First Things First

Hello Tumblr. I’m writing on you now, this morning, the AM, before I start my daily activities and forget to write on you ever again. I was playing Final Fantasy VIII until about 2 o clock last night, it always reminds me of being in year 5 and the night my brother first showed me porn and told me to tell my school teacher that I wanted to be a midwife when I grow up…bastard.

I’m currently listening to Frank’s newest album, that man always reminds me of swell parties around Joe’s…I loved that house…despite it’s severe lack of heating. I remember once, we played hide and seek and I dived a sleeping bag in Joe’s junk room and smelled something slightly peculiar…as it transpired, that was where his kittens used to do their business before they were house trained…awesome.

Gotta print out all my documentation for Oz today, Visa, Bus Pass, Tickets…blah blah…so much bureaucracy, I have so much meaningless paper strewn everywhere in my room and people genuinely wonder where the rainforest is going? Half of it is buried safely and pointlessly in my old college draw.

Going down Tenby with Emperor Julius Card this weekend, Dave’s too obsessed with Cardiff/too much of a pussy to come and Scotty prolly can’t get the time off work so it’s just the two of us…gonna get ‘ammererd, gonna get shitfaced.

Harry’s back from Uni today, may go see her later, may buy her Rush Hour 3.

Need to buy the new Game magazine, I adore it, the writing is of the highest quality…unlike this blog I keep. I wanna be a games reviewer, wake up at 9, play a game till 2, write about it for 3 hours, lather, rinse and repeat everyday, games and writing combined. Sounds like my heaven. I love writing, so I’ll leave you with one of my poems.

Crash.

A contemplation on Time.

With a persistent pulsating shriek
my alarm clock throws me from my sleep.
But when I glance over at the time
I realize the numbers no longer register.

Certainly my mind recognizes each digit;
I haven’t forgotten the number six, have I?
I’m hesitant to suggest I lost track of numbers
for I still find myself restricted to quatrains.

I don’t think I trust the year and month any longer
so I measured the sun and changing season for myself.
They last much longer
without the day and the minute leading the procession.

Tick tock, tick tock, the second marches on.
Even if every river in the world freezes
and every living creature keels over,
time will continue to flow relentlessly
(whether man catalogues it or not).
As the sun beats down on the radiant sandstone
And everything hunkers down in the shade
The second cries out over the barren land,
Pulsating, unfazed by fatigue, continues to march.

Slowly I fight back, no longer aware of pentameter.
I unplug my alarm, turn the clocks to face the wall.

The last sliver of light caught sight of dust
brilliantly dancing like giddy high scholars
caught in an unknowing and passionate dance.

Complete darkness.
My halogen world.

The sun rising and setting has become intimately
Connected with the concept of time,
I no longer look up.

These very lines begin to fall apart,
they dissolve. broken by the dissonance
between time spectrums.

This piece exists in that it was written
in between two points of my life,
this is the only way it can be referred to.
This was not written in a number of days,
this is measured in the process of thought.

I turn the clock around, it’s only been two hours.
The solidity of time creeps back into my mind;
it’s dinner time, I wasn’t hungry before I saw the clock
but now my stomach is devouring itself.

It’s time for work, it’s time to eat, it’s time to sleep.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Regularity, regularity? Not in my revolution.