A Room of Requirement.

My room.
Purple walled,
full of world maps, paper cranes and musicians posters.

I believe now, instead of being a bedroom, it has become a room of requirement. It's now a room of constant residance, obligation and numerous tasks, rather than the initial designated use of 'sleeping'. If I had a real room of requirement, like the one in the fictional story of Harry Potter, I would have a room full of pillows and beds and green tea and soup.

But all I have in here is an untuned guitar, and a pile of work.

Dear John.

~ there is nothing better than being as derro as we are in this photo, and not caring at all :)

I know, when a girl is growing up, she looks at all the romance and rom com films, and thinks.. why can't my romance be like it is in the movies. Some may say that I am fortunate enough to be one of the few to have one of those special romances.

I totally pulled out 'Dear John'. Where some girl (who I think is a little pretentious in the movie, I did not like her acting style at all) meets a handsome man, and they find out they have something just before he goes back to the army. Which, you know, is probably about right for me. Gospel truth, apart from the father and child with aspergers, and a man dying of cancer. Anyway, I'm not going to put this whole blog into my stylistic story format, or cover it with false pretenses. John needs a bit of a slap to the face to realise things.

Dear John (terrible movie)

Thankyou for being here. Thankyou for not having left yet.

Thankyou for letting me be just the way I am, and loving me for it.

I know I can be a bit rough around the edges, or a bit manly, or bitchy, and sometimes just plain yuck. But if you're willing to stick around, then that's the best thing that could be happening for me right now. I love you. Enough for you to get rediculous haircuts and not care. You're sweet and understanding and just down right amazing. Thankyou Thankyou ThankYOU!

<3

Oh.

PLEASE DON'T GO.




barcelona.

New Lyrics

Maybe this time, I'll raise my glass to the bar, and hope that somehow the barman knows just what I've been a thirstin' for. YOU KNOW? I'MMA THIRSTY. An army man came to my door. He had his heart in his hands, and his eyes to the floor. He said, won't you fill me up? I'm a glass half empty, you're a glass half full. YOU KNOW? I'MMA THIRSY. (fill me up, fill me). I'MMA THIRSTY. And when you talk about national pride, through the grit of your teeth you have nothing to hide. You've shown me your heart. Now it's time to show you mine.

YOU KNOW? I'MMA THIRSTY. [please Don't Go]. (fill me up, fill me). I'MMA THIRSTY. [please Don't Go]. (fill me up, fill me). I'MMA.


--- It always sounds better in your head.

I believe, my dears, there has been a dramatic change in the weather.

Outside my house this evening, it is raining.
It's clouded. It's grey. It's oppresive. And it's all those things that you'd expect to feature in a pathetic fallacy build up within the beginning of an Edgar Allan Poe sequence. But the sickly glow of daylight savings tarnishes it's reputable take on the trademarked setting, like sallowness of the skin can ruin any length of childhood 'happy snaps'.

But one thing you should always expect (and prepare for!), my dears, is a sudden and dramatic change in the weather.

The sky went orange, mauve, rose pink, agrum, purple, dusty red, fade back to orange.
And then black.

I saw it all.

Nope.

There isn't a love song I'm happy with. Nope, not one at all. There isn't a dream I haven't had.
Maybe the best thing for me to do tonight is, raise my glass to the bar.
And hope that somehow, the bar man can give me what I'm thirstin' for.
I'mma thirsty.

Here, I have a prayer.

My love I send to Hwana.
My love I send to the series of Yu(oo)'s.
My love I send to the bear I miss over the ocean.
My love I send to a boy, who I'd pray smells the same as I left him.
My love I send to the ladies who dress as the finest of china; just dance.
My love; from a yellow bird on top of a lonely mountain.
It was a long long time ago.

My fears for the countryside you call home.
My fears for the roads that you travel on each day.
My fears for the seas you sail on, and the skies that you fly.
My fears for you, my dear.
It's not so safe, now.

My hopes for your nights.
My hopes for your bustling city transactions and your fine pen.
My hopes for your art that you ignore whilst money is on the agenda.
My hopes that money will not deter you from happiness.
I hope you're happy.

My dreams fly me over the ocean.
My dreams to whisper in secrets with you, that they don't know at home.
My dreams to be awake again in two years time.
My dreams come to me as I sleep on the floor.
In the afternoon sun.

The cranes hanging on my window are still tonight. There is no breeze to stir them. Their heads are turned in mismatched directions, as if they aren't sure how exactly to go about their migration. They don't know where to start. Neither do I.

Deer wearing the mask of a bear.
Bear face.
Deer heart.