Day 25: Still nothing

Again I've gone almost a whole day and not typed anything in this big, blank box in the back end of blogger.
Oh I've written today, yes, I wrote on the train on the way home, but by its very nature the result is a somewhat rambling stream of consciousness, so I'll spare you that.
I realise that in defaulting to these short, consolatory posts at the very last minute of each day I am actually enabling my own insecurities, and masterminding my own staying-small.
There are some incredible topics in my list, feminism, for one, past lives, humour, etc, but by scrabbling together these afterthoughts of the day fewer than 30 minutes before the deadline I can only be selling myself short, surely?
Big, meaty topics such as feminism, such as "What's the point of Twitter?" should excite me, and as things I am so passionate about in day-to-day life they do, but as topics to write about, they are in fact quite terrifying. These more serious subjects, for want of a better word, paralyse me, for fear of writing the "wrong" thing.
For the same reason that I never used to write on the front page of a notebook, messing up is one thing, but in plain view of the internet, of your friends and harshest critics alike, is an entirely different kettle of fish.
Perhaps I am subconsciously avoiding my first massively negative response and maybe even keeping myself small in the process. This idea that my time-constrained brain keeps circling, that as more anxious humans we keep ourselves small, is something I've begun to recognise a lot in different aspects of my life and I've realised it plays out literally, figuratively, and both physically and mentally, to different degrees.
But that is no way to live.
So, in the spirit of growth, let's try the alternative and start saying what needs to be said, writing that which, as a writer, cannot go unwritten.

Well, maybe tomorrow.

I'll keep you posted. X

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Day 24: That Friday feeling

So it keeps happening that I find myself in the pub on a Friday night not having written anything as the clock approaches Midnight.
Again I remind myself that this challenge was never designed to impede on other experiences but rather enhance them, but at the same time I am beyond glad that this sense of duty and of not breaking this pattern is now instilled in me, and also that I have the kind of people around me who will understand as I turn my attention to my phone for 5 - 10 minutes as I fulfill said creative obligation.
For all my moaning, this forcing myself to write is proving to be the making of me, and I honestly hope that when these 40-or-so days are up that I can continue on this somewhat infectious wave of momentum because honestly, it's really damn fulfilling.
And now, back to the pub.

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Day 23: "Some people are heroes. And some people jot down notes."

And some people, sir, do both.

It was tempting today to simply offer a quotation from the master, Terry Pratchett, as a mark of respect, but even without the impossible nature of narrowing it down to a single string of words, I can't help but feel that would be less a tribute, more a disservice to his remarkable talent and capacity for conjuring, and furthermore a slight against his immeasurable inspiration.
I've always loved Terry Pratchett's writing and it must be said that as a judgement of character, a liking for his work in others has served me well thus far.
The sarcasm, the gentle cynicism, the humour, the reality. That unfathomable ability to paint with mere words such vivid and all-encompassing pictures, scenes, thoughts and feelings that it becomes hard to imagine you are anywhere else other than in fact inside his head. Instead, this entire world is being etched on the inside of yours, like gazing up in to a vast, vivid planetarium of light and colour and the kinds of characters no actual human being could ever hope to do justice to, writing in this fantasy world, this reality of his conjuring, so marvellous, so vividly depicted, and so grounded in observations of society as a whole that often it becomes hard to imagine that those 4 elephants and that giant turtle aren't in existence somewhere in the great beyond. That place where the falling angel meets the rising ape.
Just yesterday I read this piece from Tim Minchin about the talent of others and those incredible, glorious sentences and phrases that as a writer elicit that most frustrating of desires, to have got there first. If I'm honest, that is what Terry Pratchett's work is to me. All of it. Even now I re-read sentences of his and while delighting in the beauty and sheer sorcery of his words, still mourn the fact that that particular alchemy of language will never be mine. That ability to so accurately and poetically depict thoughts, feelings, situations so as to elicit actual unconscious nods in a reader, those knowing smiles, smirks of confirmation, that laugh of recognition. Such is, was, his talent for spearing the human condition, capturing the fallible, imperfect beings that we all are so perfectly and so knowingly: that is what I aspire to.
The master himself wrote that "Dark sarcasm should be taught in schools," and all I can do is agree. Terry Pratchett's legacy offers up that particular blend of honesty, cynicism and charm that prepares you most adequately for the world as it really is: baffling, mystical, and when you're really lucky, as glorious as it is ridiculous.

