Wednesday, 18 July 2012

Lyrics To Live Your Life To

I believe the music people listen to can tell you a lot about them, who they are, who they want to be, who they perceive their self as or who they think others perceive them as. In particular, the lyrics show a lot of characteristics and traits. They may have been written by someone else, but lyrics resonate with people, reaching out to them through shared experiences and emotions. These are just some of my favourite lyrics. There’s probably a lot more that I like, I just can’t remember them all right now. I’m not sure what all of them say about me, so take from them what you will.

This is the anthem for a dying breed

Caught up to realise that I’ve been left behind

Holding on to promises and trusting a few

Tell me how to feel like we did when we were young

We were the kings and queens of promise

These lessons that we learned here have only just begun

Time to give them what they’re waiting for


We’re just trying to find some colour in this black and white world

We are lovers lost in space

She had the most amazing smile

You never got to heaven but you got real close

I’m the option you shouldn’t have chosen

Life’s a bitch but I’m friends with her sister

I smile at all my enemies; I lead a life of positivity

I’m married to the music, for better or for worse

I believe in the finer things and you don’t believe in me

We are just the sinners, we’re condemned to death

You can’t edit me

You won’t get better than me

You were fake, I was great – nothing personal

The taste of your lips says we shouldn’t have met like this

Long live the reckless and the brave

We try to run away but end up running back

When you sold me out I must have not got the cheque

Don’t hold your breath; I’m not losing sleep over you

Good luck with killing time, you won’t be killing mine

I’d rather be anywhere but here without you

I’ve got real big plans and such bad thoughts

They’re gonna miss me when I’m dead and gone; they’re gonna talk about me over and over and over

It’s not called lazy it’s called an art

I’ll never know divinity; so inadequately I write in meter and verse

Falling in love for the night

Tongue like electric, eyes like a child

Young and in love; that should be enough

Down but not out

Go back to anything, cos I know you’ll think of me

Three whole words and eight letters late

Maybe it’s not my weekend but it’s gonna be my year

I’m over getting older

This is my reaction to everything I feel

When it all comes down to a sunrise on the east side, will you be there to carry me home?

We ran like vampires from a thousand burning suns

We raced the sunset and we almost won

The surface shines while the inside rots

Your voice was the soundtrack of my summer

I’ll be your shelter, I’ll be your storm

Bring on the rain, and bring on the thunder

You can be the distance in between; you can be everything I need

Jealous minds are thinking alike, but you’re my damn damn tie wasting all my time; you are in love

Throw it away, forget yesterday; we’ll make the great escape

The answers that we’ll never find; they don’t mean a thing tonight

Everybody knows there’s a party at the end of the world

I haven’t made my bed for weeks and I’m not gonna get up

If we stand for nothing, we’ll fall for anything

I’ll do my best to always be on your mind

No one is looking for you anymore cos that was us

We’ll be the leaders of a messed-up generation

We’ll still be dancing when we’re old and we’re grey

You’re not on my list of things to do, cos I’ve already done you

Your favourite enemy and your most hated friend

Where’s your passion? Where’s your fire tonight?

I’m gonna start a revolution of convoluted disillusions

Sometimes fate and your dreams can collide

You’re just a daydream away

It was your world baby and I just lived in it

In the end we all know we only breathe for so long

Sunday, 15 July 2012

Taking the Stage

     He takes a deep breath and jumps around on the spot, loosening off one final time. They are waiting for him, chanting and screaming. It escalates as the other band members step out. Finally it’s his turn.

(Source)
     He walks out, straight to centre stage, heart pounding in anticipation. The crowd cheer and wave, their long hours of waiting, in queues and in the crowd finally having paid off. The stage around him is still in darkness, only dimly lit from behind so their silhouettes are visible. He shakes off again, trying to rid himself of the nerves.

     Around him, the music starts, the other guys playing the familiar notes and rhythms which reassure him. He joins in with his lyrics, on cue, his own voice sounding low and raspy, mingling with the instrumental. He can hear the crowd singing along, words memorised, and a rush of wonder and gratitude surges through him. Words that he scribbled on scraps of paper, personal and carefully chosen, full of meaning to him – yet the meaning resonates with others, who find solace in his words. The words he chose being sung back to him by hundreds of people, people he has never met, yet share a common bond with him.

     The music fades off as the verse ends – then the climax comes, exploding in sound and light as the chorus kicks off, violent and powerful. The stage is bright and colourful, pyrotechnics blasting around them all. The crowd is like one single entity, jumping and moving to the beat, arms waving, voices shouting; a beast, both tamed by the music, yet wild, free and inspired by it.  He has been part of that entity before, at other concerts, but seeing it from the stage gives it a whole new dimension. In the crowd, you are taken over by the music, absorbing every moment, feeling the rush of awe as the artists you admire perform right in front of you. But to be those artists, to know everyone in that crowd was here to see you, was incredibly humbling. They were nothing without the crowds of fans, and giving them shows was the least they could do – but seeing their expressions, the joy, the wonder, the passion – it was enough to make him just as awestruck as they appeared to be. The bond between them was unusual – both band and crowd having the exact same feelings of awe and gratitude towards each other.

