right people around me to remind me of my potential I could still make something of it, but it'd have to be a significant improvement on the garbage that comes here. I guess I'm going through a phase - again - where I have so many notions running in between the ears that instead of letting them reach the finish line of the blog, I force them to continue running laps until they crash out in a fiery blaze and trigger a heated breakdown.

I just get bored really easily.

And move on.

Only time will tell.

My liver has taken an embarrassing pounding this last month or so and it sickens me that I've allowed myself to fall from grace so readily. Everything that was so simple and wonderful but two or three weeks ago has since slipped from my grasp because of my incredible ability to clinch misery from the jaws of happiness. I have come and gone faster than any angels can fly and all I've got to show for it is a muscular injury in my upper back and a shit-tip of a room that makes Beirut look like Miami.

Don't for a second believe that I'm blaming anybody but myself though - that would be ludicrous. I put so much pressure on myself in far too many aspects of my life and let it consume me so much that I couldn't hold it together. Conforming to one standard or another opened up a whole new world for me and then I violently slammed the door back in my own face by trying to maintain impossible standards for myself. Sadly, it's the one thing I needed  the most  that I managed to waste and though it breaks my heart already, perhaps it's for the benefit of others that I step away - not that I want to, but I don't think it's my choice any longer.

Or perhaps I'm wrong and this has just become yet another notch on my bedpost of whiny rants about how life isn't fair this and life isn't fair that. I found something I really wanted and then stupidly contrived to throw it away. Maybe there'll be forgiveness one day. Only time will tell.

Oh, what I'd give to go back two weeks and start over.

Familiar words to all of us, I'm sure.

I see your IQ test results were negative.

A man flying in a hot air balloon suddenly realises he’s lost. He reduces height and spots a man down below. He lowers the balloon further and shouts to get directions, "Excuse me, can you tell me where I am?"

The man below says: "Yes. You're in a hot air balloon, hovering 30 feet above this field."

"You must work in Information Technology," says the balloonist.

"I do" replies the man. "How did you know?"

"Well," says the balloonist, "everything you have told me is technically correct, but it's of no use to anyone."

The man below replies, "You must work in management."

"I do," replies the balloonist, "But how did you know?"

"Well," says the man, "you don’t know where you are or where you’re going, but you expect me to be able to help. You’re in the same position you were before we met, but now it’s my fault."

I glowed and shone so you wouldn't be gone.

In a moment of clarity I've come to the conclusion that we are all just candles flickering in the dark.

Some candles are bigger than others, some have better wax than others and some emanate a beautiful light.

Some candles smoulder a lot longer than others. Some burn brighter, some burn faster.

Some insist on displaying a small light for a long time and some more light for less time. Some revel in a warm combination of the two.

The type of candle you want to be is entirely up to you - we all have our personal preferences.

Whisper it proudly - there is no shame in the comfort of longevity.

But the brighter you burn, the more you see, the more you enjoy what's in the dark - more than someone happy to introvertly desocialise from it.

And so what if you burn out a little?

Embracing the darkness once in a while sure beats the mundane security of fading away into empty obscurity.

After all, when it all boils down to it, we are all just candles flickering in the dark.

¿Qué?

Things I don't get:

• People who don't have specific butter knives for spreading,
• Just how many people don't realise that gmail is the same as googlemail,
• The amount of people who criticise my love of peanut butter and cucumber sandwiches but have never tasted its deliciousness first,
• Why guitar plectrums disappear forever the moment you drop them on the floor,
•  And I just can't see why kids love the taste of cinnamon toast crunch.

 These are life's unfathomable mysteries.

Word limits were overrated anyway.

Personality surveys.

You can't tell me that somewhere deep down you don't get this thrill of expectation whenever you do some nugatory questionnaire to ascertain your personal traits, strengths and weaknesses. To me, it seems very Sisyphean to insist on spending what little time you have bumbling around on this Earth filling your head with generic balderdash with about as much authenticity as the Zodiac horoscope readings.

But I guess it's pretty efficacious in assuaging the harsh realities of mortality by making humankind believe that our personal quirks and idiosyncrasies actually mean something while we're alive. Because heaven knows that my alleged ability to problem solve is unique to me and that being caring and understanding is something that only I could possibly be capable of based on the quality of my answers.

