Some more photos from Ellicott City of the end of the unused railway.

I was in London. At a MUN (Model UN) conference. It was nice.

I re-dyed my hair blonde. I might put a photo up. I'm thinking of putting a bit of blue in it.

Childhood Wonderland

I ducked down under the rusty barbed wire fence into the wild overgrowth. It was a different world than the one I lived. It was unpredictable and it was untamed. There was a rough trail through the overgrowth that I couldn't leave, much and all as I wanted to, because I was in shorts and there were nettles everywhere and I already had enough gashes on my legs. I walked along cautiously, my eyes darting around trying to take in all the surroundings that I knew so well but could never get enough of.

The sides of my shoes lit up every time I placed my foot to the solid ground. The light was red and I loved them.

Up ahead, I knew that there would be a small clearing. There was an entire old moldy living room set in that clearing. The couch had perhaps been a velvet maroon two-seater couch, but now all the insides poked through at the seams, and the maroon was stained a patchy black colour by the incessant rain. There was an armchair that matched the couch; it was missing arms though. Behind the couch lay, on it's side, a burned-out and rusted fridge. Empty and without barely any of the white paint that had once presumably covered it left. It's body was not without colour though, someone had covered it with spray paint.

When we went together, my sister always went first, ahead of me, but today I was alone, free to go at my own pace, free to wander along. I went there most days. I was young, innocent and full of adventure, and this was my palace.

I left the clearing and followed that path on further until the briars flattened out and the nettles receded, and I was wading through long grass, then that grew thinner and I was there, to that magical place.

It had at one point been a railway bridge, but they had taken up the tracks and it was more of a quarry-like hole now. There grew a 60ft high oak tree, bent and twisted down into the quarry. On one of the top branches was a rope that hung down onto which the local teenagers had tied a stick. It made a wonderful swing.

But then they tore the whole thing down and build a tram. Not that I don't think the tram is handy, but I really loved the swing and the memories.

An update blog of sorts.

I've been back from Japan for two days or so now, and it's been quite a culture shock. I left my newly bought camera on the flight from Tokyo to London, and they want me to pick it up from London 'cause they're silly like that, so I'm gonna get my uncle to pick it up, which means I won't be able to put up any photos until I get my camera back, so sorry for that. Moving on.

Japan was truly amazing. The cities are so clean and interesting and diverse and the countryside is breathtakingly beautiful and quite otherworldly. I had such a great time and bought so much stuff (mostly phone charms. so cuuute!). It was nice getting to practise my broken Japanese though and brilliant getting to experience their exquisite culture. We were in Tokyo, Kyoto, Hiroshima and a little town called Kumano, which is outside Hiroshima and is where 80% of Japanese Calligraphy brushes are made (by hand). I'll write another blog about some of my experiences there, but this is just a short update.

I, like so many others, am a huuuge Harry Potter fan (although, I hate the kid himself. Malfoy ftw!), so I really wanted to see the film at midnight and dress up as a wizard and just be a general fangirl; but I was in Tokyo when it was released so Im only getting to see it today. I'm so excited I started to cry when I was booking the tickets ('cause I'm cool, right?), and I know I'll enjoy it no matter whether it's good or bad.

Here're some Wrock (Wizard Rock- i.e. Harry Potter Fan Music) related links that I think you should check out.

Some amazing Wrock Bands:

http://www.myspace.com/ministryofmagicmusic

http://www.myspace.com/theremuslupins

http://www.myspace.com/harryandthepotters

http://www.myspace.com/roonilwazlibrock

Some awesome Youtubers Wrock songs:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i2Gt9m64LBg&eurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww%2Eyoutube%2Ecom%2Fuser%2Fvlogbrothers&feature=player_profilepage

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=06zGYa6Ckg4&feature=channel_page

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvvFiZyEyTA&feature=channel

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mkWEHkST15A&eurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww%2Eyoutube%2Ecom%2Fuser%2Fitalktosnakes&feature=player_profilepage

Sorry this blog sucked, but I felt like giving an update and whatnot.

Oh! And I'm gonna cut my hair and maybe dye it blue.

Best wishes.

Love, Shling.x

.

She lay in a damp motel room. Sprawled out. The dim naked light bulb throwing a shadow of light across the room. The wallpaper strips worn down to reveal rotting wood in some places, protected by years of sickly yellow tobacco smoke in others. There lay upon the bedside locker a lamp, it's pink lampshade hiding the smashed bulb within, the remaining glass shards clinging to the fixture, it hadn't given light in near twenty years but noone would put it out of it's misery. Beside the lamp sat a frost glass ashtray, cigarette butts and piles of ash built up. Under the bed lay bottles that had yesterday held $2 wine, they now held nothing but the remnants of a Wednesday night spent trying to forget the evening preceding it. A rusty bucket beside the bed held a month's nights of vomit.