     As the set continues, his feels his nerves melt away, losing himself to the music, feeding off the crowd’s energy. Everything they give him, he strives to give back, pouring heart and passion into the whole performance. Despite being above and apart from the crowd physically, he feels as though he is just as much part of that wild entity as any of them, getting shivers during the slower parts, chest wanting to explode with power at the climaxes. All the while he feels entirely awestruck that their music, notes and words they strung together, has created this event, these shared moments, that feeling of being a part of something greater than one’s self. This was the reason he loved music so much, and was so thrilled to be able to bring these feelings to other people. These are the moments he will forever remember, the moments in which he felt most alive.

Tuesday, 10 July 2012

Into the Darkness


     A long, narrow passageway stretched out in front of her, disappearing into the darkness of the night. She raised her candle higher and slowly shuffled forward, while demonic shadows danced on the walls around her. She hated the flickering flame, but she didn’t have a torch and didn’t dare turn on the lights. The rain lashed down on the crumbling walls outside and the dusty, cracked windowpanes let in flashes of light occasionally as bolts of lightning shot across the otherwise impenetrable black of the night sky. Suddenly, there was a loud, unearthly cawing noise and she jumped back, stumbling into an ancient, musty tapestry hanging on the wall. In her bare feet, she felt something cold and moist on the ground. She looked down to see a dark red pool of blood seeping through the carpet, oozing out from under the tapestry. She turned to look at it, and saw it was richly embroidered with grotesque images of demons, witches and vampires, and the corpses of their prey, but the heavy material was faded with age. Slowly, she raised a trembling hand to pull the material aside, brushing away layers of cobwebs as she did. Behind it was a small wooden door, scratched and faded like the tapestry. It was simple, apart from a large carving of a monstrous demon’s face in the centre, which seemed to be staring straight at her.
     Her hand hesitated for a brief moment, but then recklessness got the better of her and she grasped the heavy, brass doorknob firmly. As her fingers made contact, the eyes of the demonic face glowed a bright, sinister red. She froze, both stunned and terrified at once. She couldn’t move from the spot or take her hand off the handle. She stared up, wide-eyed, at the face for what seemed like hours, when suddenly she heard a high-pitched scream from behind her. She made a snap decision, turned the handle and rushed through the door into the chamber beyond it – and immediately regretted her decision when she heard the door lock itself behind her.
     She took several deep breaths to steady herself, before looking at her surroundings. She was in a narrow stone passageway, which was empty aside from a few burnt-out torch brackets on the wall and cobwebs littering the walls and floor. The flagstones were freezing under her feet, compared to the carpet in the corridor she had been in. Looking down, she could see the passage sloped upwards slightly and a river of blood was running down towards her, where it disappeared under the door. She was trembling with the cold and the fear she felt. She had no idea how to get back to her room, but with the door locked she could only go one way. With another breath, she began to make her way along the passage. Her flickering candle was considerably smaller than it had been, and her heart leapt at the thought of being left in this passage in the dark.
     The passage wasn’t as long as she had expected, and soon she found herself in a large room. However, there didn’t seem to be a door anywhere, and the room was filled with various objects, the likes of which she had never seen before. The walls were ornamented with carvings of faces similar to the one on the door, but these ones were covered in gold leaf and their eyes were glowing jewels. A huge circular carpet lay on the floor, patterned with strange, mystical symbols and images, which could also be seen on the spines of a towering stack of huge, leather-bound, dusty books. A single skylight could be seen in the centre of the ceiling, alerting her to the fact that the storm had let up, as the full moon was directly over the skylight, and bathed the room in a cold, silver light. At the far end of the room was a large, ornately-carved wooden display case, and through the dusty, cracked glass, she could make out dozens of bottles and vials filled with various liquids, although the majority were a rich, dark red. Also attached the walls, were several sets of strong chains, which looked surprisingly well-kept and oiled, and had enormous gold padlocks on them. In the centre of the room, directly under the skylight, was a long rectangular table, which was placed over a rectangle on the carpet, exactly the same size as it. The table had leather straps with large, silver buckles attached to it, but more disturbing were the objects littering the table. Her eyes widened at the sight of dozens of sharp silver tools – knives, hooks, drills, needles and many others she couldn’t find names for – and every last one was dripping with blood. She shivered involuntarily, and her mind ran wild, coming up with dozens of explanations for what she was seeing.
     Before she could do anything else, however, she heard the same unearthly cawing as she had in the corridor, what seemed like hours ago. She leapt in fright and stumbled over on to the edge of the thick carpet. Her candle fell from hand and went out immediately. Trembling all over, she slowly sat up, and in the moonlight she saw that she had dislodged the carpet slightly and part of a trapdoor was now visible. It was, like most things in the room, coated with dust, but she could make out dark red stains in the wood, that could only be one thing. She recoiled in disgust at first, but as she looked around the room again, she realised it may her only way out of this ghastly place she had discovered. Slowly and clumsily, she pulled the carpet out of the way and slid back the large, metal bolts, which were, like the chains, slick and well-oiled. She heaved the door up and carefully leaned over to look down. She gasped in horror – below the door were two scarred and tortured corpses, lying on a bed of hundreds of blood-stained bones and skulls. She glanced up at the table and its terrifying instruments again, before gagging several times as the room swam in front of her eyes. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out as she collapsed on the floor and darkness engulfed the world around her.

