Hey..
I know you're bad sometimes with words, and letting people in, and I guessed you're a bit of a nervous kind of human. But with you, I feel you shine. I feel you're different, you're confident, you're you, but more than you. Like a mega you. I know it sounds silly, and I know I should try to be more creative in terms of writing, but I find now the correct term you used when we met was 'found' too. I just didn't know what to say. I haven't got any talent, some people think I'm okay at sports, or a short story, but I'm useless in life and love.
I mean it that whenever I was around you, it was more than wonderful. But I didn't understand why I didn't make a move. That I decided to act so late was the biggest mistake I made. I remember that day we spoke in that room for the first time and I listened to you only saying to words two me, and you admitted you didn't know how to act around new people.
I was fine with that, because I wanted you to feel comfortable around me, not scared. I'm so glad I did because if not I wouldn't have ever met someone as amazing as you. You define that word. You define a thousand words. But I let you go. I hope one day I understand that sometimes taking risks is worth it, instead of being left in a situation of meaningless motions.
You've been more than a great friend to me and I just wish I was a better person to you. You make me feel so much more than what I do feel now, whenever I'm around you, and the time you were at mine I've never fallen asleep and woken up like that before. Feeling secure. When I think about it, I cherish that moment. That might have been one of the moments I'll never forget.
I know and did what I said I would, and believe me, I regret just letting go like that. It was without a doubt the step I needed to take but if I could take a step back and give it all away, for a moment I would, just to see you again and make you smile. I know you're happy wherever you are, and one day we'll meet again.
I need to stop writing this, and I know you won't read this, but trust me when I say a part of me will always be yours too.
Wednesday 26 January 2011
Sunday 23 January 2011
The Pool
You dip. It's cold. You're scared.
It seems so nice, you're unsure. The water looks and seems deep. The feet start to feel what the body sees. It's tempting. You're shaking all over. You don't seem ready, but you relent. It's time. Hands on the edge, you move your body inside. It's new, this feeling. Unnerving, sure. But you carry on. You try to ignore everything but the water. Move, from side to side. Hands start to feel warmer.
The body is still worried, this territory new, but you move again and with more reythmn. It is new. You're ok. Just don't drift in too deep, they say. Take your time. The feet find its way, with a kick. Your body jolts. You start to feel better, but still you're so worried. The warmth comforts. Calm. Stay calm. You're safe.
Advance further, from one side to another, and you know, you're fine. You're not alone, you're in a good place. Keep on. It starts to feel natural, that's the closest word you can think of, but its not that word. The pool ripples. It's not cold anymore. Feel the waves, soft yet constant. Your fear starts to subside. Your motions are one with the water.
Concentrate now. Remain one. You're ok. You're more comfortable by each little moment that passes. You start to smile. There's nothing to worry about and you reach the end with some time to spare. As your feet start to move closer to steps, you still try to keep a pace, but you've got a little time left. You get out slowly, exhausted, happy.
You've changed. Breathe. A shower later, you again have to take that look off your face. You've got a lot to learn, but you've got so much time, and you know you'll find yourself in the water again somewhen.
It seems so nice, you're unsure. The water looks and seems deep. The feet start to feel what the body sees. It's tempting. You're shaking all over. You don't seem ready, but you relent. It's time. Hands on the edge, you move your body inside. It's new, this feeling. Unnerving, sure. But you carry on. You try to ignore everything but the water. Move, from side to side. Hands start to feel warmer.
The body is still worried, this territory new, but you move again and with more reythmn. It is new. You're ok. Just don't drift in too deep, they say. Take your time. The feet find its way, with a kick. Your body jolts. You start to feel better, but still you're so worried. The warmth comforts. Calm. Stay calm. You're safe.
Advance further, from one side to another, and you know, you're fine. You're not alone, you're in a good place. Keep on. It starts to feel natural, that's the closest word you can think of, but its not that word. The pool ripples. It's not cold anymore. Feel the waves, soft yet constant. Your fear starts to subside. Your motions are one with the water.