RIP sir, and thank you.



"I knew the two of you would get on like a house on fire. Screams, flames, people running for safety."

"Rincewind could scream* for mercy in nineteen different languages, and just scream in another forty-four. (*This is important. Inexperienced travelers might think that "Argh!" is universal, but in Betrobi it means 'highly enjoyable' and in Howondaland it means, variously, 'Your wife is a big hippo,' and 'Hello, thinks Mr.Purple Cat.' One particular tribe has a fearsome reputation for cruelty merely because prisoners appear, to them, to be shouting 'Quick! Extra boiling oil!')"

"Vimes' glare ran from face to face, causing most of the squad to do an immediate impression of the Floorboard and Ceiling Inspectors Synchronised Observation Team."

"The camel looked along its nose at Teppic. It's expression made it clear that of all of the riders in all of the world it would least like to ride it, he was right at the top of the list. However, camels look like that at everyone. Camels have a very democratic approach to the human race. They hate every member of it, without making any distinctions for rank or creed."

"It didn't look like the kind of snow that whispers down gently in the pit of the night and in the morning turns the landscape into a glittering wonderland of uncommon and ethereal beauty. It looked like the kind of snow that intends to make the world as bloody cold as possible."

"It was quite impossible to describe.

Here is what it looked like.

It looked like a piano sounds shortly after being dropped down a well. It tasted yellow, and it felt Paisley. It smelled like the total eclipse of the moon."

"Oh, them as makes the endings, don't get them."

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Day 21: Ever wanted to just switch off your brain?

Set yourself a challenge to write every day for 40 days, there's nothing quite like it.

A day without a writing direction, without any kind of useful inspiration, and just starting to type 8 minutes before a new day.

Make that 7.

And now 4.

I need to write something, anything, but my brain is having none of it.
In 3 minutes I will press publish on whatever sits on the screen in front of me, the cursor blinking expectantly, impatiently, the overwhelming sensation of "Is that it?"
Today, it is.

1 minute to go and I still have nothing to say, nothing to make of an entire day, except the increasing heaviness of my eyelids and the feeling of any kind of creativity quietly seeping out in to the atmosphere around me, starving these very fingertips of any kind of inspiration whatsoever.

0

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Day 10: Ampersands

I love ampersands.

I can't remember my first encounter with them but they were always this odd, intricate, grown-up looking thing that clearly required a PhD and an overly mature outlook on life to be able to conjure.
Now I've reached the age where friends are stockpiling letters after their names it has become apparent that these things can be mutually exclusive. Phew.

I can however remember owning a pair of ampersand earrings at some point during my last 2 years of school. I can also recall that one went missing, which in hindsight offers up a rather poetic summation of a lot of feelings of general hopelessness at the time and a fear of what the future may hold:
& nothing

They are poetic looking.
Indicative of forward motion both grammatically and physically, their very formation on the page guides you skilfully towards the pregnant blank space where the next word should be, gently nudging you onward in one fluid motion.

I love ampersands so much I intend to have one tattooed somewhere about my person at some point. My only issue is deciding where. When this was suggested as a topic I bargained with myself that I would book an appointment to coincide with the writing of this post, to try and hurry along the decision, but alas. Perhaps before the end of this challenge.

I like the anticipation, the expectation of an ampersand. I like the implied & what? What else? What if? What next? The ampersand implies more, implies bigger and perhaps better, but it also implies inclusion, acceptance and togetherness and all in all, that is a pretty good summary of what I want, and hope to achieve, for myself.

Me, myself & I

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Day 9: A New Film That Has Come Out

I have not seen 50 Shades of Grey.
This somewhat negates my discussion of it in relation to the title of this post, but only somewhat.
But we'll get to that.

