A few more secrets

I should probably let you in a little more. Recently I've been rather hooked on alcohol, which seems pretty frelling stupid, so close to the GCSE's. Not very many days go by recently when I'm not blown away, or wanting to be at least. I feel a medium between down and high. If I can just get the GCSE's out of the way, everything will be fine. Other than the imminent prospect of death, that is.

I need to kick the alcohol and roll-up cigarettes, and sort my life out. This has gone too far. I'm becoming painfully in love, teenage style. It's terrible. I can't sleep, eat, think, perform the most fundamental action without her in my head. Conforming to be a teen. It's wonderful. But I don't care. Like I've said before, I have plenty more hang-overs to get, plenty more joints to smoke, plenty more relationships to hate. So follow my entries as I spiral. Hope you have as much fun as I do!

Redshift.

Merfl

Merfl is today's word. I have history that was due in last Tuesday, and I'm now drunk off my face. I mean actually wasted. It's terrible. I have GCSE's coming up, and I'm turning into an alcoholic, and a rollup-addict.

But stay coolio,

Redshift.

From a dark red room in the sun

The motivation to update this, (as expected) is dying away. No that's not a hint to start commenting; it genuinely doesn't bother me. Nevertheless, wrote this a few nights ago, thought you might want to read it. It's not particuarly poetic, nor lyrical, but I'm sadistic, so read:

The story so far-

An hour ago, I was going to get changed,
But I doubt I’ll go to bed,
A day ago I was getting drunk,
But I’d rather get stoned instead,

A week ago I was writing a poem,
And planning to send it to you,
But like every ambition; and love-mad transmission,
I couldn’t follow it through,

A month ago I was going to revise,
And prepare to sort out my life,
But I guess like the snail; I can slowly fail,
And slide down the blade of life,

A year ago I was urging you here,
Dreaming; just as today,
And as usual with you; 2 minutes, and we’re through,
So who’s the one running away?

And fifteen years – what’s there to tell?
An idea not even thought through,
A mistake in the making; with consciousness waking,
A lonely red room with a view.

A man said to the Universe: "Sir, I exist!" "However," replied the Universe, "the fact has not created in me a sense of obligation."

Time for another exciting installment of my life. I've been 'cleverly' evading the subject of anything outside of the net - haven't I?
There really isn't a great deal that differs me from the rest of the teenage-population. I'm arrogant, go into random mood spirals and seem to have a life-long struggle with paranoia. Another classic fate of 'le teenager' is to constantly feel alienated (No one understands me *hysterical tears*) from the rest of the world, which I also feel fairly embarassed to admit conforming to. I've got this vague-hunch that it's not a teenage thing, but simply that teenagers inherit the arrogance to suddenly express it, via hormones and other avenues of comedy.

I wish I had more wit to inject into this. I could make protentious statements, and proclaim about my 'dashing political opinions', but I'm not going to. 1. I don't have the capacity to be particularly funny. 2. After only reading a few blogs, it seems extremely apparent that using phrases containing 'Bush is an idiot', 'I'm going to kill myself', 'I'm really intelligent, because I have a degree and can make flashy blogs' or simply making snide remarks at people who can't defend themselves from an insignicant 'cunning linguist' writing a online, gets you viewers. After all - 'There are no personal problems which cannot be solved through suitable application of high explosives. '. This is an excellent statement to go by.

Anyway. Though totally trivial, a month or two ago, broke up from a year-and-a-half relationship and am hence now enjoying not being dominated. Lonliness is really an inevitable condition of teenage'itus, so I suppose your resistance can get exceptionally low. But hey - I'm free. We met over the net, and she happened to live in Northampton. After months of chatting online, we met up in July in London (on the millenium bridge). Things didn't seem particularly bad. She actually gave a damn about me, which was an added benefit. So she came to stay a month or two later, in Southampton. By this time, we were talking to hours every night on the phone, and it'd developed into a monotonous routine. A constant battle between my parents stance on 'She's taking over your life', and Sam's (That was her, by the way) 'I can't go on without you. Life wouldn't be worth living' and other dependant and blackmailing sayings.

I ended up throwing in the towel on my social life, and very rarely ever went outside. And for what? Some possesive dominatrix, so she could feel secure and safe? I wouldn't have minded if that had been the case. It was more the emotional blackmail that I didn't enjoy. So, after chatting it through with a friend for a while, I tried, subtley (it's my middle name) to break the whole thing off. After 3 days of hysterical phone conversations and endless crying, it disolved somewhat, and hence; I have my freedom back.

