Life in a blog

This was meant to be an assignement for a course I'm taking at university, but due to my inability to shut up and limit myself to 300 words (which - let's face it - is nearly impossible) it turned into something I spent far too much time on and I love too much to just click the "delete" button.

I am mentally and physically exhausted.

Sarah looked around before rushing up the stairs that led to Calton Hill, making sure no one had followed her. Not being able to resist she decided to run up the hill. The mere thought of that beautiful view pushed her to sprint the last bit, as if someone was chasing her.
“Three, two, one…”
And there it was.
The wind blew violently in her face, making her eyes tear up immediately, causing her vision to blur. She stood there for a few minutes, not quite knowing where to go or what to do next. It never occurred to her to think about it. When she left home her first instinct was to go to Calton Hill. Now it seems like it might not have been the smartest idea, rushing up Calton Hill alone, in the middle of the night. She didn’t even bring a jumper.
But despite the strong wind and the light drizzle, Sarah didn’t feel cold. Maybe it was the magic of that place, the way she felt safe up here that put an imaginary blanket around her. Maybe it was just the haste of her departure, the shock still sitting so deep in her bones that she couldn’t think quite clearly.
She looked up the Nelson monument, still not knowing where to go. She looked to her right; maybe a quick walk down Regent Walk would calm her down? But Calton Hill was deserted and the Walk looked creepier than ever.
Better not risk it, she thought.
She stumbled towards the National Monument; the darkness made it even more difficult to walk on the uneven grass. She climbed up, like she had seen oh so many tourists do, and stood up.
The view was simply breathtaking. The ocean to the left and Arthur’s Seat to her right; like a queen reigning over the pretty dame that was Edinburgh, always reminding every citizen that this is not just another posh city in Europe, that this had not been built to please tourists. No, this is Edinburgh, this is Scotland.
She decided to sit down, after all she hadn’t eaten all day and her legs started to feel a bit wobbly. She stretched one arm towards the cold stone, not looking where exactly she was placing it and suddenly she found herself with a red rose in her left hand.
How odd, she thought, and looked at the rose.
How odd that just at the moment that she thought of –

A silent giggle came and went with the wind.

Sarah looked around, instantly alarmed. Had she been followed? Is someone watching her? Just as she was about to dismiss the thought she heard it again. It was almost as if… the wind was ridiculing her! But clearly, that can’t be, right? It was probably just some strange bird or a fox or something…

She looked at the rose again.
She tried to listen more carefully for any more strange noises.
But nothing happened.
“Strange” She said to herself.
“What, if ye dae mind me askin, is so strange? An why on earth is a wee lassie like yersel oot here at this late oor?”
Sarah froze on the spot. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t speak but most of all she couldn’t take her eyes off the image in front of her.
“You…”
The ghost looked at her, a big grin on his face.
“You…”
“Ach go on then, ah ken thit ye ken ma name!”
She looked at the rose again.
“My love is like a red, red rose…”
“…That’s newly sprung in June; o my luve’s like a melody that’s sweetly play’d in tune. So the red rose wisna a bad idea then?”
“Robert Burns!”
“Aye, that’s the name I famously go by. Rabbie Burns, Caledonia’s own bard. They always used tae say “Poetry for the smaw fowk? A fermer writin aboot a moose? Incredible!” But leuk at me nou, ma bonnie lass, who’s lauchin nou? I juist wish thae bastarts wis alive tae see it!”
Sarah was still completely startled.
“So… what, do you do this every night? Just appear out of nowhere and scare people?”
“Heivens no! But it wis rather funny, yir face.” Robert sat next to her on the stone, a cheeky smile on his face. He knew that Sarah was still trying to figure out what was going on.
“So… I take it ye want tae become a writer?”
“How do you know that?”
“Ah, Robert Burns has got his means”
She fell dead silent.
“I allou masel tae take that as a yes. May I ask why ye chuise sicna paith?”
“I don’t know… It just always felt natural to me.” She still couldn’t believe that she was talking to a ghost. Robert Burns’s ghost!
“Aye… But I maun wairn ye, ma wee lass, the life of a writer is a dour, if not even a dramatic ane” He looked to Arthur’s Seat. It never failed to remind him of his beautiful land.
“Ye ken… mony a time hiv I looked oot the windae, desperately trying tae feenish a poem and mony a time I sat thare for oors and oors, till the sun disappeared ahint the hills an the caunles went oot. Writing isna just a job, it’s not just whit ye do, it’s whit ye are! If ye’re not certain o it, dinna go intae it.” He fell silent again.
For a while they just sat there, looking out into the dark. Having a ghost sit next to her wasn’t what made this situation surreal for Sarah. It was the scenery.
Far off the city noise, this seemed like a whole different world.
Sarah hesitated before speaking again.
“How… can I be sure?”
“Well…” He moved a bit closer to her.
“Dae ye see thit hill?” He pointed at Arthur’s Seat.
“Yeah?”
“When I look at it, I feel prood tae be Scots, ah feel inspired, ah feel like thare is nae ither sicht I would want tae wake up tae more. When I look at it, it mynds me o the hielands, o the borders an awthing atween. When I look at it, wirds stairt tae form in ma heid, ma haund seeks ah pen, ma fingers stairt tae muive aboot.”
She looked at Arthur’s Seat again, scanning it from top to bottom. That’s the first time she realised how huge it actually is.
“So… An ah say this wi aw my hert: When ye look at it, what do ye feel? If ye feel naething then aey, this isna the place for you. But if ye feel something…”