From what I have read however, the books are really not well-written, which alone is a more than good enough reason not to bankroll it in my eyes, let alone its questionable morals and inaccurate and frankly dangerous portrayal of a relationship that while labelled BDSM actually has all the hallmarks of abuse.
But each to their own.

Many other people have written far more eloquently and authoritatively on the subject than I ever could, but my worry is the now seemingly inextricable link, in the eyes of the general public at least, between the 50 shades hype circus and a surge in an increasingly more mainstream acknowledgement and recognition of female sexuality.

Women enjoy sex.

Have done for years. It's not actually a secret.

Traditionally however, the conversation about women and sex hasn't even been presented for discussion.

So passive was (is?) the role bestowed upon us by the powers-that-be, that women have been branded not sexual simply by omission.

When the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy first began capturing the hearts, minds and wallets of an increasing number of women, (and men) the media at large became the archetypal giggling, shaming schoolboy, condemning so-called frustrated housewives, and pretty much coming right out and laughing at actual, human women for exploring the idea of sexuality and sex and having the gall to do it fairly openly.

 Man, or at least the archetypal male gaze, is catered to with Page Three, openly in national press, on a daily basis. Masses of women dare to seek out, behind the cover of a book no-less, a part of themselves that they have previously been almost actively dissuaded from considering, and the media suddenly seeks to shame and embarrass these perpetrators 'on principle'

 Women feeling freer and more able to embrace their innate sexuality, whatever and however much or indeed little of it there may be, is a certified Good Thing.

I just wish, really, truly wish, that it had been a different, better book as catalyst.

aaaaaaaand now to hark back to the actual title, as promised.

 A new film that has come out that really impressed me was Rocks That Bleed. It's a short film about two brothers, and the rest I will leave you to find out, but trust me when I say that that is part of the beauty of it. The, in this case, curiously hopeful sensation of 'something' is tangible right from the opening sequence, and it is this 'something' this unspoken other that slowly creeps from possibility to realisation as the film progresses, nudging pieces of the puzzle in your direction in an increasingly foreboding and rather beautifully calculated way.

Masterful.

Oh, and also featuring a topless, sweaty Jack Howard. If you're in to that sort of thing.

Which I might be.

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Day 8: Strangers on a Train

There's a guy sat opposite me on the tube, writing in a notebook.

Another one.

I was about to be doing exactly the same thing, but now I don't feel I can.

It might feel like I'm copying. Almost as if when I chose to store my notebook in my bag along with my new writing pen, as I do every day, that I was somehow eavesdropping on this man's thoughts so as to engineer this exact moment of tandem scribbling.

I'm actually quite frustrated because it's 20 to 11 and yet again I need to have written more than I have, or, let's be honest, written.

I intended to utilise this time on the tube to full effect, scribble away to my heart's content, maybe fulfil some romantic notion akin to that which I unsuccessfully tried to pin on my previous tandem train scribbler. AKA my soulmate.

But now, those plans have been scuppered.

Instead, here I sit typing frantically on my phone, which let's be honest simply is not as impressive, or anywhere near as romantic. I mean, I could be texting.

Oh god, I just looked up and there was eye contact.

I now really want to get out my notebook to prove to him definitively that we are kindred spirits, but it's been an awkwardly long time to now suddenly produce a notebook.

I wonder what he's writing.

I mean, people probably assume I'm messaging, or typing a to-do list.

A really freaking long to-do list.

Maybe I look the forgetful type.

Or just really organised.

No, can't be that.

With a notebook and pen there is an assumed gravitas and profundity afforded to that which you scribble.

You've deemed it important enough to mark indelibly on something ergo it must be inspirational/esoteric/really bloody special.

Oh no, he's getting off. And not with me. Just the train. More's the pity.

No wait. The notebook is back open.

Does he know I'm writing, like he is writing?

He must do.

We are kindred after all.

I'm sorry maths man from day 5, it's not you, it's well, this rather beautiful gentleman scribbler currently sat opposite me. Soz.

