something witty and erudite will appear here eventually
I like to travel to remote places and linger in secluded woods and forgotten glades. I sit quietly by glittering streams beneath willowy boughs and hope against hope to catch a glimpse of a dryad or a nymph, the sort the ancient Greeks were so familiar with.
I know it’s foolish, but if you can’t hope for something a little magical existing in the world, what’s the point?
Sometimes I put flowers on forgotten graves and chat with names carved in stone about nothing in particular, just genial chatter, like birds chirruping in spinney woods when they’ve nothing else to do.
I don’t know them and they never knew me, but I figure someone has to remember.
Sometimes you stumble across works of pure genius quite by accident, today this was it.
Sums up the whole emo/elitist scene rather nicely I think.
Yesterday I hurt my friend and said the words they had to hear.
Today, was scalded for giving aid where none was sought.
Tomorrow I hope we can forgive ourselves.
I have a dream that I’m a soldier. It is not a dream of sleep however, but a waking dream, a fancy to occupy those idle moments in the day when you’re not really there, drifting in the shallows of your imagination.
I dream of leaden skies and rusted armour, a broken charge and a notched blade. The end draws on with the night as standards fall and walls tumble. There’s no hope, no line of retreat, only a desperate struggle on the steps of some forgotten citadel, an ignoble death from an arrow in the dark.
It’s supposed to be a dream of heroic sacrifice, of such things are dreams of valour made, but I can never quite abandon the truth, the dark fact at the centre of a beguiling fiction. There is no glory, no valour, only desperation and last-ditch measures, a clamorous noise and sweat and blood and pain.
Yet still I try to dream of valour and unbending courage, it seems so much simpler.
Because sometimes it’s nice to be an internet trend-whore.
For the next week or so I’m going to be uploading the little bits and pieces that I scribble down in the notebook I tend to carry with me. These scribblings have always been a private thing for my own amusement so don’t be too surprised if they come across as being a little odd as there’s no great weight of thought behind them, they’re very much ‘of the moment’ and soon get washed away by some other fancy.
Anyway, now that you know that, there’s some new pictures in the galleries, which is exciting, and this
which is more so. After all, everyone loves a little bit of Imogen Heap.
Oh, and I’m on Facebook these days people, I need all the friends I can get 
It’s always said that you should write about what you know, but what I know is intermittent depression and rescinded dreams. What I know is repressed emotions and a fear of hurting people by being who I am, a childish fear, yet true.
It’s ironic that so many people wear masks to hide themselves away and yet the mask that I choose to wear is myself. The person whom my friends think they know so well is a conceit to hide what lies beneath, how very apposite that I should no longer know who that is. But then, who wants to read about that?
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