The next morning Sarah woke up in her own bed, window half open and curtains shut. Had this really just been a dream?
But there it was, right next to her.
Pen, paper, and that red, red rose.

Darkness is something amazing.

It gives you so much room. Room to feel, to expand. To grow. It's like infinite space.
Darkness is the one thing that probably makes me feel more awake than anything else.
It makes my brain work in a different manner it does during daytime.
I enjoy darkness so much, I sometimes wonder if I'm a bit weird like that.
I could sit in the dark for hours.
Actually, that's what I do, most of my evenings.
Like now.
V for Vendetta is on at BBC3 but I've seen it so many times that I've turned the volume off and watched youtube videos of Dúné instead.

This post is being written by me right now (which on my clock, is 22:48pm), right here on the blog.co.uk website.
I never do that.

Usually I write in word and then just copy it.
On the spot writing.

Someone should do that as an event. Open to the public. Just sit down and write. A bit like an exam, but without rules. Everything goes. As long as it's words.
I like that idea.

I'm trying to find an interesting and well-written quote about darkness to post here, but all I get is negativity. Darkness as an undesirable state of mind or soul, as the thing to avoid and where one hides all those filthy secrets and dark traits of the own soul.
I think darkness is a very desirable state!
Maybe not darkness itself, but the act of feeling comfortable in it. And please don't get me wrong here, I am not using darkness as a metaphor, but merely using it for what it was intended for - to describe the lack of light.
And that is not at all a bad thing - in darkness, my eyes can finally open up fully, without having to avoid that irritating direct light, I can relax, I can let go of everything and let my spirits and thoughts flow and fly. In darkness they are free to go wherever they want to go. There is nothing holding them back.

Whereas some might see darkness as a space where they can discover what they think is naturally abnormal and wrong, I merely see it as an opportunity to reach out just that bit more than usual. Go further. Think outside the box.

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
-Percy Bysshe Shelley

Not exaclty the quote I was looking for, but I think it's a very sweet one.

I think I'm gonna delete the first few entries on life.in.a.blog
They just don't belong here anymore. And I really don't feel like it's useful to me or anyone else in any way.
The writing's bad, the content's irrelevant and to be honest - I just don't want it on here anymore.
This blog, next to Leaving New York City, has grown so much since I first created it. It's grown in a way I never thought would be possible.
However small or improvised my posts on here are, I always feel like every post has something to say, a message, or even just a certain mood and feeling about it.