Currently, there are other wonderful emotional 'things' going on, but it wouldn't be the best time to write it out to anyone who happens to be able to get on the net. The part that really bothers me, is the fact that any other teenage blog would contain more or less the same angst. The same 'I'm so depressed. Even though I'm living in a secure enviroment, and have little to worry about, I can still generate trivial sh*tty angst out of no where', on page after page. But so so. Despite your 'radical views', 'great sex lives', and obviously fake optimism about life, you're still as guilty of conforming as me, expensive car or no expensive car.

Stay cool,

Redshift

Too late for attempted wit. Too early to write.

It's 10 past 1 in the morning. Today has been fairly awful - if not just a screwed-up mess, emotional 'stuff' (is there no end to my linguistic skills?!), and being that I have some pointless Maths revision class to attend tommorow, it may be wise to consider sleeping. From the obscenely large coffee I had today, I'm not quite feeling 'tired' but hints of it are slipping through. The obscenely large yawn I just pulled then, for instance. By the way, if you can - try 'obtaining' "Existential blues". I think it's by 'Tom 't-bone' stankus'. Extremely trippy on headphones. I retract that. Just - extremely trippy.
Anyway, more pointless poetry. The writing site I tend to post on didn't exactly give the most awesome feedback (not that I have an ego-complex, ahem), but I'm feeling sadistic enough to post it for your eyes. 'Tis called "Kissing your hair"

Kissing your hair,
Rosy felt with sleek,
Curling – no, but highways of silk,
Lapping voluptuous,
Scenting content,
We lay there,
Bathing in eyes,
Kissing in skin,
And in sanctity – it was cast,
To a memory past,
‘Till I’m kissing your hair again

Well, sayonara. The walls are starting to try and strike up conversation. This is a classic example of the beautiful 'Sleep deprevation'.
Like I said, Sayonara.

Edit: Is there anyone that actually reads any of this? I've got this 1:37AM sinking feeling that I'm chatting to myself, which (last time I checked) was one of the first signs of madness. Nevertheless, I appreciate that on your cyber-journeys, my posts of pretentiousness aren't painfully gripping, but feel free (hint) to (double hint) leave (triple hint) a comment.

Trisha other TV 'delights'

For any of you that aren't unlucky enough to live in the UK (oh woe is me) Trisha is a chat-show, presented by the critically acclaimed, horse-faced, arrogant 'Trisha' herself, funnily enough. She invites guests onto her show, only to verbally bash the man, and bring out the woman's already over-exercised ego. I thought I'd never have to resort to this *suspense* but I don't think it's even worth the 3:30PM TV slot. Sitting in my sugar daze per usual, (lilt and a some salt and vinegar crisps) I can't actually convey the sheer boredom of the Tuesday afternoon.

It suddenly seems that life is somewhat of an eighty year 'sentence'. Doing time in your consciousness for a crime you can't quite remember. 6.2 billion people, getting up to work flat-faced, bored out of their mind, sneering at the rest of the human race. The worst part is that, excluding the possibility of death, there's no readily obvious escape, OTHER THAN not caring.

An obvious example of this is Diogenes. (For thoughts such as these, I strongly advise Alain De Botton - 'Status Anxiety) In ancient Greece, he took the opportunity to simply live in a barrel basking in the sweltering sun with a few worthless possessions. Hearing of this, Alexander the Great approached him, humored by this new 'take' on thinking, and asked him with total sincerity, "Great Diogenes, from your new philosophy, what can I possibly bless you with in return? Money? Land? A thousand beautiful women?"
Diogenes paused for a timeless moment, only to reply as a passing comment 'Yes. Could you move out of the way of the sun?'
Unbelievably, Alexander (renowned for his fuming temper) laughed heartedly and left the matter alone.
The point is more what Diogenes did to his thinking process. As a human consciousness, can you really afford to f*ck your life up in some dead-end job, with some dependant boyfriend/girlfriend/wife/husband on your case?
You've got another so-many years. Don't screw it up. And I know I know, if I'm proclaiming all these deep and wonderful things, why am I still writing a pointless online blog? Because I'm 16, and have plenty more hangovers to wake up with, mistakes to make and opinions to change.
Stay nuts,
Redshift.

Artistically untitled. So there

Being that I have no idea who'll read this, it seems only fair that I should let a total stranger into my life. You know - personal details, closely guarded secrets, etc.

Ok then. Err...Spontaneity, spontaneity, spontaneity...

