actually trying to get somewhere

Ugh so I thought, let's do this thing! - a post a day. Even if its just a line. Any bit of writing will do. Anything. Just to get the creative juices flowing (or in my case, the wads of fluff that exist in my brain actually forming into articulate thought).

But has that happened?

no.

How am I going to survive doing English and Creative Writing at uni when I can't even form the sentences for a simple daily blog post? 

Well I've been blaming it on the fact that because I lack a camera I can't embellish my posts with a picture because lets face it, words as badly written as mine just get boring without something visual to look at -

but then I was like, who am I kidding, who really looks at this thing anyway? 

so I might as well give it a whack even though there's literally nothing in my head to write about right now.

...although does a true writer ever say that?

I suppose I am writing as we speak.

What an oxymoron.

As an English student I've discovered two things: one, that I now recognize all the discrepancies in my writing. two, that I can now do them deliberately.

If I don't use capitals and I misuse the definition of an oxymoron and I say I'm speaking even though I haven't uttered a word out loud since I sat down at this screen, rest assured it is all deliberate.

(I should have said irony instead of oxymoron but it didn't sound as good)... I'm the type of writer that focuses more on what syllables sound like than whether they're grammatically correct; I drive the OCD's mad.

I don't know there's just something so satisfying about playing with the rules. That's not a great principle for life, please don't get any ideas.

Or...

Or maybe all this is just an excuse for this load of word vomit I'm spouting forth.

I give up this will have to do. I'm going to grab a hot chocolate and a plate of toast and go and read Isaiah.

today is just beautiful.

the sky is such the right shade of blue it makes my heart quiver just looking up at it. blue as warm ice, as James McAvoy's eyes, smudged with wisps of cloud and the scratches of aeroplanes.

there's no wind and the spiky tips of the trees seem to be reaching up to touch it, always reaching, but never quite managing, like putting your hand into the rippling surface of the ocean and knowing that the water goes on for ever.
and yet at the same time they are enveloped by its deepness, wrapped and painted and growing within it.

the muted grey of a pigeon wings past in a dipping arc of flight....

through the crack of open window, the gravelly hum of a low-flier, maybe on its way to Spain, familiar and comfortingly human...

the clashing of breakfast things in the sink, the crescendo bubble of the kettle boiling, shampoo and sunshine on the carpet and the green of fir tree branches against the glow of red brick.


breathing.

just stop, stop for a moment and breathe in the blue.

I love Saturdays.