The first entries just don't have that.
Fair enough - this was never meant to be what it became, and it quite fulfilled the empty purpose it had in the beginning.
But now I just feel like it's dragging the whole thing down.
Like that one CD you bought long time ago that was okay at the time but doesn't have anything to do with your taste in music nowadays.
Or that dress you thought looked cute but never ended up wearing cause it just never felt right.

Yeah... Some posts will have to go.

I need to write.

Blah blah blah.
Write write write.

It’s my life.

Ramble on.

What do I have to say?
Nothing.

But just the clicking of the keyboard, the feeling of my fingers on the keys...
It’s what I want to make a living of.

Life. Love. Hate. Money. Love. Life.
Music.
Art.
Friends.
Love?
Not physical love. Not boyfriend love.
World love.
I love you, world.
I love you, sun.
I love you, rain.
I love you, inspiration.
I love you, cat.

Ramble on.

Life.
Good?
Sometimes.
One word sentences.
Space.
Think.
Air.

I like this.
Writing.
Without beginning.
Without end.
Well...
Is this the end?
The end is the end.
The beginning is up there.

Words.
Letters.
The Alphapet.
A
B
C
D
E
F
G
H
I
J
K
L
M
N
O
P
Q
R
S
T
U
V
W
X
Y
Z

It’s all there. The very essence of every single word in the world. 26.
Twenty-six.
That’s it.

That’s all I need.
That’s all I need for rants, love letters, complaints and confessions.
All there.

26.
Twenty-six.

I’m miserable. Right now, I am very miserable.
But it’s not just me. Or you. It’s the whole country. And you feel it, too. When you’re walking down the street, looking in stranger’s faces. You know they are miserable.

Money. Love. Hate. Work.

No matter how much we try to laugh it away, deep down we know that we are miserable. And it’s not just the unpaid mortgage or the electricity bill...
It’s life, too.

We all need a bailout. We all need to bail ourselves out. The government won’t do it. Whenever a bank is in trouble the common man has to face unnecessary charges for complete bullshit, just so that the billions and billions they owe slowly decrease. Whenever a city decides to invest in a unrealistic and just plain stupid project it’s our money they take if all of a sudden the bill doubles.

But what about us?

Money. Love. Hate. Work.

We need an emotional bailout too. Money worries are the worst, but as soon as you see the light at the end of the long black tunnel, does it get better? No. Sometimes it’s even worse. Too much stress slowly kills us inside. If it’s not the money we’re worried about, it’s people. A fight you had with a friend, a guy that doesn’t call back, a family member struggling with their own problems.

So will this ever end? How can we pay our emotional debts without forgetting the real ones? It’s either or. Either you stop living and pay or you live and fuck up.
Either way, we’re still miserable.

-I feel sick for no reason (no, I’m not pregnant)
-I don’t know if I should put my Manolos on Ebay cause I never wear them anyway
-I have to pay £600 by the end of this week. Right now my balance is £7.03
-My cat keeps eating plastic even though I repeadetly told her not to
-Work annoys me
-I still can’t handle money
-Watching Chéri yesterday broke my heart
-I’m starting to get my hopes up again – unnecessarily
-My cat has an attention problem
-I have no idea how we’re gonna clean this flat until Sunday
-I have a massive wound at the back of my right foot that doesn’t cooperate with shoes
-My dad is slowly dying of cancer

Where have all the good times gone?

Hey guys!

I just wanted to let you know that I've just launched my new blog today... It's called Leaving New York City and it pretty much contains my life since June last year. It's very personal stuff and it's very dear to me so I'd be very very very happy if you checked it out! You can find it on:

http://leavingnewyorkcity.blog.co.uk

and here's a little preview and introduction to it all:

Leaving New York City

Welcome. To my deepest secrets, feelings, happenings, lovers, haters and generally everything I went through in the past year. A year ago in June, I started writing things down. No dark random entries in my little black book, no short stories that I keep to myself, no articles about my views on society, no, it wasn’t like anything I’ve written before.
I can’t precisely remember why I started to write. But I remember making a drink at the coffee shop and suddenly having this idea, this title. „Leaving New York City“.
I have various theories why I chose this title for my collection of texts but they all came after I chose it. You could say that this title doesn’t have any meaning or sense at all, and you might be right. But to me, it just sounded right.