Wait, he's getting off at my stop. Lord.

False alarm. He simply retired his notebook.

I think he may also have noticed me very nearly miss my stop as I frantically stabbed my thumbs at my phone, the Morse code of "You're writing, I'm writing, you're very attractive" practically boring through my screen.

Maybe he'll write about it.

Maybe Tandem Scribblers could be a new dating service.

Instead of swiping left or right on an uninspiring selection of badly-lit group photos you each write 50-100 words on a subject and vet the results.
The modern-day equivalent of surreptitiously peering over-the-shoulder at the notebook of your future beloved.

Sigh.

And you could use the geotargeting to potentially match with sexy tandem scribblers you happen upon in day-to-day life.
I mean, obviously it's too late for me and the Central Line scribbler, (Note to self: think of a nickname that makes him sound less like a serial killer... or underground-based sex offender) but perhaps it is my destiny to help write the happy endings of other single scribblers across the land.

How poetic.


Tl:dr Don't sexy, creative men get your creative juices flowing. Phwoar.

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Day 7.

1 week.

I've blogged 7 times in the past week and the experience has been all manner of things: enlightening, draining, really rather tricky.

1 day.

Today.

Today has been, well, a day. Let's leave it at that.

Again I find myself the wrong side of 10pm with words spilling from my fingertips and I start to wonder what it is I'm putting off by not writing things sooner.

The prospect of coming home and haphazardly piecing together the remaining scraps of brain power in pursuit of anything other than what was most easily accessible in my head made my limbs twitch with a heavy, restless unease, so for the sake of my mental health I have postponed today's topic and decided to just write.

I say just.

Every fibre of my being wants to curl up, switch off the light, start again at daybreak. Even as we speak I'm more horizontal than vertical, and with every jump for the outer edges of QWERTY and YUIOP I can feel myself slipping further towards sleep.

If I'm honest, there's no just about it.

When you've placed this expectation on yourself and you have no choice but to deliver, it has this potential to be really, really draining, or at least I think so.

Some people learn to thrive on this feeling; I must have been ill that day.

The whole point of this challenge was to force myself to write, to create, but most importantly, to finish.

There's an apt quotation from prolific wordsmith Scroobius Pip that perfectly illustrates the rut in to which I had so cosily settled.

"These kids love being writers, more than they love writing." - Let 'Em Come

I had become a theoretical writer.

I told people I wrote, I freely volunteered this as a Thing That I Love Doing to friends and strangers alike, but one cannot escape the fact that I just wasn't.

I tried though.

I attempted to justify my pause for creative breath with the meaningless assertion that I could if I wanted to and then simply proceeded not to.

Genius.

I say creative breath, but for me, writing almost doesn't feel creative, especially this stream of consciousness that is essentially the handwritten equivalent of a massive emotional clear-out.

I've said it before, but I write like others tidy, with the express intention of making this space which I inhabit 24 hours a day at least vaguely liveable. Often it works.

When you say creative I picture brush strokes, colour, sound, light; an abstract quality inherent in others, in people labelled as such either by themselves, their role, or society.

I would hesitate to describe myself as a creative person, but I know not why.

Even in my day-to-day, my everyday, my job, I am finding myself gravitating towards the more 'creative' tasks and making my mark on them to boot.

I've often challenged myself that I wouldn't be able to be 'creative' to task, every day, and on given orders.

I've rather spoiled my own argument.

Maybe when the non-creative becomes as draining as you envisaged the creative would be, it's time to swap the passive everyday for the deliberate every day.

Perhaps it's time I embraced my creativity; made a stand for what I apparently believe in, even if I don't quite know or understand it yet.

My name's Abi and I am a creative person.

There, I said it.
And I've not died from the conceited smugness of it all. Yet.

Perhaps it was all in my head.

Perhaps I'm subconsciously keeping myself small.

Perhaps my error has been in not entertaining the idea that creativity manifests itself in a myriad different ways in every single person.

So yes, writing every day is taking its toll, but 1 week down I can admit to feeling a little chuffed and just the teensiest bit proud of myself.

