Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Two-thousand and Eight
Two thousand and Seven
Packed up its bags and gone. Left all copies of it's keys in the bowl on the hallway-dresser before slamming the door behind it. I swore i wouldn't let it happen, i swore at often enough "you won't f**cking leave me, you can't leave me". But alas, the day came and went - leaving me try to remember the good times we had together, and hope that they would come again sometime. I've spent most of this time hungover, intoxicated in some strain or another - not wholly comprehending exactly what relationship we had.
Two thousand and eight is her name. For a year she plans to stay. Due to the most unbecoming kismet she has been cast to belong her dainty hand to us for 365 days in time. You left the door open for a second on your departure and she pussyfoot her way in - latching at your keys, your slippers, your favourite nightgown, and now she sleeps next to me counting every second. I'll try not to get to attached to her. I know, in a year from now, she'll be leaving too just as well as you did.
And so it has been out in the social meetings, encounters we have fore took over these coming seconds, have been - she has been - greeted with such reception that you have been granted, in gratitude what only once before within your lifetime. In this eminence she is every embrace, every osculate salute that she did bequeath, pony-up a beam for and from, and has enamored of the pedestal you kept within my soul's chambers. I try not betray your interests, however darling, mine character, my compassion, concern, disposition has somewhat become obscure and indeterminately unintelligible since you departed.
Since that day i have come to realisation that you are many things, many things that started so hopefully but ended up failing again. You let Bulgaria and Romania in, but in simultaneous style sent 21,500 troops to Iraq to keep them out. Rumi my darling you were: Your importance transcended national and ethnic borders, and what for? For re-entering Afghanistan, for forgetting our inflection for nobility and virtue, whilst in similar fashion ceasing our ability for social canvass. You have given me autonomy through my art, through my speculation, through my experience of myself in your ill logic - but still phlebotomise my chaste pursuit of self-satisfaction. And what for?
For the promise has been furnished that this alternative armpiece will best suit my interests for continuance. I do apologize for this, i am sorry, i do have regret, and second thought - but what else can a man do but accept time and carry forth. I know you'll never riposte. Do i blame you? No. But i will ask you to forgive my mistakings and let carry on with her, this, my new love.
Two Thousand and Eight.
Packed up its bags and gone. Left all copies of it's keys in the bowl on the hallway-dresser before slamming the door behind it. I swore i wouldn't let it happen, i swore at often enough "you won't f**cking leave me, you can't leave me". But alas, the day came and went - leaving me try to remember the good times we had together, and hope that they would come again sometime. I've spent most of this time hungover, intoxicated in some strain or another - not wholly comprehending exactly what relationship we had.
Two thousand and eight is her name. For a year she plans to stay. Due to the most unbecoming kismet she has been cast to belong her dainty hand to us for 365 days in time. You left the door open for a second on your departure and she pussyfoot her way in - latching at your keys, your slippers, your favourite nightgown, and now she sleeps next to me counting every second. I'll try not to get to attached to her. I know, in a year from now, she'll be leaving too just as well as you did.
And so it has been out in the social meetings, encounters we have fore took over these coming seconds, have been - she has been - greeted with such reception that you have been granted, in gratitude what only once before within your lifetime. In this eminence she is every embrace, every osculate salute that she did bequeath, pony-up a beam for and from, and has enamored of the pedestal you kept within my soul's chambers. I try not betray your interests, however darling, mine character, my compassion, concern, disposition has somewhat become obscure and indeterminately unintelligible since you departed.
Since that day i have come to realisation that you are many things, many things that started so hopefully but ended up failing again. You let Bulgaria and Romania in, but in simultaneous style sent 21,500 troops to Iraq to keep them out. Rumi my darling you were: Your importance transcended national and ethnic borders, and what for? For re-entering Afghanistan, for forgetting our inflection for nobility and virtue, whilst in similar fashion ceasing our ability for social canvass. You have given me autonomy through my art, through my speculation, through my experience of myself in your ill logic - but still phlebotomise my chaste pursuit of self-satisfaction. And what for?
For the promise has been furnished that this alternative armpiece will best suit my interests for continuance. I do apologize for this, i am sorry, i do have regret, and second thought - but what else can a man do but accept time and carry forth. I know you'll never riposte. Do i blame you? No. But i will ask you to forgive my mistakings and let carry on with her, this, my new love.
Two Thousand and Eight.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Sunday
Sundays. What are they for? I've often spent a sunday afternoon waiting for my parents to leave the house so that i can commandeer the front room to watch a movie, or sneak off into the garage with my laptop so i can smokie a doobie.