A couple of months ago I spilled water over my laptop and I was facing the possibility of losing everything I had on my MacBook. Everything, including this. I couldn’t bear the idea of having lost almost a year’s writing and that’s what made me realise that I have to put this out there somehow. Not just because it’s safer out there than in here, but I feel that as an aspiring writer I have to get used to the idea of people reading what I put on paper or screen. And I have to be comfortable with it.

This „book“ contains so much. But most of all, it contains nothing but the truth. I can guarantee you right here and right now that there is not even one single lie in here. But I came to the decision that I can not be responsible for putting other people’s truths out there as well and I don’t want to get anyone involved in some kind of trouble or embarassement. So I have decided to change all the names. However, I’m sure you’ll know when I meant you.

And one last thing... please don’t get angry at me for what I wrote. I have thought well about anything I put online and LNYC started a year ago so you know that my views and behaviours might have changed. Believe me, it’s hard enough to cut my mind and soul in little pieces and present them all on one huge platter.
I hope you will appreciate my honesty, be entertained or moved or motivated to think about certain matters and maybe even start putting your own personal truths out there.
Long live the freedom of speech.

Yours truly,
Antonia Landi

I have waited a long time to write this blog. Not because I wouldn’t know what to write in it, I pretty much had this all in my head for a long time now. No, it’s more because I needed the right time to write this. The right mood. The right feeling. Well now here it is. I know it might hurt some people but I don’t care. As an aspiring writer I feel it is my duty to express myself, especially on subjects as blogging and writing per se.
So I was reading through one of my friends’ blogs.

There are several kinds of writing out there. I told you before and I’ll tell you again. There’s shallow, useless writing. There’s political writing, that kind that makes you want to start a movement. There’s personal writing.
This is about shallow writing. Empty writing. The kind of writing that puts me in this mood. Useless writing. You read it and it doesn’t do anything for you. Guess what, „writer“, I don’t want to know what you ate yesterday and what tv show you saw after that, even if it might sound so fucking interesting to you. Nobody wants to know that. If you want to put something out there for your friends, at least give them something they don’t have to pretentd to like. You can talk about your day alright, as long as you come to some kind of conclusion. What does it help me if I know in which kind of evening activity you joined in? Was I there? No. So I couldn’t recall any good memories from it. All I have is your mediocre English and a writing style that makes me want to bring up my breakfast – which was Rise Krispies, if you're interested in any way.
Some people really shouldn’t write things. And if they really have to, the world would be a much happier place if they did it in secret. Go buy yourself a diary with a little cute lock on it. Cause that’s where that shit belongs. Locked up, between oh so cute puppie heads and little hearts.

I guess writing is such a normal activity that anybody can claim to be able to do it.
Putting words after another, easy.
Writing a formal letter when needed, okay.
Expressing your thoughts in a manner that engages the reader? Not so much.

Some people really shouldn’t write.

I just came back from the cinema – as I happen to do quite often lately. Anyway, today, after a much too long time of waiting, my friends and me finally saw Slumdog Millionaire, which now attracts even more people due to their immense success at this year’s Academy Awards. Of course, after reading so much about this movie, I did have quite high expectations. But most of all, I relied on the opinion of my friends – all saying that this is THE movie to watch, that you really live with the characters through their whole turbulent lives and so on. So Danny Boyle must’ve done something right, right?
Shortly after the Oscar celebrations I read a tiny article in the beloved Metro about Danny Boyle’s father not being as enthusiastic as the rest of the world, or so it seems. He said the film was decent but that his son could’ve done better.
Now, personally, for me, the movie was good. I can say with confidence that it is a good movie. However it could’ve been better. Due to the film being set all around that Who Wants To Be A Millionaire show, it is split up in several fragments. Although it doesn’t make you loose the trail of their story, I don’t think it allows any deeper connection for the spectator to make with the characters. A whole bunch of fragments in this movie are very real, almost too real. I very much appreciate the director’s sincerity when it comes down to portraying the Indian slums, and I think everybody should see that the world put on screen is real, that there are still millions of children whose faith that truly is. However, I don’t think the whole prison scene should’ve needed the realism it had. For all the sadness that is already in this movie, for all the poor children and murderers, I think we would’ve understood ourselves the graveness of that prison, even without the beating, the drowning and the electro shocks.