The bedside locker was empty except the first drawer. A tattered bible sat there, worn but covered in dust. Placed there by Gideons for her and other lost souls to reach out to it. but it had lain unused for years. Maybe it longed desperately for love, maybe it longed to forgive her acts, her sins, her failures, her thoughts; but it doesn't matter, 'cause the drawer was shut and she was unconcious.

The door was locked from the inside by a chain lock, the key lock long torn out. It was room 206, on the second floor.

A scrawny, bruised and battered pale leg dangled from the bed, the foot caked in dirt and dry blood.

The curtains were drawn to the outside world, no light seeped through; it was winter and the sun had yet to rise.

On the floor lay an old-fashioned black phone that connected only with reception.

Her right arm blocked the dead light from reaching her tired sleeping eyes. Her nails were short, dirty and yellow, her hands were long, thin and beautiful, her knuckles were scarred, purple and swollen.

Her left arm lay by her side, palm facing the ceiling.

A bathrobe, stockings and a dress lay strewn across a wooden chair by the door.

She wore no clothes, not even underwear, just a thin ratty mustard-yellow blanket that barely protected her modesty; not that it mattered, noone was watching, not that she cared anyway, though.

She lay in this way, dead but for her lungs shallow breathing until a knock on the door broke the musty silence. She woke hazily and pushed herself into a standing position. She reached for the robe and mechanically went to the door, and opened it without undoing the chain.

there stood a middle-aged man squeezed into dirty overalls and a stained wife-beater. He reeked like she did: the whiskey, tobacco, sweat.

Upon seeing him she undid the chain. He grunted as she derobed and shut the door.

But don't feel sorry for her. She's as guilty as he is. Well, that's what we've been told. She's dirty and deserves what she gets. Filthy little slut.

An update and a poem. ♥♥

I'm going to Japan next week. I can't wait, I love the Japanese and everything about them and their culture. I'm a big Otaku. I used to draw manga loads, but I haven't the past two years; I started up again recently though, so if I get my scanner working I'll try to upload some of them, maybe.

Happy Fourth of July. I'm going to the US at the end of August, actually.

Here's something I wrote. It's a poem, I guess? Not really though.

Sorry I haven't been updating at all, btw. x

Are my eyes open, or are they closed?

Am I seeing, dreaming, imagining?

Floating,

floating through the air.

On my back;

arms, legs outstretched,

fingers spread.

My eyes are open.

But am I seeing, dreaming, imagining?

Clusters of colours:

blues, yellows, greens, oranges, purples, reds, pinks;

every shade, every mix, everywhere.

Fleeting glimpses of people

walking, smiling;

laughing, running;

crying, screaming.

Far off, out of focus, silent;

to the side.

My eyes are closed.

But am I seeing, dreaming, imagining?

Rays of light coming though windows.

Windows everywhere,

I can't see them.

The room black,

the light shining,

transparent,

shining.

Figure running towards me,

suit, hat,

polished shoes,

tie flowing,

leaning forward,

in a rush;

Stops dead, drops arms.

Elbows lift upwards,

one to his eyeline,

Other to his waist,

his arms follow,

and then his hands,

he starts to spin and twirl,

no longer there.

My eyes are gone.

Removed perhaps, holes remain.

But am I seeing, dreaming, imagining?

Indefinate shapes all around,

a faint watercolour.

A woman,

flowing skirt,

swaying.

Looks at me,

emptiness.

tips over,

Falls,

drops out of my vision;

disappears.

Ellicott City.

These are some photos I took in Ellicott City, near Baltimore, Maryland, in the USA.

I went editing crazy. And most of them were taken late at night, so sorry. I'm only including three, but I'll put up more in a different post, I think.

Ellicott City is a beautiful place. It's a tourist town, really; but I love it all the same. All the shops there are very old-fashioned, they have that 'vintage' feel to them, and they all sell the most random eclectic assortment of goods, mostly the kind of stuff that you don't need but want.

The cafe there sells lovely coffee and cake and they have this ancient machine that roasts coffee beans, well at least it used to; it's just for show these days. There're signs all over the walls, like in Eddie Rockets except they're authentically old and for sale. One of my favourite things about the cafe is the menus, because they say in the most beautiful type, on the bottom, in not quite so many words, 'We have WiFi, but please leave your laptop home this weekend and talk to your neighbours. They're lovely people and I'm sure they'd enjoy your company'. I thought that was just so lovely. There's also the most amazing Victorian-style tea room, the china there is exquisite.

There's a small train museum there. I didn't go in, because my father could tell you more about trains then any guide. He loves steam trains, simply adores them; when he was younger he used to hop them. He'd go for miles across the country, holding on to the back of a caboose. He has some unbelievable stories, I convinced him to write them down; so he's started to write a memoir. We walked a few miles on the tracks around Ellicott City, which I love doing; It's on the B&O railway: Baltimore and Ohio.

