Colour.

A quick revision of something I wrote years ago.

Blue. Green. Blue. Green. Blue?

Geoff's mind struggled to connect the two words. Blue. Blue, everywhere, up, down, just blue. Names narrowly escaped him in his concussed state. He desperately searched his still dormant cognitive functions for blue; no entries found. Dammit. That great azure beast still stared blankly, bluely, at him, mocking him with his very own questions. It reveled in it's inescapable mystique, to Geoff it was laughing maniacally. If the name wasn't so elusive he would've cursed violently, shaking his fist to the sky and- SKY. That word superimposed itself on Geoff's inner eye. That seemed to be it, a blue sky. Blue sky? A little ridiculous, but it'll do. Pride swelled in a chest still unable to properly breathe, and the deep blue seemed to retreat a bit, pouting in a corner of itself like an infant.

Satisfied in his discovery, Geoff regarded his still unknown surrounding, bar that smug entity above him, still unable to connect most of the words in his head. They flitted about, irritant butterflies waiting for the hothouse to heat up. Green. This one was easier. An invisible line already connected green with a thing called grass. Another pang of pride surged through a still failing chest. Geoff felt safer knowing the names of the objects that assaulted him from all angles. He had filled the two most important directions with knowledge, and that was enough for him for now. At that he proceeded to stand up, feeling enough strength in his extremities to attempt a more complex motion.

He was beaten down in the process of doing so by an altogether startling revelation. A new sensation, a new colour no less.

Brown. An unpleasant brown. Not that brown had any negative connotations at all in Geoff's head, he didn't understand enough yet to be able to associate brown with all the normal disgusting things normal people feel on a normal day. Brown. Moreover, brown and green. They spun about him, or rather, he spun in his confusion, and fell in shock. He hit the ground, assuming of course he'd gotten that one right, rather promptly. Blue, green, brown, blue, green, brown. This was a problem, if these continued to multiply there'd be a true catastrophe of cognition.

There was no more sky. Nothing. If green couldn't possibly be grass, then there was a sliver of a possibility that blue might be something completely unknown. Nothing was certain. Geoff was alone save these three horrible colours, the attached objects to which he could not recall.

At this point his unconscious caught up and pulled him back in.

As the furnaces of the hothouse in his head slowly lit up, words lit up here and there. His comprehension was somewhat in check since he had come to, just not the language required to create a reality for him. He was on the ground, surrounded by trees, covered in leaves. That was as far as he could manage.

Blue had been narrowed down to two options: the sky was still there, mingled with a chance of water. Though the exact name eluded him, Geoff cursed, shaking his fist to the whatever it was.

After careful deliberation, or as careful as he could be, Geoff concluded an experiment was entirely necessary to the understanding of his surroundings. He settled on a hypothesis. If, he theorised, water was that in his sights then surely he would be upside down, as he understood that water falls to the ground. Furthermore, if he was upside down then if he remained upright for any length of time blood would rush to his head and he would pass out again. It never occurred to Geoff that he couldn't be upside down, his selective understanding of basic physics didn't allow that. Of course Geoff didn't see this as he stood up, Geoff was clinically insane.

Phase 3: The Wind Down.

So begins the final phase as my end of year break nears completion. All the classic symptoms have started popping up all over the place. For example, I'm biting my fingers again. To some this is not of any concern. I, on the other hand, frequently cover my fingers in band-aids in an effort to stem any bleeding. It's only been recently that I've uncovered the root of my finger/fingernail biting problem, that being the stress I endure as a part of my formal education. A mandatory part, no less. Almost immediately as my unit 1+2 exams finished I ceased to gnaw at my digits like a squirrel with acute paranoia. On crack too, probably. It was nice; I actually got to clip my nails for once. That might seem trivial to someone without any deep-rooted anxiety issues which manifest themselves into unhealthy physical habits, but to someone of that particular persuasion it's quite the achievement, and since I've been tackling that problem for a number of years it's an achievement that I'm proud of. Explanations aside, the short space of time between now and the beginning of my final year of high school education is apparently just cause for this habit to revive itself in an apt but stretched autophagic-zombie analogy. But if I may perhaps delve a little deeper into this issue, there is a more complex catalyst to this problem of mine. We've already discussed the school-year-biting link, yet as it stands this would not seem enough to explain. Is the mere presence of school work and it's associated pressures sufficient? No, no it is not. Nae, it is not the work itself; the work isn't a problem in the slightest, I am the problem. I can pass all my subjects, I can get top-percentile marks (probably), but I can't satisfy my own need to excel. It seems I've cultivated some bizarre reflex to success that, even in the wake of a horde of praising teachers and peers, tells me I didn't do well enough. It also applies to any future project I might undertake, and this is where we come full circle, as I gnash and gnaw in fear of simply not being the best I can be.