Suddenly, BAM - I should be a doctor. It makes sense. All these answers have made it so clear to me. How could I not see it before? Problem solving? Check. Caring? Check. Understanding? Check.

Excuse me, I'll be back shortly. I'm just filling in my first job application on the NHS website. Qualifications? Personality survey. Relevant work experience? Good at concentrating for extended periods of time, as proven by filling in the quiz. Why should I get the job? The quiz said I have all the relevant attributes and I learn fast. I also believe everything I read so you won't have any trouble with me.

Come on, guys. Please? Get your shit together. It pains me to believe that there are still people out there gullible enough to believe half the shit that's posted on the internet. These are the same people who expect things to be handed to them on a silver platter with little or no input of their own and yet half the time, it's these idiots who succeed because the public lap up morons like that and are completely oblivious to the fact that without the smart, logical folk running everything else in the background, they'd be nothing again.

And what frustrates me the most is that we just sit back and let it happen! Like it's the natural order! Our country isn't the only one guilty of suffering from this giant, self-inflicted migraine but the flat out refusal to take any painkillers is baffling. Sleeping it off has proven fruitless time and time again. As Albert Einstein said: insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. This country is going insane.

Yet, I find myself, every once in a while, bored amongst such a wealth of information and resources and I slip into a stupor.  Like a recovering alcoholic, every once in a while, I find myself scratching and itching for a subtle release - just one drink and I'll be fine, right? Sure. And so I go searching, every once in a while, for something to give me that little buzz, that little kick, that little shot from a needle in the arm and I still don't know why. Maybe I'm one of them? Maybe the idiots are right all along.

All I know is that, every once in a while, I fall guiltily back into my degrading, depression-relieving routine and scrounge despairingly for my one true pick-me-up:

Personality surveys.

Be phenomenal.

I implore you all to watch the video I have linked as a source of inspiration and motivation to be successful and do whatever you want to do.

Yes, it's a little over fourteen minutes long and some parts may not be entirely relevant to your current situation but there are a couple of fantastic anecdotes and quotes to knock your wee cotton socks off and I promise you will be able to take something away from this video.

Just watch it. I dare you. And then watch it again.

Click here for the youtube video

"Pain is temporary. It may last for a minute, or an hour, or a day, or even a year, but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place. If I quit, however, it will last forever."

Right on. Write off.

There are most definitely some lessons to be learnt from last night's unorthodox shenanigans.

First of all - don't pre-drink two bottles of cheap wine in ninety minutes.

Actually, that's pretty much the only thing I learnt from last night.

On the flip side, I get another chance to enjoy Shrewsbury for the first time next time I go there.

You see? Always look for the positives.

Uncertainsea.

This week has been somewhat of a curious week already. It's difficult to put my finger on my true emotions right now - not that any of that bears any relevance to your precious little lives at all - but I guess somewhere deep down I know you're just dying to know that somebody, somewhere, somehow is troubled too. You must be troubled. Why else would you be here?

A sober blog post.

I'm not sure what the world has come to. I haven't even had so much as a hot beverage since I've been home, just pint after pint of water. Though with the incessant wall-banging from next door's minions reverberating through the plaster I feel as though a room-temperature refreshment wouldn't really go amiss. That tactic is probably more acceptable than Hulk-smashing the wall down and throttling their spawn. Societal etiquette is such a bummer.

I've been sober for eighteen whole hours now!

Time to rejoice: I can do this! I want to thank everyone for this accomplishment. You didn't judge me when we made that awkward eye contact and I'm ever so grateful. I know you'd never judge me. It doesn't even matter if you didn't even know, because... Ah fuck it, I'm not even an addict, what am I saying? I suppose I'm addicted to life right now, my body flat out refuses to collapse just yet and my mind keeps telling me that food is good. Damnit.

I think I'll try for a new record after this celebratory one.

There is literally no point to this blog post, as usual. I spent a weekend breaking my arms over someone else's furniture and then watched my U8s trudge lethargically to a fairly convincing 5-2 win. Most important I went cruising, as I like to say. And you know when you're driving along a familiar road and suddenly you see a turning you haven't spied before and part of you really wants to explore but you didn't bring your satnav?