Concentrate now. Remain one. You're ok. You're more comfortable by each little moment that passes. You start to smile. There's nothing to worry about and you reach the end with some time to spare. As your feet start to move closer to steps, you still try to keep a pace, but you've got a little time left. You get out slowly, exhausted, happy.
You've changed. Breathe. A shower later, you again have to take that look off your face. You've got a lot to learn, but you've got so much time, and you know you'll find yourself in the water again somewhen.
Thursday 20 January 2011
Me and You.
I had a dream that I knew you. And I walked you home, but you hurt your ankle, trying to impress those on the stage. I carried you through a suburban neighbourhood, and you said, 'It's been a few good days.' I smiled, nodded and tried not to stare into the sun. 'But come September...' And there and then, the smile was gone, faded like the sunset in the distance. 'I know,' I replied. 'It's going to be hard.'
We were in Paris together. The hotel window gave a midnight breeze, an impression of a French city full of wonder and mystery, dipped in neon lights, and we locked eyes again. "Kiss me" seemed the words running in my head that moment, and I just look down with that smile I try to hide from you, but you manage to catch it. Then you take the words right of my mouth when you move and your lips move too.
I was in Paris, staring at the Arc De Triomphe from a 5000 number hotel room, and you smiled. 'Happy Christmas.' It was the sweetest dream I ever had, not the oddest one, or even the most vivid one, but a sweet dream. But, they always have a way of being just that, dreams.
We were in Paris together. The hotel window gave a midnight breeze, an impression of a French city full of wonder and mystery, dipped in neon lights, and we locked eyes again. "Kiss me" seemed the words running in my head that moment, and I just look down with that smile I try to hide from you, but you manage to catch it. Then you take the words right of my mouth when you move and your lips move too.
I was in Paris, staring at the Arc De Triomphe from a 5000 number hotel room, and you smiled. 'Happy Christmas.' It was the sweetest dream I ever had, not the oddest one, or even the most vivid one, but a sweet dream. But, they always have a way of being just that, dreams.
Sunday 9 January 2011
Welcome to Russia. Pt.1
So here I was, a mere million miles away from home, in a country where capitalism had just landed. The first sight of Russia was more than a shock. Armed guards with beer bellies and mullets alongside AK47s waiting next to the Visa/Passport Check In area, both of them old, chain smoking and hassling people who might have uttered something under their breath. Anyways, we all put brave faces and pass the derelict check-in area, leaving the 1970s era deadbeat airport to go outside and wait for our coach.
We stepped outside, expecting awe-inspiring buildings and statues of importance, a vast land of beauty and Polka music. Well, we got the latter, and instead of the former, what our group first saw was areas of half finished construction sites, a furore of ridiculously loud congestive Russian traffic and to top it all off, the most awfully shit Russian ballad singers of all time on some radio station. I nursed my jet lag with my Russian hat and tried desperately to fall asleep. All I kept seeing and blinking at were snippets of countryside, upon unfinished construction, upon countryside, with the odd occasional gypsy on the road or on a horse, and countless Lada’s.
To say Russians don’t drive well isn’t an understatement, it’s a massive one. When I say this, I mean, they drive like lunatics. To them, there is no Highway Code. Imagine Mad Max 2, then multiply the amount of cars by a billion. It literally is Lada eat Lada out there. ‘Get out my way, bitch or I’ll make you wish you were never born’ is a friendly way of putting it. The coach nearly crashes twice on the way because of these spectacular stunt driver types on the roads, a car missing its front doors jutting from lane to lane jumping without any indication in a beat up 1950s piece-of-shit-mobile, with, I kid you not, tables strapped on top of its roof.
As we move from mundane and crap countryside into urbanized areas, the amount of these Mad Max wannabes multiply like flies around a turd, with taxis simply are shells, two to three doors and a few under pressured tires. Road rage is putting it lightly. Honestly, Ben Hur ain’t got shit on Russia. As we enter St. Petersberg, I start to gaze at the eccentricity and bombasticity of the brilliant architecture, the immense space filled and surrounded by noise, commotion and light. I’m for the first in many times on this trip, literally stunned.
