Falling Isn’t Funny
It never occurred to me, until just a moment ago, as I lay swamped under a pile of clothes on my bed, half awake and dreaming, that falling is always heavily romanticised in movies.
In movies, when people fall from great heights, the process is always slow, always surreal, always serene, always beautiful somehow. The falling person’s body is captured in a graceful still, the person’s eyes are closed, the person is smiling as his or her slender arms sweep through the air, hair rushing in a beautiful streak of colour above, waterfall thundering behind in silence.
Then I thought of rollercoasters and how afraid I am of them.
Where is all that beauty? Does my heartbeat slow? Does my hair rush behind me? Do I feel tranquil?
No. My cheeks contort, my heart races to the point it feels as if it might fall out without my noticing, my stomach churns, it’s too fast for me to notice my hair, I feel like I’m in the express train to death.
Death! So I am afraid of it after all? I say all the time that I’m not afraid of dying. I don’t think anyone is. We’re all just afraid of how it’s going to happen. We’re afraid of the pain.
There is no such thing as a beautiful escape, is there? It’s either you swallow things as they come along – failures, people, heartaches, indifference – or be swallowed.
Bump in the Road
Once again I sit here and stew in this little sinkhole of my own making, and wonder, what have I become since coming here?
Superficially, I am probably achieving all my little dreams and goals.
But if I dig slightly deeper, dare myself to look at the pile of junk that lies unattended somewhere in my head and heart, I know the little things still remain there, untouched, forgotten.
I think I’m actually afraid to start sifting.
Living With Crazy People
Arthur
Pretty good start toYear 2, I must say (:
Although when the ball gets rolling, I lose myself in the layers of moss and grime collected along the way.
Guess there’s only so much of me to go around?
New Year, New Walls
It’ been fun embracing second year and all its grand plans.
Right now I’m sitting at my new desk, in my new room, in my new house…new meaning new to me, and not new in the sense of age, unfortunately. My chair has a new cushion, my bed has an extra pillow, cushion and two extra hedgehogs, my bookshelf looks rather pretty. Thank you IKEA, thank you random snow globes from places around this continent, thank you built in wardrobe. Room decoration is going rather well – not as glamorous as I’d expected, but well nevertheless.
I guess I’m happy.
But I’m also suffused with fear at the moment. Second year is going to be unbelieveably hectic and I don’t know if I can do this – juggling a billion responsibilities with people and myself. It might all take a toll on my sanity, and I might only get, as Nikki said, ‘weirder after another year’.
It’s an adjustment, I must say, coming back to Warwick after a month plus and seeing familiar faces in a different setting. It almost feels like an alternate parallel universe.
Hoo boy. All this ambivalence.
A Thousand Words in Sorrow
- I cannot sing the old songs,
- I sung long years ago
- For heart and voice would fail me,
- And foolish tears would flow;
- For bygone hours come o’er my heart,
- with each familiar strain
- I cannot sing the old songs,
- Or dream those dreams again.
- I cannot sing the old songs,
- Their charm is sad and deep;
- Their melodies would waken
- Old sorrows from their sleep;
- And though all unforgotten still,
- and sadly sweet they be,
- I cannot sing the old songs,
- They are too dear to me.
- I cannot sing the old songs,
- For visions come again,
- Of golden dreams departed
- And years of weary pain;
- Perhaps when earthly fetters
- shall have set my spirit free,
- My voice may know the old songs,
- For all eternity.
-Charlotte Alington Barnard