It's lucky that I'm pretty good at navigation but I'm not sure I'm ready for that adventure. Road trips are tough. I wish they were all as hallucinogenic as Hunter S. Thompson's though. I quite fancy something intoxicating for a change.

Ahh, a sea of uncertainty. Someone remind me how to swim.

Angry Days.

Awash with not tears, but anger. Not hatred, but frustration. A difficult fortnight of sickness, anxiety and self-deprecation culminating in a fertile panic spreading violently within me. I become defensive, agitated and reclusive, instead lashing out at myself as I generate fabricated, verbal scenarios in front of me. I am mad.

I can't write. I'm a writer and I can't write. Not quite in the same sense, mind you, but I have to write something. Very important. Very, very important and I can't do it. I don't even want to do it. I hate the inevitability that surrounds it. The inevitability of it going to crop up on an exam paper in June. The inevitability of being castigated for failing to do the work. The inevitability of falling behind with the workload and having to catch up.

All of this misery will be heaped upon me in due course - inevitably.

But I don't want to blame myself this time. I want to blame someone else and that's perfectly acceptable right? And certainly to be expected. Yet, I've reached a point now where I'm too tired to argue with myself or justify anything to anyone. I'm too tired to lie and deceive and to despairingly claw for muddy excuses, it's such a hollow way to approach everything again. So what do I do?

Do I just let it be? Suck it up, take the hit, accept reprimand without mitigation. Or do I fight back? Criticise, denounce and lambaste until I've run my tank dry? Why not both? Or how about neither?

I guess this is a bit of empty blog entry now that my blood has relapsed into a steadying pace and my excessive thoughts have become overwhelmed by an oxymoronic combination of fatigue and insomnia. I mean, hell, I don't even think oxymoronic is even a word.

It is now.




Oh, and in case you feigned interest for even the minutest of seconds, I'm forcibly restraining myself with the length of these (narcissistic?) blog entries with a target range of no more than 500 words. I did originally call dibs on 450 words but then instantly broke it with my ribbon-cutter. Excellent opening. Start as you mean to go on so they say, usually with much tedium leaking through their plastic smiles.

Not today.

Not today.

I take another deep swig of my Languedoc and ponder. What do I really expect to get from this? Is this a nonsensical rambling, or is there some substance to the words I write? Is there meaning and worthiness? Could I inspire a generation with these words? Could they amount to anything?

I doubt it. I think it's the same question everybody asks themselves when they begin writing (or rewriting again). What do you really hope to achieve? It seems the internet is a huge get-out clause these days. Somewhere to unload, unwind and piss out all the shit that clings to your chest pitifully. Because nobody knows who you are, do they? And nobody knows if it's really about them or not, do they? Or do they? You're not sure. Who is? Doubtless there is very little point to what is ever written anywhere, but that's not always a bad thing - don't, for a minute, get me wrong. After my umpteenth glass of this European tipple, I feel like I can write without so much as a worry. I could type for miles. I don't think much of it would make sense, and I'm almost certain most of it would contradict itself, but this is how my mind works. I'm prepared to question everything.

Are you? Or do you follow through life blindly, lapping up everything that everybody else says? Wistful, that's all you'll be. DO YOUR OWN THING FOR A CHANGE. I can't emphasise this enough. Life is far too short and the uncertainty after death is enough to scare most people into being Death's sitting duck. They just do as they're told and fall in line, more automaton than autonomous. Don't be afraid of upsetting people, for fuck's sake, because they won't matter when you're dead and gone.

I know life is scary. Just when you think you've got it all, it's gone. I know this too well and the readjustment into everyday life once it has gone is bewildering and despairing. I will get there though, and so will you. The late playwright Eugene O'Neill once said that life is perhaps best regarded as a bad dream between two awakenings, and I can't help but agree. And Mark Twain once said, "I was dead for millions of years before I was born and it never inconvenienced me a bit," so why should death?

The point I'm trying to make is that life is short. Go. Enjoy it. Do what you've always dreamed of. Only death will stop your regrets if you don't. As scary as death is, or as much as you may want it when you're too depressed to carry on, do you know what I say? I croak over the top of my final swig of this French poison: not today. No way.