Well, that's nice, isn't it? Nothing quite like a bit of introspective psychoanalysis to help me wind down before I turn in for the night. I plan to make my way to the bedchamber reasonably early, so as to normalise my sleeping patterns in anticipation of 7am starts, another symptom of the final phase of the summer break. Along with that last mad dash of homework. Under normal circumstances I too would be participating in this mad dash if it weren't that my load was lightened rather significantly just yesterday.

I received an e-mail last night informing me that I had been offered a place in Melbourne University's extension program. I was expecting the e-mail (confirmation or rejection) about a week ago, but who am I to complain? It was a beautiful moment; I exhaled rather heavily as I skimmed over the final sections of the e-mail. Studying linguistics, just by the way. I'm completing the first year of university linguistics as two extension subjects, each a semester long. It'll be fucking ace. Bringing this ramble back to the school's coming vibe, this means I do not have to complete my English Language homework for school. During discussion with the head of senior school about the program and my application we concluded it would be beneficial, and logical, if I were to only study four VCE subjects on the condition that I was accepted into the course. I've already completed Biology 3+4, so it wasn't an issue for me to only study four subjects as opposed to the normal five for year 12 at my school. Thus I chose to drop English Language as I've chosen English as well (and one English is mandatory). The homework for this subject was gargantuan. Probably. I'm exaggerating a little. Regardless, with that weight off my shoulders I have only to write 500 words for French and collect 20 examples on a theme for Drama. No sweat. I can get that done in a few hours.

Now I have more time to trawl through StumbleUpon and play Neverwinter Nights 2. A small victory on my part.

Epiphanous really should be a word.

An adjective, more specifically.

So that's why I didn't post in my blog for 15 months: I always look back on what I write and think "who's this moron? Oh it's me, great." When really I should be thinking "those are interesting thoughts that I'm really glad I recorded." That'd be great if I could be happy with anything I write, or at least some of the tripe that bursts out of my fingers. I don't think that what I write is absolute drivel, but it could always do with a little editing and refining. So why am I so reluctant to refine any of it? Well I'll tell you introspective voice: I can't be expected to progress if I can't see myself in retrospect. It's important to be able to remember your roots.

Unless you're Jennifer Lopez. Seriously, you're not still 'Jenny from the block', you're a fracking pop-movie-whatever-star.

One day I'll look back and think and reflect on how I've changed. I think it will be nice to think that, and in thinking this my other thinkings are/will have been justified. What a nice thought.

A badly phrase rant about horrible things to get me through the night.

Tumblr is ridiculous. No, let me rephrase that: the people on Tumblr are ridiculous. They make me feel something that can only be adequately described with an obscene amount of 'fuck's. And I do mean obscene. Like, the type of number you find in astrophysics. The length in years of the current astronomical decade, let's say. Plus the next. The first problem I have with the users of Tumblr is their obsession and simultaneous debasement of hipster culture. Of course the modern hipster is quite evolved from their beatnik and hippie roots, but the number of 'ironic' posts on the matter of triangles and 'indie kids' is perhaps just a little infuriating. Even worse, you can feel that tiny grain of sincerity that emerges from sarcastic comments such as "I'm so indie" and "Does this triangle make me hipster?" You can tell in the way they say "don't tell your Facebook friends about Tumblr" like they're in some kind of secret club, and "that's not what Tumblr is for". People should just grow up. Quit ansgting.

I had so much angry stuff to pontificate on but forgot it all in the shower while singing Gotta Knock A Little Harder at the top of my lungs, higher even than that maybe. Why am I wearing a shirt? It makes no sense. I should get as naked as I can right now. Oh right, this computer is next to the kitchen. Not in my room anymore, gotcha.

I remembere now! I had vague plans to write about my brother. A perfect source of rage. I am the perfect storm and he is the sudden drop in pressure. I'll tear this house apart if he doesn't move out soon. Mum's stopped washing his clothes in protest. Dad's threatened to put a lock on his room while he's out and move all his stuff onto the curb. I'd offer to help but I have to live with him for the meantime. I had the perfect metaphor to explain him. Better than that storm bullshit I threw up a few lines back.