Discarding the world in my head for a moment, I live with my parents for now; in Southampton, and spend a lot of my teen-time dwelling in my room. Classic teenage stereotype - eh?
About to get hurled into my GCSE's particularly soon, and am hence trying to find a philosophy that doesn't involve 'sh*t, sh*t, sh*t I'm going to fail, I'm going to fail'.
When I'm not chewing my fingernails to a degree level, or mocking others in my head, I generally spend a lot of my even more classic teenage-time writing EVEN MORE classic teen-poetry (Oh woe is me, I'm so depressed, everyone hates me, no one understand anything, etc) toned down a little, sat at my computer of evilness.
I'm trying to run through in my head why: A. I'm writing this and B. Why you'd continue to read this, but the fact that you are speaks for itself, so thankyou. I think.

I was for several years a dope (cannabis/weed/pot {sic}) user, if not an addict, but was smart enough to get caught by my parents, and hence am devoid of any use of zee stuff, for now. It really was that inevitable trap of wanting to escape, which probably stems from being a teen in the first place. But, despite my current position as an angst-riddled teen, whoever you happen to be, also conform in some way to a stereotype. The point being more that a stereotype is a generated 'thing'. You can't touch, taste; smell a stereotype. It's an opinion created via the masses (Or those who like to think they're in the majority). The difference is that you have a consciousness. You exist. Despite the fact that you and I are both ruled by emotion and 'human judgment', we're conscious entities, and that separates us from the rest of humanity. We're partitioned, for the sole reason that I'm not you, and you're not me.

On a happier note, I might spend the day inside listening to the Beatles and Dresden Dolls (the Dresden Dolls being the rulers of all music - bwhahahaha) and eating gratuitous amounts of chocolate, per se yesterday.

So Sayonara.

A glimpse into an insomniac's life

Ok ok, I'll give-in to the gigantic wave of e-mails that I haven't been getting, from my even more non-existent fans, pleading me to put some poetry on here. So, et voila:

I bought a cat,
In Brooklyn Park,
And swung it by the head,

But its feet hit the ceiling,
And though comically appealing,
Think I’ll get a dog instead.

So home he came,
In cute doggy awe,
So I swung him by the tail,

And with a little doggy crying,
He went doggy flying,
Out the window with a doggy wail,

This time I was cautious,
A pet that can fly?
I followed a bird-like hunch,

So I brought back a quail,
Feathers, no tail,
Only filled me up till lunch,

So a bird was no use,
Something big – with style,
Was back in the shop by 4,

So the turtle came home,
And though just on loan,
Made a great wedge for the door,

Back once more,
Armed with my wallet,
Screaming ‘This is the last damn time’,

‘Feline?’ he replied,
‘Go ahead!’ I cried,
‘A cat will do just fine’

9:30 AM

Dullards wake,
Impotent grunts stir as body clocks turn over,
And milkmen get the day off,
No milk,
But TV’s a plenty,
And bedclothes cocoon the mess of yesterday,
Acknowledgment to alcohol,
Ode to a weenie vodka,
Hangovers stuck on your cranium,
Pinned to the brain,
Lazing and full with ambition,
We rise; a unison of disjointed dress sense,
Out to the streets,
Improvising the anthem of 9:30 AM.

Deeper thinking, and even longer words, So there

Ok - well, as a professional procrastinator (Just finished off a pot noodle, and am now tucking healthily into an obscenely large easter egg), I'll post a few samples of my poetry in a few hours, but for now, try this out.
I've posted it from a word document, so don't blame me for the reading on the crap'otron.

Life (as an existing consciousness), and time passing is measured by you existing. It’s measured by your perceptions of it. My perceptions. Anyone’s. In that case, how fast is the present passing? How long until the future becomes the present? How long has it been since the past was the present? Will they ever meet?

If no life existed in the universe, there would be no present. We’ve talked about this in detail. It’s just a human concept. So, if time is just your perceptions of it, why isn’t it possible to change your perceptions? If time and space are just perceptions why can’t you change them? I generally hate sleeping in other people’s houses, due to the fact that I wake up for a few seconds with no orientation. The point is, for a few moments; I’m expecting to be in my own bed, in my own room. Instead, I’m lying (half-drunk occasionally at Chris’s)in someone else’s. In those few moments, is my disorientation due to the fact that I can’t remember where I am? OR – is it the fact that reality hasn’t set in? If the world is made up of my perceptions, that means I can only stay in one place by ‘believing’ I’m there. Hence, could you pass back and forth through space, or even time (!)by simply freeing your mind?

The world is based on how YOU view it. I’m not inside your head to most extents, just as you’re not in mine. Your perceptions of the world make it what it is. As I said, without life, there’d be no time, as it couldn’t be recorded by memory.

Reality MUST therefore be what you make it, to yourself. Does that then mean you could manipulate it?! If you freed your mind, could you pass through every parameter of space and time? If you could let go of everything: every preconception, ever understanding, every thinking habit, would the world be what you made it?
Anyway, think on it -

Redshift