However, what stuns me the most isn’t the drivers. It isn’t this stench of 1970s. It isn’t even the whole Twisted Metal feel of the roads and the insane car skills on display, no. What shocks me happens directly outside my hotel. As we arrive near the entrance of the hotel, a huge beige block of glass and concrete, we all bear witness to some poor bastard lying on the ground in the middle of the road (No, no Tenacious D impressions, please.), who a mere 10 minutes before we arrives was hit by, yeah you guessed it, a Lada.
His body lays sprawled on the floor, the most awkward position ever. A shattered and broken body left limp and alone, a mess of what was a man, not a single person trying to help him or go to see if he’s still breathing. He’s missing a shoe. 25 feet from where his body hit the ground, his shoe lays askew and upright against a sidewalk. I can’t believe it, I expected troika dancers, not a casualty from a hit and run.
But, once again, a story wouldn’t be without an ending. The final scene which caused everyone to laugh nervously wasn’t just the dead guy. It was the gypsy lady coming across to see if he’s alive, then taking his sprawled shopping and walking off without a care in the world. Welcome to Russia.
We stepped outside, expecting awe-inspiring buildings and statues of importance, a vast land of beauty and Polka music. Well, we got the latter, and instead of the former, what our group first saw was areas of half finished construction sites, a furore of ridiculously loud congestive Russian traffic and to top it all off, the most awfully shit Russian ballad singers of all time on some radio station. I nursed my jet lag with my Russian hat and tried desperately to fall asleep. All I kept seeing and blinking at were snippets of countryside, upon unfinished construction, upon countryside, with the odd occasional gypsy on the road or on a horse, and countless Lada’s.
To say Russians don’t drive well isn’t an understatement, it’s a massive one. When I say this, I mean, they drive like lunatics. To them, there is no Highway Code. Imagine Mad Max 2, then multiply the amount of cars by a billion. It literally is Lada eat Lada out there. ‘Get out my way, bitch or I’ll make you wish you were never born’ is a friendly way of putting it. The coach nearly crashes twice on the way because of these spectacular stunt driver types on the roads, a car missing its front doors jutting from lane to lane jumping without any indication in a beat up 1950s piece-of-shit-mobile, with, I kid you not, tables strapped on top of its roof.
As we move from mundane and crap countryside into urbanized areas, the amount of these Mad Max wannabes multiply like flies around a turd, with taxis simply are shells, two to three doors and a few under pressured tires. Road rage is putting it lightly. Honestly, Ben Hur ain’t got shit on Russia. As we enter St. Petersberg, I start to gaze at the eccentricity and bombasticity of the brilliant architecture, the immense space filled and surrounded by noise, commotion and light. I’m for the first in many times on this trip, literally stunned.
However, what stuns me the most isn’t the drivers. It isn’t this stench of 1970s. It isn’t even the whole Twisted Metal feel of the roads and the insane car skills on display, no. What shocks me happens directly outside my hotel. As we arrive near the entrance of the hotel, a huge beige block of glass and concrete, we all bear witness to some poor bastard lying on the ground in the middle of the road (No, no Tenacious D impressions, please.), who a mere 10 minutes before we arrives was hit by, yeah you guessed it, a Lada.
His body lays sprawled on the floor, the most awkward position ever. A shattered and broken body left limp and alone, a mess of what was a man, not a single person trying to help him or go to see if he’s still breathing. He’s missing a shoe. 25 feet from where his body hit the ground, his shoe lays askew and upright against a sidewalk. I can’t believe it, I expected troika dancers, not a casualty from a hit and run.
But, once again, a story wouldn’t be without an ending. The final scene which caused everyone to laugh nervously wasn’t just the dead guy. It was the gypsy lady coming across to see if he’s alive, then taking his sprawled shopping and walking off without a care in the world. Welcome to Russia.
