... a lesson in ratio.

Wasted Bottles

With a ratio that's slipping on one end to the other; from 89, 88, 87: 11, 12, 13.

It's no wonder that the claws come out in the better times; so i can stick those claws into the moment to be cemented within it. But if i myself were to be the living, breathing personification of time, would i be willing to do the same to my own centre to hold myself into place? Like a wallclock to a nail; suspended.

79, 78, 77: 21, 22, 23.

Hammering myself into a spot; a purgatory of a moment once loved but ruined and that's all that this is. But am i willing? Well it seems so; the sacrifice to keep and to cherish while it is meerly endured.

69, 68, 67: 31, 32, 33.

Spending everyday on a boat floating amongst the waters of said purgatory as i throw bottle after bottle out to sea with no care from the recipient waiting on the shoreline to find it. As they recieve with only the intention to endure and not to cherish.

59, 58, 57: 41, 42, 43.

But my arms tire and my centre drains; As you endure, i endure but no longer do i cherish. I watch the moment that i'm cemented in as i watch you; an eye on each as i weigh up its worth.

50, 50, 50: 50, 50, 50.

With one more tip on the ratio, the claws will come out of you and i will allow myself to slip away.

... one free turn.

One Hundred Years of Toys, Dice and String.

If you were to imagine every step you've ever taken as a roll of a dice.
We stop, we watch others, we roll, we move.

Then imagine the strings, the more strings, the more complications to your body.
One to your hand, one to the other.
One to your foot and one to another.
Then the most important trigger is the one in your mouth.
The simplicity controls your body and there are no surgeons here so no heart
strings. We play as you but never your depths.
Forget how we feel, all we need is a needle and thread to bind us together.

Then imagine that everything is so much smaller.
We're the toys that get lost amongst the cracks; the toys with the broken weapons because no kid will ever know how to treat us properly.
Yet when no one is around we hold ourselves so high because there is no one around to break us.

Then imagine what 100 years is in the grand scale of things.
It is nothing to the world, but everything to us..
So forget the grand scale, i will look at the smaller things because i can't see
past my next roll.
Each person i know holds a string and one by one they will let go but i'll keep hold of the trigger.

At least in this world nothing is real.
No surgeons, no nerves.
Just cotton, string and little chance that i will ever see,
past the toys, the dice and the string.
Each one of my steps is numbered.
In life, we hit the end and we fall off the board but in this scenario, step 100 is followed by 1.
Oh how i love to play these games.

And with this i give you one free turn.

... a quick doodle.

First quick sketch to go with 'The Aftermath of a Rainbow.'



"His memories are formed with colours and blurs whereas hers are like tapes. Whilst he only remembers the bad, she solely remembers the good. "

And with this i give you a quick doodle.

... a change of perspective.

The good, the bad and the nothings.

If you were to stand still and let the world in, I'm pretty sure it would destroy you.
There's always the good, the bad and the nothings.
No matter how hard we squeeze our eyes shut, crouch down and keep our hands clamped to our ears there will always be the white noise buzzing.
I try hard to keep moving because if we were to stop, this is what we'd hear.

The footsteps on the pavement at first.
Five feet to the right of me are two people who most would assume are a couple and as I get closer I can tell my assumption was correct. This is the drama I usually avoid and as I pass the volume slides up and I listen in...
"... isn't us. Why can't you..."
3. 2. 1. and it's over for me but it's still there. What means nothing to me means everything to them and it's a shame that that counts for so much in life.

And switch.

My eyes dart from his left eye to the right and for a second I become distracted by how I can never look into both at the same time so I look to the floor instead and I mumble.
"This isn't us, why can't you see that I'm unhappy?"
He looks away and I know that he blames himself. So selfless yet so naive and it's those reasons that make me realise we've changed. I look up as I hear a noise from behind me and I turn towards an ambulance 10 feet behind me, getting closer and closer. The siren approaching and before it fades into the distance i just catch the end of his sentence;
"... can't do this anymore."
And my heart breaks and pounds and all I can do is swallow my throat.

And switch.

I'm gasping for air but I barely notice. All I can focus on is my heart pounding in my eardrums bringing panic on, making me feel cold. I try to distract myself by listening to the rhythm that is created with my heart and the siren but it doesn't work.
There's a man in green sitting next to me with his hand on my heart telling me everything is
going to be fine if I just stay calm. It's in these moments that we curse ourselves for lying because if we didn't then i'd believe him. Human nature in its finest always comes back to haunt us.
He blurs and everything turns red, then slowly from the outside in everthing begins to fade into white and I gasp.

And switch.

