Word Thief.

I think I shall now call this The Lighthouse Effect. First, a brief explanation on the aforementioned "this".

The "this" is the feelings you get when you hear, smell, think or recall something in conversation. But for me, "this" is that overwhelming sensation that the world is stopping as you're remembering a specific moment in life, in a past life (not all that Karma past life, but a life you once had a few years ago when you were a different person). And this "This" (capitalisation seems to work better) is so completely painful and awful and bittersweet and tainted with a terrible nostalgia. 

The Lighthouse Effect comes from the fact the most vivid "This" is when I sort of noticed the pattern of the Effect happening, when I was listening to The Lighthouse by Interpol. And everything for me stopped. (I swear to God if they play that when I see them with Von Matterhorn I will cry and he will tell me to man up). 

But yes. I've been having that. I wish I had the sense like Nobuyoshi to take photographs of everything. Because some of those moments are completely and utterly beautiful (I'm sure they could be recreated to become some stunning footage) and I feel annoyed that they wont ever happen again. It's like mourning a memory (is that even possible? Is it even normal?). 

I am an awful person with too many issues with too simple a thing.

I was last weighed before the end of May. And then I got weighed 3 months later, and magically 4kg has appeared on me. I shall not stand for this. Cue food diary. 

I have a friend that was asking me about love today. And it got me thinking, a lot.

I know nothing of love. I am one of those people who can talk and talk but honestly, I have no idea what’s going on. He was being very ambiguous (yet passionate), and it made me realise, I have potentially missed out on the greatest part of being young. I have a year and 26 days until my youth is behind me (at least my teen years) and I have never, I do not think, been in love. And here is why I think that.

There have only ever been 2 great infatuations, shall we call them, in my life. One was a very good friend of mine, and it went on for about 3 or so years, where not much happened and I was something ridiculous like 14. In hindsight, it was simply a very long crush. The second infatuation, was the (only) boyfriend. It was a 9 month rollercoaster of complete lies and bollocks and what I thought at the time was love. Contemplating my cynicism, I’ve begun to wonder whether I can ever or will ever be able to call anything from my past Love.

The sad truth of the world is that all relationships must end. They can end because someone moved, someone changed, someone lied or someone died, but they still end. Only, if they end on bad terms, I begin to think negatively about them, so to as make myself “get over it”. And once that happens, the whole thing gets disregarded as pathetic, and the feelings ans “not real”, so that as time goes by, I begin to regard the whole thing as a farce and a little bit terrible. And all the while I am truly convinced that I am making my own destiny, and that I am choosing how to feel about everything and that I am coming out on top.

Except, I can’t know if that’s true. By reclassifying what feelings are to me, I am forgetting what I can call an honest, beautiful moment and turning into a lie. And as time goes by, the lie grows, and the relationship is more worse and more poetic as everyday goes by, and then I don’t know if I was ever in love, because those situations were lies, and the relationships were lies, and Love Cannot Be A Lie.

Maybe controlling your own destiny isn’t what it’s about. Maybe Love really is throwing yourself at the mercy of someone else’s mind and emotions and exposing yourself to the elements.

My God, I feel like Hamlet.

Life is strange. Okay, I know I don't get any awards for saying that, cause let's face it, we all know life is strange, but it really feels it right now. Today has been a day of waking up late and feeling funny (odd funny, not ha ha funny). I've just been thinking back to the not so long ago past and re-evaluating where I stand (some people would call this reminiscing but I think otherwise. It's self evaluation, and I think it's good for you - or me at least).

I've come to realise that I'm losing friends all over again, but this time I'm beyond giving a shit. The loss of Mr Third Party was always going to affect a really close knit friendship group, and I lost a lot of friends through that (it feels like yesterday, but it was two years ago, mad or what?). I'm still debating whether they could ever have been classed as friends. Are they meant to leave so suddenly after something goes wrong? But I'm straying from the point. I lost about 20 people I could talk to and hang out with in the space of 6 months. That sucked.

Now, I'm still losing people. And this time I like to think it's not all my fault. There is only so much you can try to be kind and loving to a person for them to continually humiliate and embarrass and belittle you. And now that I haven't spoken to them in a fair while, I don't miss them. I feel awful for admitting it, but I do not miss them. I am happier without them. I don't have the dread that the next time I see them it will be bloody awful and I'm just waiting to be the butt of some joke or insult they can say just to look great in front of everyone. There's only so much crap you can take from a person, no matter how much you love them and how long you've known them and how often they've been there for you. Cause they always find a way to turn it around for a new joke.

Fuck this shit. I am my own person. I can stay away from them. I can take time off.

I think I need to learn to fall in love with life again. I'm finding it so hard.

A few links I need for the essay. It'll be a corker, I promise.

Can 35 Million Book Buyers Be Wrong? Yes.
By Harold Bloom
http://wrt-brooke.syr.edu/courses/205.03/bloom.html

Writing does not belong on tumblr for me. It belongs on Blogger. Pictures belong on tumblr. Writing, misanthropy, and general cheer the fuck up you fuck belongs on here. Inspiration belongs on tumblr. Life belongs on Blogger.

Firstly, I know barely (if) anyone reads this blog. And quite frankly, I’m happy with that. I dislike it intensely when people write blogs about the innermost workings of their brain and what makes them tick and what rips their heart out, and advertises where this piece of writing can be found. Then you get every tom dick harry coming along and thinking a) you are one fucked up mofo, and b) they know everything. There is a bit of charm in mystery. I like mystery.

I used to have a friend who would get very angry at this whole mystery business. I only say he was a friend because since I’ve come to university, I’ve barely spoken nor seen him. I’m not surprised. We used to get on really well and I would be able to talk to him, but things just disappeared when the third party appeared. I believe life is such.

However, the element of mystery, it used to drive him insane. He never understood just why girls did it. Quite frankly, nor do I. But I do like the fact that I can walk around wherever it may be, even with my own flatmates or friends, and they have no clue what is really going on. I mean, there is all the normal, superficial rubbish, but the bits that really mean things. Thoughts, feelings, desires. Never let those be known.

It’s funny really, but I’ve only just started realising that I am a walking oxymoron. I come across as a person who’s life is pretty much out there, barely any secrets. But then, there are some things about me no one knows, that they think they do. Things I will never divulge. I like that. Because at the end of the day, no one knows me. It’s better that way, isn’t it?

You could always come back with, ah, but isn’t everyone like that? I think not. Some people are open books. They have a template. You can tap into that template. Some people are closed books. They are a room of smoke or fog or however you wish to see it. And some people are both.

Yell at me for being over simplistic, but I see people like I see working objects. I know they’re not, and they’re far more complicated and ridiculous and impulsive and, to be honest, pathetic, but it’s easier to think of them as a clockwork droid, where specific things literally make them tick, and some things stop them.

Moral of the story. I hate people.

Go figure.