Friday 7 January 2011
Review: Tron: Legacy
Tron: Legacy? More like Tron: Fallacy.
A visual masterpiece, one which is only let down by its inadequate and clichéd script. As a sequel, Tron: Legacy still pleases, managing to bridge the nearly 30 year gap, and no doubt it’s the best 3D event since Avatar.
However, it suffers greatly due to a very weak and very clichéd plot, which is in dire need of an upgrade. To live up to the name Tron made over two decades ago, this film delivers a sense overload which saves it and will make you want to see it again and again, giving something I’d describe as a visual-gasm.
Following the recent surge in 3D blockbusters, it retains fantastic HD set pieces, incorporating the former film’s fun ideas of light cycles, colours and computers and modernising the mise en scene with a bleak yet brilliant electroluminescent landscape. Unarguably both beautiful to see both in 2D and 3D, it unfortunately suffers due to the lack of a defined, lean, and friendly script, one which managed to encapsulate audiences of the first film.
Being a bit of a Tron fan myself, I was stunned by the breathtaking special and visual effects employed throughout, in addition to the excellent electronic accompanying soundtrack penned by the French dance maestros, Daft Punk.
Yet, with a plot that remains bleak, biblical and at various times boring, Tron: Legacy seems to convey the message: “Throw as much sfx as we can to hide this gaping hole and see if they notice”. Packed full of explosive and intense special effects which will please the fans and also those new to the Tron franchise, this is still one movie I‘d definitely recommend catching.
Set 18 years after the original 1982 cult classic, we follow the story of Sam Flynn (Garrett Hudlund), son of the infamous Kevin Flynn (Jeff Bridges). Sam’s father, the former president of Encom (Disney’s depiction of IBM, no doubt), mysteriously disappears. Missing for almost two decades, Sam grows up bitter and hardened, and nothing is heard.
That is, until a message appears at the old office of his missing dad. Sam deciding to investigate, he finds himself in a situation much bigger than he ever expected. Sucked into a virtual reality called the Grid, we follow a rip roaring journey filled with stunning set pieces which will entice you to talk about the film for hours after seeing it.
A visual masterpiece, one which is only let down by its inadequate and clichéd script. As a sequel, Tron: Legacy still pleases, managing to bridge the nearly 30 year gap, and no doubt it’s the best 3D event since Avatar.
However, it suffers greatly due to a very weak and very clichéd plot, which is in dire need of an upgrade. To live up to the name Tron made over two decades ago, this film delivers a sense overload which saves it and will make you want to see it again and again, giving something I’d describe as a visual-gasm.
Following the recent surge in 3D blockbusters, it retains fantastic HD set pieces, incorporating the former film’s fun ideas of light cycles, colours and computers and modernising the mise en scene with a bleak yet brilliant electroluminescent landscape. Unarguably both beautiful to see both in 2D and 3D, it unfortunately suffers due to the lack of a defined, lean, and friendly script, one which managed to encapsulate audiences of the first film.
Being a bit of a Tron fan myself, I was stunned by the breathtaking special and visual effects employed throughout, in addition to the excellent electronic accompanying soundtrack penned by the French dance maestros, Daft Punk.
Yet, with a plot that remains bleak, biblical and at various times boring, Tron: Legacy seems to convey the message: “Throw as much sfx as we can to hide this gaping hole and see if they notice”. Packed full of explosive and intense special effects which will please the fans and also those new to the Tron franchise, this is still one movie I‘d definitely recommend catching.
Set 18 years after the original 1982 cult classic, we follow the story of Sam Flynn (Garrett Hudlund), son of the infamous Kevin Flynn (Jeff Bridges). Sam’s father, the former president of Encom (Disney’s depiction of IBM, no doubt), mysteriously disappears. Missing for almost two decades, Sam grows up bitter and hardened, and nothing is heard.