I gasp as I see the ambulance approaching and take a quick step back onto the pavement. I kick a bottle cap out of my path and I tune back out as the siren quietens.
There's a part of me that is grateful for the nothings and even happier for the goods. But then there's parts of me that know that when these things happen to me, they'll be equally as insignificant. It takes 5 seconds to see the bad and the same amount of time to ignore it.
It's then that I look across the road and I see her for the first time. I can't help but smile
as I step forward.
Then it hits me and I take it back... Give me the nothings over the bad.

And switch.

I stop at the crossing as I see him. He smiles, I smile. But it's over so fast. I freeze and all I can hear is a noise getting louder and louder.
It's a person, running towards him shouting.
"... someone call an ambulance."

And with this I give you a change of perspective.

... the first day of proof on a slow road.

The Aftermath of a Rainbow.

His memories are formed with colours and blurs whereas hers are like tapes. Whilst he only remembers the bad, she solely remembers the good.
And even if it takes forever, she will rewrite the tapes in the beautiful calligraphy of cliché so that he can watch every piece of sunshine that they had until he feels the warmth. And her? Well she will let in the rain for a while so she can see where he stands.
Until a rainbow arches across above them.

We will inspire when we're happy.
Because when we're happy there will be music and art surrounding us.
But the happiness is indefinite until your colours blur to lines and the lines begin to cross and overlap until they become sketches of stickmen. Then the little boy and the little girl with the triangle skirt will expand but remain faceless until i can bring my red to your paper and give them smiles.

You need someone to make everyday different.
So that monday is red and tuesday is yellow, until the colours run out; until we run out.
You need the sunshine and the rain to make a rainbow.
And you need the rainbow to make everyday a little different...
A little challenging.

And with this i give you the first day of proof on a slow road.

... the better end of the magnet

Positive Influences.

Imagine positivity.

My mind takes me to places with balloons, apple shaped cupcakes and everything connected with childhood without the actual children.

Positive thinking is completely infectious to me. My immune system shuts down to a smile and in terms of thinking it is completely destroyed when it comes to happiness.

It's like my brain has a constant cold that like the real physical virus, it can't shake off for good; it will always mutate and return to me affecting every move that i make.

But here is where that metaphor stops as it doesn't portray the right image for positivity.

So i'm going to give it a shot of amour and say positive thinking is like a balloon.

A bright red balloon that cannot be grounded until the air runs out.

Imagine a place where every day, there is a girl with a balloon holding onto its string, surrounded by flowers; my favourite calla lilies, bluebells, daffodils growing around her feet, the vines wrapping slowly up her ankles.

She glows from the reflection of buttercups as the sunflowers and birds of paradise brush up against her free hand and in the backdrop, a single billowing willow tree. It seems to pour bright lights as spores from the tips of its branches.

She smiles, with a light grip on the the string her fingers unfold like a flower opening to the sun and the balloon just floats.

And it goes up...

And up towards the sky.

And the corners of my mouth mimic its route.

Like the child and sunflowers do, everyone who sees the balloon will look towards the sun and smile until its deflation; the end is sad.

But there will always be more balloons.

There will always be more things to smile about.

There will always be you, standing among the flowers and spores with your bag of balloons and your infectious happiness.

Spreading smiles and magic and inspiring me to stand under the willow tree in the pixie dust and take a deep breath in .

(For P.V; If Palahniuk is my inkwell then you are my refill.)

And with this i give you the better end of the magnet.

... the reason to stop.

Traffic Lights.

There's me, sitting in the passenger seat as the driver takes a turn towards a red light.

The turn to the left is the two way street and forwards is a single one way lane.
Now i have no choice in the matter, i'm already in the car with no control over the driver. I go where they take me.
It's the two way street vs the one way street.
It's the couples vs the creeps.


Self confessed cynic; never loving, always driving. Always making sure to keep the red light in sight.
Never amber, never green, just red.
The glow reflecting endlessly as the twinkle in my eye, glazing over. Letting all of your images seep inside and unscramble but we don't let you inside. You enter through the eyes but it stops there before you can become the poison in our bloodstream heading straight towards the heart.
Keep cold and your heart will beat slower so you don't hit us as hard.
We are the old romantics who know to sit still.
We were the passengers who gave too much control than deserved.

We wait for it and it always comes. The moment of weakness that is so inevitable that it half hurts and half tickles.
As a romantic i will always be cynical.
We were the passengers shoved into the backseat because we're not even on the same level as the driver. We watch people come together and we watch them fall apart yet we still put ourselves up there next to you but now...
You are the driver and you don't want us.
You are the line between the two way and one way.

The fine line or the wrong turn.
We become the creeps and you become the couples.
We sulk with the red light trailing down our cheeks, from our eyes to the ground, vowing to push your images out with them.
Because we were once the romantics who loved you.
We were once in the passenger seat but now...
We are the drivers.

And with this i give you the reason to stop.