Friday, 6 July 2012

But I Don't Want To Grow Up...

     The innocence of children is beautiful to behold. Their way of seeing the world as the magical place it really is. Miracles happen every day, but our cynicism causes us to take them for granted. Children are awed by things we consider ordinary and mundane. For them, everything is easy, and good things don’t always come with a price. They see a world full of kindness and happiness, love and beauty. And their minds work in beautiful ways, finding the little things funny and being pleased by the simplest of gifts. They soak everything in, learning at an extraordinary pace, with imaginations that run rampant and wild. A cardboard box becomes a rocket to the moon, or a pirate ship sailing the seas. Riding a bike starts as a challenge to stay balanced, but eventually turns into a heated drag race through a desert. The stairs can be an expedition to a mountain top, or a slide over rough terrain. Fairies live at the bottom of the garden and Santa still leaves the Christmas presents. Childhood is a precious time, which most don’t appreciate until the day when they wish they could go back to it.

     Somewhere along the line, the real world gets to them, turning them insecure and cynical. The time to play is over, and they are expected to work hard and grow up. They become selfish, jealous and greedy, often without realising or wanting to. The world forces them to change, to become like everyone else. Doubts creep in, confidence wavers, and imagination is stunted. They are exposed to corruption, deceit and violence. Pressure mounts to succeed in school and work. They struggle to fit in with the peers, encouraged to try drugs and sex, scorned if they don’t. Appearances mean everything. A night with friends is considered a waste if alcohol isn’t involved. Money and politics are the biggest players, driving every other desire. Their naivety is stripped away as they discover the real world, the world of the grown-ups. The fantasies of childhood become a distant memory, revisited only in those dazed hours between sleeping and awake, or when looking through old photos and mementos.

     Children, especially when they get to their teens, are always looking to grow up, believing they will find freedom and independence as adults. But the real world is a terrifying place, and once you get there, you’ll wish you could go back.

Tuesday, 3 July 2012

Writing as A Cure for Writer's Block

     I don’t know what to write. I keep saying I’m going to write more, but I just don’t know what to write. Is my life really that boring? Surely there’s something. But I don’t want to complain about trivialities.

     Nothing major has happened to me. I’ve never had my heart broken or lost a loved one. The things that I find unfair seem silly compared to the trauma some people face, and I feel selfish and petty going on about them. Nothing even springs to mind right now, because nothing has been significant.
I lost my grandfather when I was four, but I scarcely remember it, though I do remember him. I got glandular fever for about a year, but it’s not even life threatening. That’s about it. I guess I’ve had a pretty good life in that respect.

    But I’m struggling for inspiration right now. I’ve spent the last month at home, since finishing university for the summer. I can’t get a job because of this terrible job market, and me and my friends are too skint to do any particularly exciting. So I’m left with my own thoughts and the internet. I guess there are parts of the internet that could be inspiring, but I can’t stop watching TV shows and films. I’m travelling a bit in the next few months, so maybe that will help.

     It’s just really frustrating, wanting to write, but being blocked. I guess this sort of helps – writing about being blocked, in an attempt to get unblocked. Although, now I think on it, I guess I’m writing right now to justify my lack of writing, seeing as how I said I was going to do more.

    I’ve not even done much on my other stories, but I think that’s more because I’m just lazy. Although it’s not like I’ve sat on my arse doing nothing – I’ve had odd bits of work, cleaned out my room, met up with some friends. Just nothing that made me want to write about it.

     And I feel like I should write about experiences I’ve had. It’s all very well seeing something in a film or reading about it in a book, and that affecting you, but it’s not the same as experiencing it for real. The writing wouldn’t be as real or honest when you’re writing about something that happened to someone else. I guess I’m still only eighteen, and I have time to experience more things, both good and bad, that could be inspiring. For now, I’ll just have to try to draw on what I have seen and done, and use a lot more imagination to flesh it out.

    I guess that’s another aspect of writing. Real experiences provide inspiration, but that doesn’t mean you have to stick to them. I’m always day-dreaming and hoping for things to happen, so I could try writing about those more. Just because nothing incredible is happening in my real world right now, doesn’t mean it can’t in my head.

     Ok, now I’m just getting really pissed off with myself. I just keep writing about writing, and never actually doing what I say I’m going to do. My willpower seriously sucks sometimes. Well, most of the time. Maybe I need to decide to write at a certain time every day, after tea or something, and force myself to do it more. Just write about anything, except about wanting to write more, because that seems to be all I’m capable of doing right now. Hence, frustration at self. I’m going round in circles, getting nowhere, and I really need to stop making excuses for it.

    Right, I’m finished with this for just now. I'm going to go write about something – ANYTHING – else.
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