The rants of a constantly ticking mind, combined with a mess of reviews and obscure titling methods.

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

'Punk is not dead, it's merely decaying where it stands' - Adapted from t-shirt slogan

Emptiness is a fearful thing. That will to do something creative, only not having the ideas to do it. It's taunted me since the start of this whole period of rambling, and it still does to this day. Blankness hits me wave upon wave like I'm a tiny fishing boat caught in a tsunami in the Pacific. As always, the tiredness hits me second, like the swell of a thousand sleep-filled nights crashing down on me, forcing me to join them. I don't see the point of sleep anymore. I fall asleep tired, I wake up tired, I'm late because I sleep. Maybe I shouldn't sleep, maybe insomnia is the cure to all my problems....

Nah, don't be daft. Insomnia, though it may solve problems shorthand, it has future consequences. Consequences my brain doesn't want to comprehend right now.

I like the way these ramblings are starting to go. They feel less like a log of my life (which the average diary tries to keep track of; I have enough hassle keeping track of my life still being lived, let alone having to recall what happened in my day to a printed word. If something happens that is of deadly importance, I'll write it down. Otherwise, I feel it becomes another document in my increasing messes of paper.

My mental chaos I feel is expanding out from my being into this room. As we speak, chaos reigns. The bed is unhappy being chained together with sheets, and spends the majority of it's existance wriggling out of it's cream pyjamas, exposing it's nakedness to all who come by. It's like the man in the nursing home who spends the majority of his caged life trying to throw off the shackles of the nurses' society; a hippy who feels that expressionism is the way to go, his brain addled with the chemicals he feasted upon for the majority of his life until he now no longer knows reality from his own twisted perspective on things.

Yes, that's what my bed is like. It's spent too many years being a student-digs bed and has become addled on marijuana fumes and now things going 'au naturelle' is the way to go. Or it could be the matress being to thick. Hmm.....

I love the way that society has made anarchy (in British terms) a fashion statement. No longer do people dress punk to be anti-politics, anti-war, anti-style. They dress punk as purely a 'scoiety telling me what to do' thing, a niche market which fashion has written the textbook for, filling our screens with formulaic angsty teenagers and teams of manufactured rock bands. It's so ironic.

I don't know what to do with my life anymore. It's a shame. I once felt I didn't know what to do with my life, next I formulated ideas and future plans, but now that world feels further away than ever.

I think I'd better start sleeping, the perfect drug to life. Otherwise, I won't get up for my lectures. So goodnight world once more. See you on the other side.



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