Sundays usually give me a feeling i should be doing something with my life. When i say something, i mean i should be being constructive, thinking about what i can do that will possibly help me further myself in life. I should be writing things, or reading things - gaining knowledge, finding things that i feel enough about to gain ideas and to start writing from. I should be doing my essay. I should be reading one of the many books i've bought but haven't opened. I should be doing a lot of things. I should be. But im not. I'm sat writing a pointless blog entry, watching Donnie Brasco, and smoking weed again.
Sundays are for relaxing. For sitting around watching repeats of the same progams you've seen during the week. For winding down and looking to the monday to come. For reflecting on the last week and seeing what you have achieved. And for looking to the next one for what you can improve. I could have these feelings on a Monday, a Tuesday, a Wednesday - but for some reason they only seem to come on a Sunday. I find it strange how i find myself in this paradox where i dont know whether to be relaxing or to be doing. To look, to speculate on what i should be doing drives me into this state where i feel like i need to do, but also feel like i should think about doing. I feel as if i should relax on the Sunday and let these niggiling feelings of shortfall wait untill the Monday - where i can start afresh, restructure my life so i can move forward without the things that hold me back.
Sundays are depressing because they are the time of the week where i realise i'm still not any further than i was 7 days ago. They make me feel like i need to rework my life, but leave me paralysed by my instinct to sit back and do nothing. I can't seem to start my actions on a sunday
Sundays are in the Judaeo-Christian calender the first day of the week, but also the seventh day.
Sundays are the beginning and the end.
Sundays are Sunne, the Germanic goddess of the sun. They are Rammstein.
Sundays are never in charge of starting the Gregorian calender.
Sundays are never hosts of the jewish new year.
Sundays are the cause of friday the 13th
Sundays are the Dies Panis, the sunday roast
They're the Sabbath, the Lord's day, the day of rest
They're the large newspapers,
Archers,
Gaelic Football and Hurling,
They're the Easter, Palm and Passion
They're the Trinity and Gaudete,
Laetare and Good Shepherd,
Sunday's are the glory of elves
But most of all they're Sundays.
Sunday, Bloody Sunday.
Sundays usually give me a feeling i should be doing something with my life. When i say something, i mean i should be being constructive, thinking about what i can do that will possibly help me further myself in life. I should be writing things, or reading things - gaining knowledge, finding things that i feel enough about to gain ideas and to start writing from. I should be doing my essay. I should be reading one of the many books i've bought but haven't opened. I should be doing a lot of things. I should be. But im not. I'm sat writing a pointless blog entry, watching Donnie Brasco, and smoking weed again.
Sundays are for relaxing. For sitting around watching repeats of the same progams you've seen during the week. For winding down and looking to the monday to come. For reflecting on the last week and seeing what you have achieved. And for looking to the next one for what you can improve. I could have these feelings on a Monday, a Tuesday, a Wednesday - but for some reason they only seem to come on a Sunday. I find it strange how i find myself in this paradox where i dont know whether to be relaxing or to be doing. To look, to speculate on what i should be doing drives me into this state where i feel like i need to do, but also feel like i should think about doing. I feel as if i should relax on the Sunday and let these niggiling feelings of shortfall wait untill the Monday - where i can start afresh, restructure my life so i can move forward without the things that hold me back.
Sundays are depressing because they are the time of the week where i realise i'm still not any further than i was 7 days ago. They make me feel like i need to rework my life, but leave me paralysed by my instinct to sit back and do nothing. I can't seem to start my actions on a sunday
Sundays are in the Judaeo-Christian calender the first day of the week, but also the seventh day.
Sundays are the beginning and the end.
Sundays are Sunne, the Germanic goddess of the sun. They are Rammstein.
Sundays are never in charge of starting the Gregorian calender.
Sundays are never hosts of the jewish new year.
Sundays are the cause of friday the 13th
Sundays are the Dies Panis, the sunday roast
They're the Sabbath, the Lord's day, the day of rest
They're the large newspapers,
Archers,
Gaelic Football and Hurling,
They're the Easter, Palm and Passion
They're the Trinity and Gaudete,
Laetare and Good Shepherd,
Sunday's are the glory of elves
But most of all they're Sundays.
Sunday, Bloody Sunday.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Emo Bloginity
I suppose you could say this is the loss of my bloginity - the first time i have ever used any kind of blogging tool on the internet. I still hate it, i still hate the idea of a "blog" - not only does it sound rediculous but is in most, Emo-style-i-hate-myself-and-the-world-around-me, type blog pages with people who are obviously so bad off that they have the internet, they have the time to sit online day after day editing countless amounts of pages about themselves; Photoshopping pictures into black n white to make themselves feel 'arty' or somehow good at photography. Any pose or pout at dutch-tilt, or close up cleevage shots of apparently 'self-hating', two-tone haired pre-teens with box-rimmed glasses, converse trainers in cartoon, and contricting drainpipe jeans that don't reach their ankles. Bringing together a culmination of the past and the present to make something not as good as either. I have questions to these people: If you hate yourself that much, why spend hours staring at pictures of yourself in adobe photoshop?
