Each person is like a jotter, the days of their life penned on the pages within. Some pages are covered in squares, each minute detail, pre-planned and organised is written meticulously in the separate boxes. Others are scribbled onto lined paper. There is some order retained in these days too, but at times when the things don’t go as planned or too well, the flow of the words can be seen to break apart, no longer comfortably hugging the line. There are some pages that are completely blank for the days that cannot be described in coherent sentences, thus abstract words, feelings, pictures or colours do them better justice. Each day our story is recorded. There are some who are able to translate these writings into the words of man. He was never really a writer, but this is his story.
*****
His eyes were bloodshot. Each askew streak of blood represented a tribulation, rarely his, that had kept him awake at night. The redness shrieked STOP, they had seen enough already. Remnants of dark bags sagged under the burdens of what he had witnessed. The French say ‘les yeux sont le miroir de l'âme,’1 but when people looked into his eyes they saw nothing. There was no light behind them that would illuminate the secrets of his soul. It was like a black hole; you could observe things that went in, but if you stepped too close and looked too hard, you too would be sucked into the nothingness.
His skin was really quite soft and smooth, except on the hands and feet. The soles had been roughened by the treacherous paths of his journey through life and the hands hardened by moving the obstacles that were blocking his way. He tried to take good care of his skin, as well as he possibly could. Deep cleansing face wash followed by a healthy layer of a special brand of moisturiser in the morning usually did the trick.
The hair on his head took care of itself. It wasn’t too long and neither was it too short. Somewhere in between; of a length through which he could pass his fingers but not long enough to blinker his vision. Like grass, it would dance to the slightest of songs played by the wind and settle down appropriately without a fuss when the music stopped. He rarely ever used hairsprays, gels or waxes except on special occasions. But even then sometimes he just didn’t bother with the effort. It was lighter than it had once been and hidden among the dark matte black streaks of white could be seen, unwanted like weeds that had invaded.
People said he looked older than he really was, but what is age? And older compared to what? He put Aloe Vera Vaseline on his parched lips to give them some shine and practiced his smile in front of the mirror for the last time. Then he left.
Yes I know I have a really long eye lashes, and no I don’t curl them.
*****
I don’t talk much about myself. It’s just not something I enjoy doing. There are a select few people who I do talk to about everything but sometimes a flicker in their eyes makes we wonder whether some of them really couldn’t care less. Anyway, that’s not the point. Because of my few word attitude, the General has a notion in his head that when I leave the walls of university, I turn into some gangster pimp with three girlfriends; muffin, AK, and I can’t even remember the last one. So to dispel all these mind wanderings of his I have promised to give him an open, no restrictions imposed interview on Sunday. That’s in two days time. Knowing the General and some of the things that go on inside that head of his, I have a really bad feeling I’m going to regret this. But it was a promise and so it shall happen. I owe two other people interviews too but I think one of them has completely forgotten.
Today the guys celebrated Dum’s birthday which was last month on the 27th. I didn’t go. I couldn’t go. I’ve been getting ill quite a LOT recently and finally got an appointment, the only appointment, today. It made me really sad.
In other news, I have made an about.me page the idea of which I found on Gian Faye’s blog, Loading Info. Her blog is really cool and focuses on the internet and all things related. There have been many instances when I have read something on her blog about a website or a program and after having done so, made use of it. You can find the link to my about.me page it on the right hand side. I have also made a twitter because my phone has a twitter app. But I don’t really know how to use it so yeah.
That’s all for today folks. Have a lovely weekend.
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Title: Writer – Ellie Goulding
All photographs in this post are from my personal photography
1Translation in English reads ‘the eyes are windows into the soul’
(inserted). Her layout has changed so many times recently that I sometimes had trouble realising it was the same blog I was reading. Now it’s a nice and lovely purple. I think she has resolved her relationship issues with her blog so you can pay her a visit and read some of the awesome things she has to say.
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