Okay, so I said I hate summer. Maybe I was a bit rash. Well, I wasn't because summer rather ironically pales in comparison to its sisters autumn and winter but there are is one thing about summer that is inescapble. Some songs, you can only listen to in the summer.
Two Can Play That Game by Bobby Brown *cringe and shy away* is, to be fair, a good example. Picture this- you're sitting on a train cutting through the grey washed outskirts of London, droplets dispersing as they hit the windows, then slide down on to the cold, hard tracks. You're listening to music through your headphones, you can feel them waiting to be used, sitting in your ear and you ponder what to put on. It's not Bobby Brown, is it?
Summer '10 song: The Cave- Mumford and Sons.
Monday, 6 September 2010
Woah there...
They were some pretty self-indulgent and (let's be honest) down-right depressing posts. But fear not, I've snapped out of it now.
Do you know what has really got me depressed? Apart from my life stalling? The fact that it's summer. That's right- I hate summer! "But summer is sunee and people are happee." Give a shit? Summer is nothing more than a brief spell of girls wearing no tights and trying their hand at wearing colour. Boys look the same all year round. Why boys insist on wearing no coat and instead opt for flip flops in winter, I'll never know.
Summer is the time of year when you go outside on a sun filled day and find yourself seeking shade under a tree or in an air conditioned shop because you have those annoying navy blue spots tap dancing across your retinas when you foolishly let your eyes wander anywhere but the floor. Summer is going out in a strapless dress and cursing yourself for not accounting for the inevitable breeze because, well, it's summer! Shame on you and your Cosmo-copied Kurt Geigers!
Autumn is the tingly feeling on your cheeks when you feel a cool brezze gently tickling your face into a smile. Autumn is wearing misty cashmere, not worrying that you look like a low hanging cloud because rain soaked morning strolls are the stuff life is made of. The satisfying draw of breath that chills the inside of your nose and catches ever so slightly in your throat is something I look forward to everytime I'm enduring a sweat fest on the Tube, willing the man standing next to me to retract his arm from leaning across me to clench the yellow pole as if it will save his life. It won't Mr. Sweaty, please take the bus next time.
Roll on Autumn and getting caught in that kind of rain where it's not wet enough to put up your umbrella but wet enough for you to seek shelter in a coffee shop and wish you actually liked coffee.
Do you know what has really got me depressed? Apart from my life stalling? The fact that it's summer. That's right- I hate summer! "But summer is sunee and people are happee." Give a shit? Summer is nothing more than a brief spell of girls wearing no tights and trying their hand at wearing colour. Boys look the same all year round. Why boys insist on wearing no coat and instead opt for flip flops in winter, I'll never know.
Summer is the time of year when you go outside on a sun filled day and find yourself seeking shade under a tree or in an air conditioned shop because you have those annoying navy blue spots tap dancing across your retinas when you foolishly let your eyes wander anywhere but the floor. Summer is going out in a strapless dress and cursing yourself for not accounting for the inevitable breeze because, well, it's summer! Shame on you and your Cosmo-copied Kurt Geigers!
Autumn is the tingly feeling on your cheeks when you feel a cool brezze gently tickling your face into a smile. Autumn is wearing misty cashmere, not worrying that you look like a low hanging cloud because rain soaked morning strolls are the stuff life is made of. The satisfying draw of breath that chills the inside of your nose and catches ever so slightly in your throat is something I look forward to everytime I'm enduring a sweat fest on the Tube, willing the man standing next to me to retract his arm from leaning across me to clench the yellow pole as if it will save his life. It won't Mr. Sweaty, please take the bus next time.
Roll on Autumn and getting caught in that kind of rain where it's not wet enough to put up your umbrella but wet enough for you to seek shelter in a coffee shop and wish you actually liked coffee.
Veins shouldn't be airbrushed.
These shoes were made for a summer picnic breakfast with best friends on a bench at the top of Primrose Hill next to a quiet four year old girl called Indigo.
The Inbetweener
This space between living and existing is monotonous and the simple pleasures I once valued are long forgotten. This is an attempt to remind myself that not everything was so mundane.