There's an exquisite bakery there with beautiful bread, although I don't like the sweet bread you get in the States much.

There's this one store dedicated to fairies and the like. It's three stories high. On the top floor there's a piano that plays on it's own and a costume place with the most amazing costumes, some from the 1940's.

Ellicott City's built on a hill. It has an interesting history, really. It's right on a river and every hundred years or so, the place gets wiped out by floods. I just looked it up on wikipedia( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ellicott_City,_Maryland ), and apparently it's haunted. It does have a creepy feel to it, I admit. It feels so empty and fairytale-esque, like it's not real and noone really lives there. It's so 'American Dream', in a way, like it's the sort of place that upper-middle-class families go to for a Sunday outing. It has the air of a place repressed, with a dark secret.

More on this later.

I think, from now on this blog will not be dedicated purely to short stories and the like.

On that note, here are some photos I took of my best friend in town the other day.

It was quite interesting.  At the place we took the photos at, there were used needles; later that day we went to the house of a dear friend of ours, she lives in quite a good neighbourhood; very middle class, we came across an empty bottle of prescription pills. It was just so odd and befitting. 

There are many things about which I want to write when I've the time; I was in America recently, you see, visiting my grandparents, and I went so many places I hadn't been to in years and it all left me feeling rather nostalgic and content. 

Hope you're well. 

'(Human) empathy is inherently limited' - John Green.

'(Human) Empathy is inherently limited'

That's the reason for the aloneness refered to in this passage.

Also, It's not pessimism, it's realism.

Or maybe it is just pessimism.

Either way, I do apologise for this post being so wholly bad.

Sometimes, I realise how alone I am and I just feel so empty, I feel like I'm dying, but not soon enough. I realise how alone everyone is, it just hits me and knocks me from my feet and my knees hit the ground beneath me, whether it be earthy or concrete; it's always hard. I feel as if I'm being suffocated by the sheer weight of my aloneness and I can't breath. It's just so real, my aloneness; it's so real that I can see it in front of me, I feel it crawling on my skin, I hear it echo around me again and again, I hear it echo a thousand times, two thousand times, three thousand, four; but this echo is different, instead of getting quieter and farther away, this echo gets louder, closer, more drawn-out, until it's clawing it's way inside me to petrify my heart and freeze my breath, so that it can force me to surrender. It's ringing in my ears, clouding my mind, it's vastness taking over my every concious thought.

But, sometimes I realise how alone I am, how alone we all are, and it just makes me so happy. It makes me so happy that I feel as if I were soaring through the skies above, twirling and swooping through a clear cool blue sky; defying gravity. The happiness is so unimaginably powerful and strong that it makes my heart ache from holding it inside me. Being that happy makes my lungs feel clogged with the vast mass, it's like I'm being smothered by this ecstatic joy, it's like it's life is taking from mine and i'm it's energy source, it's sucking all the air from my body and it won't even spare the oxygen in my veins, it takes all the water in my blood and all the nutrition from within me, leaving me holllow. It's a parasite that controls me. Then my face, my face; of it's own accord, it breaks out into a big smile, so big it hurts my face; but I can't stop it, because it's the parasite's doing, it's it's wish, which has now become my wish. I just feel so happy, and I know it doesn't make sense; 'cause I'm alone, but it just makes me so happy that I forget it doesn't make sense.

I guess the emotions aren't that different for me, sadness and joy; they're polar opposites for everyone else, but they're completely the same for me; because they both really scare me, they terrify me. They make me panic, they make me feel the fear they bring, but for hours afterwards and when I try to think; when I try to clear my mind they always come flooding back like unwanted memories of war, the war between me and the parasites.

Home.

It's the cold that hits me first.

Then the sheer emptiness and my memories.

I breathe in deeply; the echo created startles me, but the dusty ice-cold air fills my lungs satisfyingly.

I open my eyes, the cold makes them sting; I blink a few times as my eyes try to grow accustomed to being open.

I sigh.

The cold concrete beneath me digs into me and I'm numb all over.

I put my hands on the ground and stand up cautiously, wary of losing my balance. The sound of my every movement is amplified a thousand times and so, even though I'm barely moving at all; the sound is so loud that it hurts my ears.

I can finally see, but it's the middle of the night and there're no windows anyway, so my sight is limited. I can make out only outlines of the familiar surroundings, this cold dark place that has become my home.
I stretch out my stiff weary limbs and shiver. I pull my coat around me tighter and wish I had a blanket.

Short Story.

It's three in the morning. A girl is in a garden. She is laying on the ground, her eyes closed, her too-long, scraggly blonde hair falling all around her. She takes a long drag from her rollie cigarette. A few moments later, she sighs.

