Sunday, 4 July 2010

I'm stunned. 10 eventful months have past since I created this spot, and posted my first, and as of yet, only blog. I've given up on imagining, or rather predicting, my future. Time, I've discovered, always unfolds in a way you cannot possibly imagine.

I thought my last entry was written in late December, but it was in fact from mid-September. So I am now handed a span of an hour or so in which I can write and ruminate on what has happened in my 19th and perhaps most formative year.

From the beginning then, or rather where I last left off. Well. I'm no longer a Creative Writing student. No, no, no. Nakedness of thought doesnt't suit me either ( hence why I will never publish this blog publically on the internet). Writing for me is usually like letting blood from a stone, (I like the occasional cliche, like an indulegnt piece of cake for someone on a diet, I shouldn't but I for now I will anyway because it's easy)- although my stone does actually contain a little reservoir of blood which can only be accessed by a little stone-eating mite who, through petulance, decides alone when he shall and shall not come; and only for his own decided superiority.

I can see already that this entry is becoming disordered because I haven't actually written much of anything in so so long and I've got a sizable plethora of idea ricocheting around in my head waiting to spasm out of my fingertips. Enough of this. So after my last sweaty embarrasing Creative Writing class I went to the head of the faculty and told him I wanted to change. He asked why and i told him 'because I'm not as good as I thought I was.' To which he countered 'Are any if us?' I scooted round this and I'm sure I rememeber saying something along the lines of feeling like I was expected to hand over pieces of myself I wished to keep hidden. So I changed to full English (aha like the breakfast, for this was the morning) but when I was half-way along the road back to my flat I decided that I couldn't contend with all that reading and the four 9am starts. So I turned on my heel and walked back, and changed to English and Film Studies, combined honours.

Writing is a cathartic process, and this next section of my entry I feel needs to be written, however painful I find it. Although this will remain unpublished, I am writing it as if have a pleasant troupe of avid followers who will read this after I finish. This is also the way I live my day-to-day life; as if there are people (or perhaps just one special person) watching me through even the mundanest of acts. I was thrilled when I read something along these lines in 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being', not least because the truths which come as most exhilarating are the ones we already, but deny ourselves the chance to acknowlegde.

I am being as discursive as ever. Stop. And...continue.

I deleted what I wrote. It's already been written out in my mind for some time and I don't need to think about it anymore.

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