If your life is that bad, how about i take you to Afghanistan, or Iraq, strip you of the internet, and half your 'fashonable' clothing and see how you like your life then?
Agreed, the world is a bad place, but is crying about it online to hundreds of people going to help? Is using your computer, that uses electricity going to reduce your carbon footprint? A computer probably made by underpayed Tiwaneese breadwinners, that got paid a millionth of the price you pay for it, to put it together. Are your posts actually really doing anything to save the state of the world? Erm.NOPE.
Now i understand this might be highly hypocritical of me, moaning about a certain segment of peoples within the same bracket, using the same technology as me is just as bad, you might say. However i say these things in the belief of them to be true. Not so that people will think im 'cool'. And thats what annoys me about the 'emo' phenomenal. Making the tribulations, the heartache, the inconsistencies, the troubles of the world into a fashion. And in turn this has ultimately made these things to be revered. To be heartbroken, to be depressed, to be against the world is now a fashion statement, not a general exprience and feeling of the world. I guess to say people with these feelings coming together could be considered Emo. But the real crux of the matter is, we all feel these things at certain times, we are all human - we are all emotive, emotional beings. To make emotions into a fashion item, they become no longer something we posess, but a commodity bought up with the boxrimmed glasses and the drain pipe jeans. And this is what gets me...emo is self-centred - less self-hating it is more about self-love and people who revere their emotions in such a way that is out of reach of that of the rest of human civilisation. To hate the way the world works, the way the 'system' compartmentalises people is one thing. But to buy into a set of commodities created especially to promote these feelings is a hypocracy. To view these feelings through being emo is to compartmentalise yourself into a branding of emotion, of lived experience. Not only that, by saying "im Emo" is to put yourself on a level where you are saying that your lived emotional experience is something that people cannot reach, that people cannot posses. The term Emo places Emotion as a commodity to be bought up and to be adorned on the body or listened to in the bedroom, whereas emotion is something of all of us, it is something we each posess, and something we each have valid right to. In short, the whole EMO trend trivialises our view on emotions and lived experience - and therefore has placed up a barrier to say that those of us who are not 'Emo' don't feel the same about the world. No, we do. We just choose to express it differently. And i feel the whole label "i am emo" trivialises those of us who share or can connect with these feelings, and experiences of the world.
We may not look it, but inside we are really all emo.
If your life is that bad, how about i take you to Afghanistan, or Iraq, strip you of the internet, and half your 'fashonable' clothing and see how you like your life then?
Agreed, the world is a bad place, but is crying about it online to hundreds of people going to help? Is using your computer, that uses electricity going to reduce your carbon footprint? A computer probably made by underpayed Tiwaneese breadwinners, that got paid a millionth of the price you pay for it, to put it together. Are your posts actually really doing anything to save the state of the world? Erm.NOPE.
Now i understand this might be highly hypocritical of me, moaning about a certain segment of peoples within the same bracket, using the same technology as me is just as bad, you might say. However i say these things in the belief of them to be true. Not so that people will think im 'cool'. And thats what annoys me about the 'emo' phenomenal. Making the tribulations, the heartache, the inconsistencies, the troubles of the world into a fashion. And in turn this has ultimately made these things to be revered. To be heartbroken, to be depressed, to be against the world is now a fashion statement, not a general exprience and feeling of the world. I guess to say people with these feelings coming together could be considered Emo. But the real crux of the matter is, we all feel these things at certain times, we are all human - we are all emotive, emotional beings. To make emotions into a fashion item, they become no longer something we posess, but a commodity bought up with the boxrimmed glasses and the drain pipe jeans. And this is what gets me...emo is self-centred - less self-hating it is more about self-love and people who revere their emotions in such a way that is out of reach of that of the rest of human civilisation. To hate the way the world works, the way the 'system' compartmentalises people is one thing. But to buy into a set of commodities created especially to promote these feelings is a hypocracy. To view these feelings through being emo is to compartmentalise yourself into a branding of emotion, of lived experience. Not only that, by saying "im Emo" is to put yourself on a level where you are saying that your lived emotional experience is something that people cannot reach, that people cannot posses. The term Emo places Emotion as a commodity to be bought up and to be adorned on the body or listened to in the bedroom, whereas emotion is something of all of us, it is something we each posess, and something we each have valid right to. In short, the whole EMO trend trivialises our view on emotions and lived experience - and therefore has placed up a barrier to say that those of us who are not 'Emo' don't feel the same about the world. No, we do. We just choose to express it differently. And i feel the whole label "i am emo" trivialises those of us who share or can connect with these feelings, and experiences of the world.
We may not look it, but inside we are really all emo.
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