Well, well, well. Two days in and I can already see this is going to take over my life, in much the same way HTV and Facebook have. Oh, dear.
Today has been my first day off since Tuesday, which doesn't sound too bad until I share the joy that is my 11 days in a row to come. Which, aside from total lack of sleep, needles me for various reasons:
- For 8 of those 11, I am not getting paid. True story.
- I will have very little time to watch the mountain of DVD's which appear to be breeding on my bedroom floor.
- I will miss Jen on la radio :(
- I will not have time to write anything more than flash poems and random one liners. And I have much to type up and share.
Anyway, annoyance aside, I've had quite a nice day, pub lunch with my family to celebrate my mother's birthday, relaxed afternoon with a nap and family viewing of Only Fools and Horses on GOLD+1 (how Sunday's should be) and I even managed to get a wee bit of my work on cardiac rhythms done. Now debating whether to go to the pub and risk a hangover for work in the morning, or stay in and watch the new series of Kingdom. I also have a hankering to watch some Russell Howard and giggle/swoon my evening away. Oh, decisions, decisions.
Here for you all is a snippet of something I was working on whilst burning my pasty frame on holiday. It's already been posted on HTV, but I am rather proud of it, even if I do say so myself. Feast your eyes xx
The sea was thunder grey. This pleased her. She'd never really been one for blue waters and bluer skies. They held too much hope, too much false relaxation. People could not see that they has merely suspended their troubles with expensive foreign beaches and hot suns, not escaped them. The woes and tribulations would still be there upon their return, waiting on the welcome mat, bound nicely in brown windowed envelopes. No, the thankless cold and grey suited her nicely, thank you very much. You knew where you stood with perpetual winter.
The pier was long and worn. Doubtlessly pristine in its heydey, the weathered wood now splintered sadly, its whitewashed exterior barely concealing the rot underneath.
Signs swung desolately in the harsh wind, having long given up attempting to entice the youth of the town to sample the wares within. Flashing neon lights and dancing machines had superseded seaside cream teas and one penny slots; the pride of the town had been left to decay. It seemed that just one strong gust of wind and it would shatter, float on the sea, a thousand forgotten pieces cast into oblivion.
What a wonderful idea.
It wasn't that she was a bad person. She had been respected, revered. She'd had friends and family and morality and purity. How quickly things change.
She reached the end of the long timber walkway quickly. The edge of the world. Here, she could see for miles the same vast, hopeless expanse, and it warmed her. It pleased her to know that emptiness was not treading the realms of the insane; it was here, clear and obvious for all to see.
The gentle, deafening roar of the water as it crashed against the metal construct below her two feet filled her ears. She reminisced on that morning, standing under a cascade of lukewarm water, hoping the force of the water would cleanse her charcoal soul. The nostalgia threatened to overwhelm her as she tried to grasp at that elusive emotion one last time - hope. But it sprinted away, giggling softly at her pitiful form as it left her.
Her bare feet rose to meet the bottom rung of the dilapidated railings surrounding her. Don't climb, they seemed to wheeze with age as she descended upon them. We cannot take the weight, we are weary.
She ignored their pleas. She did not care for the feelings of others. At least, that's what she'd been told.
She released her hands, stretching them outwards, and the bleak breeze caught her hair. The long, golden strands flew out behind her, woven strands of sunlight illuminating the concrete sky. She was flying; this was her freedom. Ironic, she thought, how freedom can so easily be juxtaposed with finality. Yet, for all of her freedom, she felt nothing; no joy, no fear. The increase of the thudding in her chest was merely down to the speed with which she'd reached her destination.
She was morally bereft. She had no right to feel.
Placing her hands back to grip the railings in front of her, she sighed as the wind subsided. She could not cry, not muster one lonesome tear to solidify her fate and make it somehow tangible. It was as if she'd seen it coming from the very beginning; from the moment we are born, we are slowly dying. It made sense, then, that as the introduction of his touch had brought her to life, so the withdrawal of it should end her living.