It's just writing, but I've just got on with it, and just let myself create.

Perhaps in 33-or-so days time I will have a clearer understanding of my creative self, this other that I have so far kept separate from my day-to-day, and maybe, just maybe it will get easier.

Maybe I will finally start to reconcile the pressure of everyday with the pressure of every day.

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Day 6: Why I love music

It seems fitting that I should get in from orchestra and have to write a post about why I love music.
Maybe one of these 40 days I will have planned in advance and not be frantically writing at gone 11pm...
Maybe I should revisit a topic a week for 40 weeks once Lent is over, give some of them their due diligence. Might need a break first mind.
I really do though, you know.
Love music.
I know yesterday I was all about the train journeys, but you know trains, they come and go.
My love of music is for life.
It's strange because for years and years I thought I wasn't any good at it (and I still don't, but in case it wasn't abundantly clear already, that's just me) and then I found people I really and truly enjoyed doing it with, and everything sort of fell in to place.
(And if that's not a metaphor fit for any occasion I don't know what is)
Music for me is an escape. That feeling of unity you get playing as an ensemble, that sensation of togetherness that perches, contented and reassuring, on the outer periphery of your consciousness as you play your part in this literal symphony of sound and emotion and humanity.
Admittedly, some rehearsals feel the exact opposite of that. When you're in the midst of a cacophony of distracted brains and tired limbs it can feel the exact opposite of life-affirming, but that's all part of it. That tireless pursuit of the next eureka moment where everything just clicks. (And toots and parps and whatever onomatopoeic word exists for stringed instruments)
Credit where credit is due, this love must be at least in part due to desk partners I have known. Three of my best friends have all started out as desk partners, or at the very least have done their stint, although the fact they have stuck around probably says more about them than it does me. (Tough luck Ed, there's no escape now...)
It's true to say that musicians are a different breed.
I love hearing how people have come to play the instruments they now play, the journey they have been on and where, what and why they have continued playing.
I love that on Monday nights I now congregate in a church in the shadow of St.Paul's cathedral with people that I now see more often than my own parents, who are in my life purely because of a shared love of, and desire to play, music.
I love that on Monday nights you park secondary labels at the door, student, accountant, marketer, architect, and for those few hours we are all simply, musician.
I love listening to music and I love witnessing people with headphones on so overwhelmed by what they're hearing that that joy fights to express itself, feet tapping, fingers drumming, heads nodding, lips mouthing, powerless to resist as the sheer energy of the music forces itself in to physical existence.
I love what music has given me, the people, the places, the experiences, and I love that an appreciation of music of all kinds colours my life.
Because without music, well, it's all just shades of grey. And no-one wants that.

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Heart-felt

A little something I penned under the brief of: Heart.

Take Heart

I write from the heart.

I take things to heart.

I’ve experienced things that have broken my heart, but I still continue to put my heart and soul in to the things I love. 

In short: my heart has a lot to answer for.

The heart is a mystical phenomenon charged with making the most important of decisions, and leading us in to battle against even our own heads. People in difficulty are told to take heart, have a heart; look inside their hearts. That’s an awful lot of responsibility for one organ, let alone its actual, literal job of pumping blood around our bodies. I mean, I can confidently say the liver isn’t pulling its weight in the field of abstract thought processes, and as for the pancreas? Don’t even get me started.

The heart has become a poetic device; a metaphor for love, and for life. The heart assumes the form of a childhood friend; someone that has known you so long they appear to know you better than you know yourself. Of course the heart is deeply embedded in the physical human form, but it also seems to have taken on the same transcendental qualities of the soul. Like a heart itself in transplant, the heart’s abstract form is taken as being separate from our other thought processes, and blamed for inopportune emotions and feelings in our otherwise autonomous bodies.

How dare we.

Our hearts provide us with life itself, yet we continue to place excess demands upon them, and expect of them, in ways that, should they manifest literally against our own actual selves, would constitute both physical and emotional abuse. The heart is in a constant state of providing, and true to human form, all we want is more. We are all familiar with resting our weary heads, but the heart silently soldiers on, through every long, arduous day, and dark, cold night without even so much as a tea break, let alone a thank you.