That is, until a message appears at the old office of his missing dad. Sam deciding to investigate, he finds himself in a situation much bigger than he ever expected. Sucked into a virtual reality called the Grid, we follow a rip roaring journey filled with stunning set pieces which will entice you to talk about the film for hours after seeing it.
Tuesday 4 January 2011
Look, but don't stare.
I'm staring across the nightlights of this vast city, seeing no signs of motion, just a faint blur or a flicker of life. It's only 7.30pm, but it feels more like midnight. I stare, and don't pay attention to anything, the vibration of the phone, the hum and bass thudding away from some metal band in my background.
I see nothing at all except silence. Peace, and no noise. Then, equilibrium is interrupted. My zen, set back, I fall back on the side of the bed, and try to concentrate on what day it is, what year it is, and where I am. I'm here. But where's here? What difference does it make? I keep on throwing questions to caution myself, but in the end we're all left with no answers, just another blank page.
I can't think. I try to think about thinking, but my mind is a blank, as blank as the mocking pages all lined up in front of me. I once again prepare myself to think, and still, I can't. I need a form of release. Not alcohol, we all know where that ends up. Me talking more than the usual bullshit. I haven't got a desire for drugs, that's the old me, the one i left behind in another country. I need me the sweetest, hottest and most lusicious cup of tea.
I check the fridge, and utter a curse. The milk's near to curdling. I think about throwing it away. But I can't. It's such a waste, to just throw it away. I put it back, think for a second, check the cupboards. Shit. No tea bags. Where the hell are my 80 teab.. Realising I left them behind in a flat just below me, I decide to take a trip. The hallway is dimmer than usual, the lights flicker as if I star inside a horror movie. The corridors are eerie, due to the lack of noise and tenants. It's odd that I miss the shitty pop being played next door.
Now, as I descend down these long corridors, I notice one thing. There's no warmth. No sign of heat. It's dead cold, as cold as a fresh corpse inside a morgue, I don't feel it untill I get to the elevators. The elevator takes a century to come up. I hear the gears, grinding away as the 5 inch thick cable pulls its empty shell towards the 4th floor.
As the doors open, I look behind me. It's weird. Something's not right now. The lights aren't on on 4th. I step in, I try not to think about it, and press the button, making my way to 3rd. I wait for a second, the it stops. I laugh nervously, and the door opens. It doesn't open on 3rd though. I must've pressed the wrong button, and press 3 once more (I'm sure I did, but what the hell) and then it opens again. On 4th floor.
I get out, and as I do, the doors snap shut. My right thumb could've been taken from me, and I jump away from it. I'm freaked out. I realise the light above me is starting to dim. I'm not liking this one bit, so I take the stairs. I seem to be doing fine, but as soon as I get down to first, I see there is no 1st floor. The doors just don't exist. I don't know what to do, and as I look up I see something.
I see nothing at all except silence. Peace, and no noise. Then, equilibrium is interrupted. My zen, set back, I fall back on the side of the bed, and try to concentrate on what day it is, what year it is, and where I am. I'm here. But where's here? What difference does it make? I keep on throwing questions to caution myself, but in the end we're all left with no answers, just another blank page.
I can't think. I try to think about thinking, but my mind is a blank, as blank as the mocking pages all lined up in front of me. I once again prepare myself to think, and still, I can't. I need a form of release. Not alcohol, we all know where that ends up. Me talking more than the usual bullshit. I haven't got a desire for drugs, that's the old me, the one i left behind in another country. I need me the sweetest, hottest and most lusicious cup of tea.
I check the fridge, and utter a curse. The milk's near to curdling. I think about throwing it away. But I can't. It's such a waste, to just throw it away. I put it back, think for a second, check the cupboards. Shit. No tea bags. Where the hell are my 80 teab.. Realising I left them behind in a flat just below me, I decide to take a trip. The hallway is dimmer than usual, the lights flicker as if I star inside a horror movie. The corridors are eerie, due to the lack of noise and tenants. It's odd that I miss the shitty pop being played next door.