So what exactly did it lack? Maybe it needed a bit less fake realism and a little more bollywood, for, however tragic the history of India might be, that’s what kept them alive, and that’s how those people really are. A little more colour in those settings covered by dust and dirt, a little more happiness in those children’s faces, and even if it was only because somebody escaped for once.

All in all this is a good movie. If you want to watch it, go. If you don’t necessarily need to watch it, don’t. I was curious, I wanted to know what the hype was about and now I know. Or I don’t know, for that matter. But whatever way you look at it, Slumdog Millionaire is an exceptional movie – exceptional because for once, a major motion picture, a blockbuster, a multiple award winning movie, did not shy back from the reality that’s out there and maybe, even if it’s just one single person out there, it did make an impact on someone.

I went to a punk concert yesterday. Or at least I thought I did.
I’m gonna be quite frank with this. I can’t and won’t talk around it and I’m really the last person to censor my own thoughts.

So it was Anti-Flag. Thanks to a friend of mine, I was on the guestlist. She sorta knows the band. The three of us arrived in Glasgow and it was rainy and windy. Obviously. We arrived at the venue and that’s the first time this thought came to my mind. What the fuck happened? I was scanning the crowd again, looking for a sign that I’m really at the right venue cause after all, at a Rise Against and Anti-Flag concert you would expect some punks, right? I really really hate to say this but I just have to, even though I’ve been called names all my life and I hated it. Emos. A lot of them. Is this a punk concert? I don’t know.

But as soon as the band came on stage all my worries were forgotten. This was the real Anti-Flag, the ones that make me feel incredibly strong, yes almost invincible, they make me feel like I can achieve anything if I just do something. Number 2 had one of his speeches near the end of the set and I must admit it really touched me. I know, the words were the same, the paroles were the same, I’ve heard it all before; but seeing him stand on that stage and say it, scream it out loud, made me believe in all of this again. It made me think about a lot of stuff, it made me re-think stuff as well, but most of all, it made me believe that there are still people out there who DO make a difference.

And then the after show party. You know, I’m really the last one allowed to point fingers at people, but after building up a certain picture of your idol in your mind, it’s hard to see it destroyed in front of your eyes. Of course they are all human. Of course. They are humans with very strong beliefs, or at least that’s how I think of them. Girls? A lot of girls? Alcohol? Was this still the punk band I used to know? I don’t know.

We live in a world where veganism and straight edge are the new punk. But what happened to the old punk? The ones that go on the street, and not only to protest against Kentucky Fried fucking Chicken? Yes, the environment is important, it has always been, but what about us? The ones that won’t quiet down just because society tells them to do so? What about the people who refuse to count material things as valuable? Where are the spikes, the mohawks, the leather jackets, the doc martens? I don’t know.

Davey destroyed the punk scene?
It’s already destroyed.

After all of that, after writing this down even if I’m still not sure if it’s the right thing to do, to put it out there; after listening to Die For The Government, which is in my opinion one of the best records AF ever made, if not THE best, after thinking a lot, thinking about how people change, why they change and if it is possible to change so much after living a life of such strong beliefs, I tell you:

This is not about or for Anti-Flag.
This is for you, Miriam and Lovisa.

Cause I know, that despite of what I’ve seen yesterday, there are still people out there that tell you to fuck police brutality and that wars will never be over unless we unite ourselves and destroy all borders. Cause after all, how can we act in unison when we don’t even know anymore what unites us? One people, one struggle.

In the words of Chris Nr 2 and Anti-Flag, who I still admire and love:
If tomorrow you hear somebody say something racist, sexist or homophobic, speak out loud, stand up for yourself, because you know that we will back you up.
We are not alone. And together we will fight until the world we live in is a better place for everyone.

LOVE. PEACE. UNITY.