So next time you become aware of the pulsing beneath your skin, of the very lifeblood that courses through your veins, take the time to appreciate where it’s coming from, and just have a little heart.

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Misogyny Rules!

In light of the closure of UniLad, here's an article I wrote for the esteemed people at Exposed Magazine about how to treat the fairer sex...

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Paddon Award Entry

This is my entry to the Paddon Award, in association with the University of Exeter, under the brief "Your Exeter, Your University."
Edit: I wasn't shortlisted, but I'm still proud of the piece, and still feel very strongly about the brief, and Exeter itself, so please keep reading it.

My Exeter, My University, My Home

“Oh Exeter, is wonderful.”

At first it seems strange that what was introduced to me as a fiercely proud football chant should so acutely and accurately sum up my feelings towards this outstanding institution, especially as an avid avoider of almost all things sporting, but then it occurs to me how much my eyes, mind and heart have been opened to so many new experiences in my time here, and it almost seems fitting.

On an entirely superficial level the sheer, breath-taking beauty of both campus and the surrounding city inspire me on an almost daily basis, but the true impact of such accessible splendour runs far deeper. The seamless, constant harmony of pastures new, and old stomping grounds; the constant revolution of new souls, new prospects, and entire futures, with the University a hub of innovation and creativity that stands proudly above the skyline; a beacon of past, present and future in perfect equilibrium. Even on the greyest of Devon days this most extraordinary of places shimmers with possibility, and the constant hum of innovation and progression can always be heard, if you just take the time to stop and listen.

The notion of taking an institution to your heart, of feeling like you belong, seems at best a superficial one, but I can honestly say that Exeter and its essence of strength now pulse through my veins. As the Exe ebbs and flows, so university life meanders through highs, lows and extremes of existence, but the constant comfort of inevitable tidal regularity and stability, like that of the pillar of strength and celebrated creativity that is this institution, even in the darkest of times shines the light of guidance and reassurance in to all corners of life, perhaps most notably as a string of lights in the shape of a Christmas tree atop the physics building during the festive season.

The life-blood of regeneration undulates throughout this city, but it never seeks to wash away those people and things that it has already encountered. I know that I will always feel welcome here, as those who have already moved on do, and that in the inevitable story of my life, the chapter marked Exeter will be a full and vibrant one. That said, should the opportunity to plant roots here present itself, I shall be the first with wellies on, pitchfork in one hand, needle and thread in the other, ready to weave my story in to the tapestry of Exeter life.

Within this, the most communal and supportive of settings, I have been able to spread my proverbial wings, find my feet, and fulfil an entire plethora of clichés, all associated with starting the next stage of life after flying the nest. Clichés would not become clichéd if they weren’t true, in the same way that the intense passion and fondness for the University displayed by Exeter students and its alumni can of course be found within the pages of a prospectus, but also eavesdropped from a passing candid conversation, or gleaned from the proud declaration of the institution’s title across a myriad of colourfully-hooded chests.

Exeter has become a home to me, and while in the business of spouting the occasional cliché, I refuse to reduce everything that this university and this city means to me to a flippant, recycled utterance, or even so much as try. My connections to this place and its people are intensely personal, despite their resonance with the experiences of so many others, and it is this plurality of experience that makes it all the more special. To some, Exeter may simply be a point on a map, or just a choice of university, but for me, this is my Exeter, my university, and now my home.

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Words!

So it's been far too long since I wrote anything on here, even if I have been writing in other places. (Promise!)

Here's something I re-discovered today, and subsequently re-wrote which no longer has a specific home to go to, so I thought I would set it free to let it graze upon the pastures of your minds.

Fresh-Faced

As clichéd as it may be; we were all young once. Your first year at University can be a massive learning curve, and for me, the new influx of freshers just reminds me of how lucky I am to not be one anymore! Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely adored being a fresher, and all the challenges, new friends, and questionably legal mixtures of alcohol it threw at me, but having been at a university for that much longer you naturally become more comfortable in your surroundings, and can concentrate on other things besides staking your claim and asserting your independence.