Now, as I descend down these long corridors, I notice one thing. There's no warmth. No sign of heat. It's dead cold, as cold as a fresh corpse inside a morgue, I don't feel it untill I get to the elevators. The elevator takes a century to come up. I hear the gears, grinding away as the 5 inch thick cable pulls its empty shell towards the 4th floor.
As the doors open, I look behind me. It's weird. Something's not right now. The lights aren't on on 4th. I step in, I try not to think about it, and press the button, making my way to 3rd. I wait for a second, the it stops. I laugh nervously, and the door opens. It doesn't open on 3rd though. I must've pressed the wrong button, and press 3 once more (I'm sure I did, but what the hell) and then it opens again. On 4th floor.
I get out, and as I do, the doors snap shut. My right thumb could've been taken from me, and I jump away from it. I'm freaked out. I realise the light above me is starting to dim. I'm not liking this one bit, so I take the stairs. I seem to be doing fine, but as soon as I get down to first, I see there is no 1st floor. The doors just don't exist. I don't know what to do, and as I look up I see something.
Monday 3 January 2011
New year, new post.
The clock hits 4 exact, I'm back here, inside this little room of mine, listening to some dubstep and thinking about what this new year could have in store for me. I hope its some good times, some fun times, I know it'll bring a few harsh times, but that's how it goes. I just spent three weeks on the Isle of Wight, a place I'm far too familiar with, known for its lack of any visible life, the worst bus service this side of the Western hemisphere,and its popular nickname being 'God's waiting room'. Fun.
No, I've gotta admit, the worst thing people could do is try to be happy through the holidays, just pretending to be all happy families. luckily, I didn't have to sit through that ordeal, instead I had to be pretending that I was happy to answer the same question a hundred times, also having to have the awkward moments with people I used to know but sort of lost contact with during the move to Pompey. Oh, and throw in a couple exes who just turn out to be as useless and vitriolic as before, plus add in an unrequited love interest, it's been so peachy.
Actually, I loved several things. The days in bed, where I could sleep in 'till 12, because being honest, I haven't had a decent night's sleep without a train in the background for three months. The times where old friends invited me out and also run ins with people and having the sense of being still known here. I also missed the meals, the family meals. Christmas was lovely. Whole day of being as lazy as humanly possible, eating too much and watching a whole year's worth of films and TV in the space of a day.
New Years Eve was as always a drinkathon. I just guzzled all the way through untill 4 in the morning, only stopping to pass out. The party kicked ass, I did things I don't regret, but I'll remember for a while probably. But what I loved the most, was being there knowing that when I got back to Portsmouth I'd be able to leave all my past behind. All my mistakes, all my errors, all my slip ups, all my hang ups and definitely all my problems.
It's good to be home again.
No, I've gotta admit, the worst thing people could do is try to be happy through the holidays, just pretending to be all happy families. luckily, I didn't have to sit through that ordeal, instead I had to be pretending that I was happy to answer the same question a hundred times, also having to have the awkward moments with people I used to know but sort of lost contact with during the move to Pompey. Oh, and throw in a couple exes who just turn out to be as useless and vitriolic as before, plus add in an unrequited love interest, it's been so peachy.
Actually, I loved several things. The days in bed, where I could sleep in 'till 12, because being honest, I haven't had a decent night's sleep without a train in the background for three months. The times where old friends invited me out and also run ins with people and having the sense of being still known here. I also missed the meals, the family meals. Christmas was lovely. Whole day of being as lazy as humanly possible, eating too much and watching a whole year's worth of films and TV in the space of a day.
New Years Eve was as always a drinkathon. I just guzzled all the way through untill 4 in the morning, only stopping to pass out. The party kicked ass, I did things I don't regret, but I'll remember for a while probably. But what I loved the most, was being there knowing that when I got back to Portsmouth I'd be able to leave all my past behind. All my mistakes, all my errors, all my slip ups, all my hang ups and definitely all my problems.
It's good to be home again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)