Slowly, in the past year, since my brother finished his VCE (which he did terrible on, just by the by) he has slowly become the very description of the worst housemate ever. EVER. I do not exaggerate. I wouldn't move in with him if he begged me to and claimed that his landlord was threatening to take his thumbs. I'd even buy the thumbs.

He's always been a bit of a wanker, he did all that older brother stuff that older brothers tend to do. Up until last year I habitually flinched whenever I walked past him in the hall, and I still have self-image issues from his taunting and name-calling when I was in primary school. I tried to like him as a brother, I really did. I didn't do too well on that front. He just a little bit stupid. He can't think about other people.

Just today I went into his room on one of my regular trips to recover all the stuff he nicks from mine: albums, Gameboy cartridges, underwear. Yes, even underwear. Worse still he sometimes lends my stuff to other people: to this day I only have one of the three discs from the Black Books DVD set I got for Christmas once. He's like an internet pirate, but in real life. So... a pirate. No, a thief. I wouldn't mind if he was a pirate; he'd still take my stuff but he'd do it with flair. He's 19 for fuck's sake, he should stop acting like he's 12.

He did terrible in VCE, back in the days of ENTER (2 years ago) he got a 54, give or take. Obviously, he didn't get into the course he wanted, and since then he's worked very little, despite the fact that he's been the job he currently has for over 3 years. You'd think he could get a few more hours. And because he's worked very little he has so much more time to do fuck all. He goes out all night, sleeps all day, and comes home at three in the morning and plays dubstep very loudly. It's very disruptive for everybody. He doesn't even let anyone know where he's going or when he'll be back, then he complains when we don't leave the doors unlocked because we didn't know when he'd be back and assumed it'd the next day. He's a fuckwit. A real cunt. Furthermore, he refuses to pay board on the grounds that... fair enough, he has no reason. He can still cover himself in tattoos and go clubbing every night though.

Recently everyone else was on holiday. It was just me and him in the house. He had about a week home alone before I got back. The first thing I did was go shopping; there was no proper food in the house, which was a fucking mess by the way. Oh, and I went shopping with my own money. Then he ate all my noodles. Then I asked him to go shopping to return the favour. He said he would, he even wrote up a little list. Then he went out to do what I presumed was purchasing groceries. He came back 5 hours later with nothing. He said he couldn't be bothered. I inadvertently spent good money on him, and he didn't return the favour because he's a lazy idiot. THEN he took the spare key which we leave outside just in case someone needs to get in the house when no one is there, so I had to climb in a window every time I got home. It was nice when everyone else got back and he had to start watching himself again.

He just does remarkably stupid things.

I don't have any other big things. Dammit.

Only small, petty things. He puts music on really loud in his room then opens the door and goes outside. Who the fuck does that? Seriously. Fuckwits, that's who.

Well I'm done bitching.

Everyone's gone to bed, so I can get mostly naked now.

SCORE.

Mark 5:9

This is totally mindless drivel. I love it. It makes me feel warm and gooey inside.

Whence the morning came, and lights
Shadows on the blood-stained boards
Cast shadows on the mournings, and flies
In the midst, flee back to your lords!
My legion sleeps, my name does keep
Many a sorrow forgotten at the door
But fly forth! Rise up, let fly yourself!
And on the worldly facets gnaw
Chase the morning back to dark
Deformity sleeps, hide such marks

Two's a problem, three marks madness
A crowd reveals a broken mind
As a flood of water may leave but a mouse
And all left behind in the one head's-house
If none shall hear the tainted tale
Such words are rendered useless
If none shall endeavour to give ease to thine ails
Leave normality, leave them clueless
Never alone shall you be
In all the loneliest places, and places to be
Surrounded with saturating insanity
Surrounded and alone in the crowd
This is whence your mourning came

Well that was interesting.

I made a blog because I was angry. I posted once.

A solid year of good moods ensued. This shit really works. Maybe this short post will keep me from stabbing my brother in his sleep.

Maybe.

That's frightening. I was not that verbose in 2009. Clearly some manner of evil something or other was in possession of my faculties. Oh well. Here's a poem. I tried writing something nice but it turned into something about arson.

Twenty-five fires struck ablaze to your eyes

A never ending cavalcade of flickers hypnotise

Twenty-eight lives burnt out tonight

A million tiny smiles in the corner of your eye

Burning slits

And violent fits

The venerable hell

A hundred

Tiny enemies

Flee from that awful smell

Twenty-five fires struck ablaze to your heart

The ashes of your kith and kin torn open, apart