The light flutter of my eye lids rouses me from a depth of a slumber so deep it feels like the sharp intake of breath after diving into freezing water. My eyes sting from their lack of use and adjust unwillingly whilst my mind fights to wake up. All I see is a haze of light washing into the room hastening consciousness. I feel the bags under my eyes, and recollect that they must be a consequence of waking myself up fifteen times in the middle of the night so as to automatically pull back my cuartain and check the stars are still there. This is something I've done ever since I can remember and this small, insignificant routine now seems the sad echo of a girl whose greatest pleasure was once lying under a blanket with nothing but the stars and a long gone love for company. They are a glinting reminder of the cherished few moments shared with a man who had sand papery hands and a sweet, pleasantly musty smell. Steady, muffled thuds on a carpeted floor intrude upon my lighhtness and this is the moment when there is a feeling around my middle that reminds me that I have things to do, roles to fill, expectations to live up to.
I like the inbetween.
The light flutter of my eye lids rouses me from a depth of a slumber so deep it feels like the sharp intake of breath after diving into freezing water. My eyes sting from their lack of use and adjust unwillingly whilst my mind fights to wake up. All I see is a haze of light washing into the room hastening consciousness. I feel the bags under my eyes, and recollect that they must be a consequence of waking myself up fifteen times in the middle of the night so as to automatically pull back my cuartain and check the stars are still there. This is something I've done ever since I can remember and this small, insignificant routine now seems the sad echo of a girl whose greatest pleasure was once lying under a blanket with nothing but the stars and a long gone love for company. They are a glinting reminder of the cherished few moments shared with a man who had sand papery hands and a sweet, pleasantly musty smell. Steady, muffled thuds on a carpeted floor intrude upon my lighhtness and this is the moment when there is a feeling around my middle that reminds me that I have things to do, roles to fill, expectations to live up to.
I like the inbetween.
It's been a while...
March was my last blog. So what's changed? In a word- everything. In another word- nothing. Confused? So am I. I seem to have aged one hundred years in just a few short weeks.
I graduated, thus I am officially an adult. I became an auntie so now have the responsibility of my new role. And I've been let down by just about everyone. All of this in the space of about six weeks.
I sit hear at my desk in the semi-dark with the patter of raindrops on my window and the dull boom of the television downstairs telling myself that I don't know what to do with the rest of my life. I've just realised that I say that because it is easy.
What I want to do is to sit in a tea shop in Hampstead, cut pictures out of magazines and stick them in my scrap book. I want to roam around a tucked away book shop browsing for hours just to randomly pick a book that I know I'll only half-read. But most of all, I don't want to have to worry about what anybody will think of my lack of city hardened ambition. My brain has cost £20,000 and I don't even want to have to use it.
I want to look but not see. I want to listen but not hear. I want time.
That's what university was for though, right? That's what I told everyone, anyway. Me going to university was three years of figuring out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life; the restbite between youth and adulthood. And now I am confronted with adulthood I find myself yearning for everything to stop.
Just stop.
But I can still hear the muffled conversation from the television below me.
I graduated, thus I am officially an adult. I became an auntie so now have the responsibility of my new role. And I've been let down by just about everyone. All of this in the space of about six weeks.
I sit hear at my desk in the semi-dark with the patter of raindrops on my window and the dull boom of the television downstairs telling myself that I don't know what to do with the rest of my life. I've just realised that I say that because it is easy.
What I want to do is to sit in a tea shop in Hampstead, cut pictures out of magazines and stick them in my scrap book. I want to roam around a tucked away book shop browsing for hours just to randomly pick a book that I know I'll only half-read. But most of all, I don't want to have to worry about what anybody will think of my lack of city hardened ambition. My brain has cost £20,000 and I don't even want to have to use it.
I want to look but not see. I want to listen but not hear. I want time.
That's what university was for though, right? That's what I told everyone, anyway. Me going to university was three years of figuring out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life; the restbite between youth and adulthood. And now I am confronted with adulthood I find myself yearning for everything to stop.
Just stop.
But I can still hear the muffled conversation from the television below me.
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