It feels like a bit of a mess at the moment. Any thoughts on how I could make it more clear and compacted would be greatly appreciated.
♫ Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne? ♫
Most people will tell you that there’s nothing worse than losing someone you love and care for. Those people probably weren’t told they were going to lose them the night before it happened. Maybe it’s the feeling of sheer hopelessness, that there is absolutely nothing you can do, and you just sit there not knowing what to feel.
Once the reality of the situation is realised, whether it be ten minutes or ten years, we are forced to make a decision.
Should old friends be forgotten?
Or should we protect and preserve what remains of them, our memories…
But surely if you do not clutch the past tightly to your chest you could end up leaving this life empty handed?
Mum did always say I was pedantic…
So here I am, the typecast melancholy teenager who sits and listens to songs written in a minor key, brooding over the “pain” and the “hurt” that I’ve suffered. Among the few things I know for certain, is that there will be a song, a melody, a single line that can sum up my thoughts of a whole day in roughly three minutes.
Why bother attempting to articulate your thoughts when someone has already done it for you?
Music is not the language of the lazy, but more the language of the practical. Yes. That sounds a lot better…
♫ Remember the days of the old school yard,
We used to laugh a lot ♫
It was the hottest day of the year. Mrs. Elwood had eventually given up on the maths lesson and told us to talk amongst ourselves until her headache passed. Every eye in the room was glaring at the clock, whose second hand seemed to be moving slower and slower, as if to taunt the exhausted children. With five minutes to go, I turned to Tristan.
“Do you think they’ll turn the hose on again?” My question seemed to startle him as he wiped a bead of sweat creeping down over his eyebrow.
“I doubt it, with the drought on the news and all,” he replied, clearing his face once again. Sighs of relief went up around the classroom as the familiar clang of the bell sounded, signalling the start of lunch. After trudging down the three flights of stairs and onto the steaming asphalt, I heard shouts of excitement come from across the playground. Our principal, Ms. Nuttle, was standing on top of the silver seats, towering over the masses of schoolchildren who stood before her. The hose in her right hand suddenly came to life and, like an agitated snake, thrashed about before being contained by the middle aged woman. Tristan and I raced across the school yard, now seemingly unaware of the blistering heat beating down on us. I shot him a look of ‘I told you so’ as we reached the crowd, weaving in and out of the younger children to make it to the front. The first drops of moisture splashed all over my face, washing away the sticky sweat from underneath my eyes. We had been cleansed, refreshed of the unbearable summer heat. Tristan had made his way to the front, sporting his usual ear to ear grin, unable to contain his excitement. Taking a step back, I looked around the frenzied crowd, the laughing mass of children frolicking in the artificial rain shower. And I think to myself:
♫ What a wonderful world! ♫
♫And all I see on my CD shelves
Are the pieces of me that probably need help…♫
To an outsider, my bedroom would seem to resemble the living space of a mad man. The four walls that enclose me are plagued with photographs and newspaper articles. It was beginning to look more like a detective’s office than a teenager’s bedroom. They were OK with the photos and the articles up there, but when the Post-It notes started they felt the need to seek help. I don’t really know why but I seem to find comfort in being able to match the perfect verse or even just the perfect line to a photograph, a memory.
I was clutching the past so tightly to my chest that I didn’t even care about the present, let alone have time to embrace it. Some people spend their whole lives searching for their purpose, their significance in this world. I have been lucky enough to have found it right away. But I often wonder about what happens next? What am I supposed to do when these walls can no longer hold the weight of all this paper? Or more importantly, what am I supposed to do when I can no longer hold the weight of all this emotion?
The answer to that, I think, is scrawled upon a small, yellow piece of paper that has been stuck to the wall above my bed.
♫ I never made promises lightly
And there have been some that I've broken.
But I swear in the days still left
We will walk in fields of gold ♫
♫ Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne? ♫
Most people will tell you that there’s nothing worse than losing someone you love and care for. Those people probably weren’t told they were going to lose them the night before it happened. Maybe it’s the feeling of sheer hopelessness, that there is absolutely nothing you can do, and you just sit there not knowing what to feel.
Once the reality of the situation is realised, whether it be ten minutes or ten years, we are forced to make a decision.
Should old friends be forgotten?
Or should we protect and preserve what remains of them, our memories…
“You can clutch the past so tightly to your chest that it leaves your arms too full to embrace the present.”
But surely if you do not clutch the past tightly to your chest you could end up leaving this life empty handed?
Mum did always say I was pedantic…
So here I am, the typecast melancholy teenager who sits and listens to songs written in a minor key, brooding over the “pain” and the “hurt” that I’ve suffered. Among the few things I know for certain, is that there will be a song, a melody, a single line that can sum up my thoughts of a whole day in roughly three minutes.
Why bother attempting to articulate your thoughts when someone has already done it for you?
Music is not the language of the lazy, but more the language of the practical. Yes. That sounds a lot better…
♫ Remember the days of the old school yard,
We used to laugh a lot ♫
It was the hottest day of the year. Mrs. Elwood had eventually given up on the maths lesson and told us to talk amongst ourselves until her headache passed. Every eye in the room was glaring at the clock, whose second hand seemed to be moving slower and slower, as if to taunt the exhausted children. With five minutes to go, I turned to Tristan.
“Do you think they’ll turn the hose on again?” My question seemed to startle him as he wiped a bead of sweat creeping down over his eyebrow.
“I doubt it, with the drought on the news and all,” he replied, clearing his face once again. Sighs of relief went up around the classroom as the familiar clang of the bell sounded, signalling the start of lunch. After trudging down the three flights of stairs and onto the steaming asphalt, I heard shouts of excitement come from across the playground. Our principal, Ms. Nuttle, was standing on top of the silver seats, towering over the masses of schoolchildren who stood before her. The hose in her right hand suddenly came to life and, like an agitated snake, thrashed about before being contained by the middle aged woman. Tristan and I raced across the school yard, now seemingly unaware of the blistering heat beating down on us. I shot him a look of ‘I told you so’ as we reached the crowd, weaving in and out of the younger children to make it to the front. The first drops of moisture splashed all over my face, washing away the sticky sweat from underneath my eyes. We had been cleansed, refreshed of the unbearable summer heat. Tristan had made his way to the front, sporting his usual ear to ear grin, unable to contain his excitement. Taking a step back, I looked around the frenzied crowd, the laughing mass of children frolicking in the artificial rain shower. And I think to myself:
♫ What a wonderful world! ♫
♫And all I see on my CD shelves
Are the pieces of me that probably need help…♫
To an outsider, my bedroom would seem to resemble the living space of a mad man. The four walls that enclose me are plagued with photographs and newspaper articles. It was beginning to look more like a detective’s office than a teenager’s bedroom. They were OK with the photos and the articles up there, but when the Post-It notes started they felt the need to seek help. I don’t really know why but I seem to find comfort in being able to match the perfect verse or even just the perfect line to a photograph, a memory.
I was clutching the past so tightly to my chest that I didn’t even care about the present, let alone have time to embrace it. Some people spend their whole lives searching for their purpose, their significance in this world. I have been lucky enough to have found it right away. But I often wonder about what happens next? What am I supposed to do when these walls can no longer hold the weight of all this paper? Or more importantly, what am I supposed to do when I can no longer hold the weight of all this emotion?
The answer to that, I think, is scrawled upon a small, yellow piece of paper that has been stuck to the wall above my bed.
♫ I never made promises lightly
And there have been some that I've broken.
But I swear in the days still left
We will walk in fields of gold ♫