Think back to your first year at University (assuming you’re not currently in it) and think of all the incredible, but also incredibly ridiculous things you encountered. (Maybe keep that thing to yourself)Who am I to try and deny these shiny, new undergraduates all these incredible experiences? It stands to reason that almost all of us, at one point in our university lives, have been that one person in a group of friends who has slightly overestimated the amount of alcohol our perhaps questionably nourished, and sleep-deprived bodies can handle, and subsequently behaved in a manner not entirely in-keeping with the standards to which we hold ourselves in our day-to-day lives: it happens. If it had never happened to me, there would be significantly fewer embarrassing memories for me to suppress, and my closest friends would be unable to relish in reciting the story of my drunken offer of First Aid to a poor, unsuspecting boy, just minding his own business sat on the pavement. (Don’t ask) It is this exploration of limits, and extremes of behaviour that ultimately help shape the person you become for not only the rest of your time at university, but also the person you will someday be out in the big, bad real world.

Finding friends who I know will be there for me at my most sober, and most “wobbly”, has in itself, also brought me the very same people who will support me through both those extremes emotionally, and has helped me find people who will undoubtedly be part of my life for the rest of my days, even if not necessarily physically.

For me, personally, as I’ve aged through university (I would use the word mature, but the two are most definitely mutually exclusive) and I think for others too, priorities have changed. I’ve never been a massive fan of going out to clubs, although it invariably has its place, but as someone nearing the end of their degree it has become more socially acceptable to stay in, drink wine, play board games, drink gin, and find that 4am is the perfect time to end a pseudo-philosophical discussion about music with the unanswerable cry of “Yeah, well, your mum likes Wagner.” (The dead, German one)

So, fellow non-first years; we should not pine, or judge, but instead continue to make our own fun and leave freshers to their own discoveries with perhaps the odd steadying hand should you encounter any particularly intoxicated ones. Someone said to me recently that as an older student I cut a Yoda-like figure in amongst the haze of ’11 leavers’ hoodies, and that’s the kind of distinguished, refined notion I think we should all strive to adhere to.

So until the next time, which I promise will be as soon as I've got my 8,000 word deadline out of the way, I bid you adieu. :)

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The right to write.

So a month or so ago I entered a writing competition, and considering I decided to do so about an hour before the deadline, I'm pretty pleased with what came out. As this is the case, I thought I'd share it with you. :)

Sticks and stones won’t break my bones, but words and actions haunt me.

We are born with this wonderful fleshy armour that is designed to protect us from disease and damage, but the holes in our head which let in the light and sound are the only chinks our enemies need.

We are often told that the brain is like a sponge, and that long-since taught facts and figures can be found second shelf to the left, next to Aunty Glenda’s birthday, but no-one talks about the dark, dimly-lit corner where the bad memories lurk, with the long held on to grudges, and the jibes from “heated discussions.”
Some people’s dark corners are bigger than the average. Some people have entire dark sections, just down those stairs that no-one really likes the look of, and the local children terrify each other with myths and stories of what lies at the bottom. In the basement of our thoughts, insults and jibes cling to the walls like damp; taking on a viscous, tar-like feeling, coating every one of our thoughts and actions and tinging everyday life with their damning effects.

Words are magical and wonderful, but when put in the wrong hands they can maim and destroy. Some people grow out of being bullied, but think of those children that don’t. Those children that dwell in the basement of life, sunlight never feeling quite as warm as it does to others, because they aren’t worthy of the simplest pleasures, or at least have been told it often enough that they believe it.

“Don’t leave children to fester in basements” seems like an obvious imperative, but figuratively, every child, every person, deserves the right to believe in themselves enough to climb those stairs and breathe in the sweet, fresh air of their own identity, so if you encounter someone in need, take the time to shine a light in their direction, and maybe even offer a hand to start them on their uphill struggle, and know that by the time they reach the surface you will have quite possibly saved their life.

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