I always knew I would say this. I just thought it’d be a million years in the future. When I had been through all the trials of life, when I was satisfied that I had given something back to the world.
I know I’ll be back.
Just not anytime soon.
(PS: Don’t wait up. I have a lot of stuff to do before I’m back.)
These three people make my life worth living. This photo is ace because this is actually what we’re all like.
(From left to right)
A: Smily smily happy person. Obliviously annoyingly optimistic. Prefers to look on the bright side of life and take all opportunities you can get.
Arooj: I think the David Bowie Tshirt under the oriental scarf encapsulates everything about her. I bet in that moment in time she was perving on some guy.
Me: Make of it what you will.
Q: Her personality just radiates off her. Too nice for her own good. Loyal. And she’s looking straight at the camera as if to say ‘Capture this moment, because life is good’ because she is cheesy like that.
I can’t live without these people.
There is someone else lurking inside to get out. Who wants to know, feel what others talk about in whispers and hidden tongues. Even pain, the physical and emotional cannot be understood once it is not felt. I want to flinch back in anger and disgust and horror and get sweaty chills down my back and hope and pray that there must be something out there better than this. I want someone to drag my ankles, whilst my teeth are scraping on grit and my heart bleeds. I hate this negative space that will spread through the days, months, maybe years; always surrounding me but hardly suffocating. I don’t need any more heavy hours wheezing, breathing, making everything come to a standstill.
And so, I am immersing myself in other people’s words. Taking consolidation in the fact that someone did this better than I could ever possibly dream. I’m listening to the beats and pulses, rhythm and soul and hoping to make it alive. I’m watching their arms, legs, lips and throats in a tanglement of fierce rage and drunken euphoria. I’m running to giggle or cry. I’m forced to watch and hear and talk whilst my eyes pierce through.
All my pieces are broken.
Random points:
Yesterday me and my sisters were talking about favourite teachers. I have quite a few, each with a specific incident attached to their memory.
The first teacher with whom I felt a sort of … attachment to was called Mr E ( not really, but I doubt any of these teachers would like their full name to be displayed on the world wide interweb). I have happy memories of the time I met him because it was in primary school where (I hope) every child can say that they had no worries, and would happily go through that age again. He was a very hands-on teacher and often played the guitar and taught us they lyrics to ‘papa’s gonna buy you a rocking bird’. He sang folksy songs which I suppose is where I’ve always liked the laid back type of music. In the summer he used to often take us outside the tree on the grass and read ‘The Little Prince’ to us, or play the guitar. All the other little kids used it be preoccupied with something else to listen to what Mr. E was reading; the boys used to pull the grass and chuck it at each other whilst the girls used to braid each others hair under the sun. My friend used to always make me braid her hair, but I wasn’t one to listen to anyone but myself, so she eventually gave in and used to sit behind me and braid my hair instead. The Little Prince was full of long words which I didn’t understand, but the look on Mr E’s face when he was reading the book was just mesmerizing. I could see that he loved that book, and he had a very good reading voice so all I wanted to do was listen to him. He never noticed all the other girls and boys fidgeting, talking and generally being bored to death and carried on like there was no one else around. Just him and the summer sun. He taught me the word ‘chassis’.
A year later I met Mr A who was one of the most funniest teachers around. He had a love for English and always told personal stories of when he was a boy, of his father, of his first kiss, when meeting his wife for the first time. I still remember the ways he used to make his memories alive simply by his story telling skills. When recalling his fist kiss he actually blushed which I found sweet. Halfway through the year I was dragged to PK and when I returned I was no longer teacher’s pet. He gave me a verbal warning over something incredibly ridiculous, which I still believe wasn’t my fault, and he never again asked me or my friend to stay behind to clean up where we often shared jokes with him. He taught me that people from Holland were called Dutch and taught me some Dutch words.
The third and last teacher that I don’t think I will ever forget was called Mr C. He was an A level Government and Politics teacher. At a life changing time of my life, to me he epitomised everything that was new, and good, and true, and diverse. His lessons were the only thing that I looked forward to in the first year of my A levels. He brought the perfect style of humour wit and crudeness to the class which I absolutely loved. He was Oxford educated but what I loved most about him was that he refused to believe this and displayed it as something irrelevant, but displayed it nevertheless. His social background always stood out to me (and he’d hate me saying that). He wasn’t a toff as some people at the grammar school were – he would choose bacon butties over cucumber sandwiches any day, although he did have a love for crumpets and divine cheese. In my second year with him, he glorified me more than I ever deserved. He taught me that I was worth more than I thought I was.
(Please can no one mention that they’re all male. I don’t want to start getting worried about some pyshco-babble theories that include variations of the words ‘male’, ‘responsible’, ‘trust’ and ‘idolise’.)
Just letting you guys know that I’m taking my week long Internet break now – even from the iPhone :S Yeah, so feel free to backbite about me here.
I just need to get my Uni structure sorted and I have way too many other things going on so I though why not. Who knows – if I like the simple life too much, I may never come back 