She opens her eyes. She looks up; up, up and away, she stares at the dark starry night sky.

She opens her mouth, she looks as if she is about to speak. She closes her eyes again, but her mouth remains slightly ajar.  

She takes a drag.

"Hello."

Noone answers her for there is noone around her to answer. She didn't say it for anyone to hear, she doesn't expect anyone to. The party is at it's height and from where she is she can hear noise; music so loud that it blocks out all attempts that anyone may have at conversation. A scream claws it's ways through the sound every once in a while, but all other sound is drained out. 

She takes a drag.

The noise from inside becomes suddenly louder, clearer; she sits up, puts her hands behind her to support her and looks over. A boy stumbles out of the house and surveys the garden. He spots her and closes the door, the noise level goes back to normal.

He walks over to her and sits down.

He removes a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. Marlboro red. He removes one, puts it in his mouth and offers one to her-she deftly removes one.

He lights her cigarette before lighting his own.

They sit for a few moments in comfortable silence, the only sound comes from their inhaling and the party.

"Dodge," he says with his hand outstretched. 

She looks at him a few moments before answering.

"Samantha."

She smiles, turns away, takes a drag.

He looks at his hand and slowly lowers it.

"You know Clare?"he asks.

"Clare?"

"Clare. She owns this place."

She looks over at him and takes a drag.

"Clare.....Clare...." she looks as if she is searching her brain, "Oh. Clare! Yeah, Clare's lovely."

"Yeah, she's alright"

A few more minutes in silence.

She stubs her cigarette. He looks down at his,

it's almost finished and he's barely gotten 

two drags out of it. He takes a drag before 

stubbing it.

He takes out his pack again and offers her one, she delicately puts it between her bright red lips and waits for him to take one out before he lights her cigarette. 

"How do you know her?" he asks.

She waits a few more moments before answering. "She's friends with Karl."

"Karl? Who's he"

"Oh... Karl? Karl's. Well, Karl's... just... Karl's just Karl.." she gets this sentence out with obvious difficulty.

Her head is turned away.

She takes several quick drags in succession.

"You and Clare don't have a lot in common do you?"

She takes another drag.

"What makes you say that?"

"Well," he sighs, "Clare talks a lot, she don't say much though. You don't talk a lot"

"I've nothing to say."

"But see, I don't think that's true. I think you've a lot to say."

"Thought you said I don't talk much."

"No. No, you don't talk much, you do say a lot though."

"Oh.. Okay," She turns away.

"So, who's Karl."

A few moments silence.

She doesn't turn back around.

"I told you," she pauses. "He's just Karl," another pause. "He went out with Sarah. He's... just... Karl."

"See, now that's what I means", she looks at him, "Now, who's this Karl guy."

He smiles at her. She doesn't return the favour. He gives her a playful nudge.

"He's just Karl, okay? I have to go now," She stands up to go inside, "Bye, Dodge."

"No. No, don't go. I didn't mean anything. Just stay,"she continues to walk away. 

He gets to his feet and runs to her. He puts his hand on her shoulder and she turns around. They're face to face.

She can smell the alcohol off his breath. 

"Just stay, Sam. Please stay."

She looks at him.

"I'm not Samantha. I'm Sarah."

She turns back around and walks inside.

He sighs and watches her walk back inside. He watches her open the door and go inside. He watches her close it and look at him before disappearing.

He continues to look at the closed door.

After a few minutes, he sighs again and lies flat on his back and closes his eyes.

Description of a certain, unnamed place that I once did but no longer do associate myself with.

There's a magical land where people go to smoke magic sticks and drink magic poison and everyone has so much fun fun fun all the time 'cause they drink and smoke the magic that makes them forget. It makes them forget everything. It makes them forget what's happening, makes them forget the pain and sorrow and it makes them forget all their faults and everyone else's. But, its still poison. It makes them forget who they are. It turns their flesh to plastic, makes their bodies crack and, eventually, they break. 

And there's nothing magic about it.

Story: beginning.

Paul had always liked his small town: he was afraid of the city and he was never interested in the big dreams some of his classmates had of going to New York, Paris, London or even Dublin. He had always loved here and he never strayed more then a mile from his house, except for school; which was three miles from his home. His parents had never brought him anywhere besides the local grocery store and he had never expressed a wish to go there. He was a quiet and simple boy, but he was arrogant; he thought he knew how he wanted to live his life.

His daily routine was very much set in stone: he got up every morning at seven, so as he would have time to brush his teeth, wash his face and have a cup of tea and a slice of toast before grabbing his bag and ambling at his own leisure to the point at which the school bus collected him, every morning except on weekends, it arrived at 7:45 precisely, and every morning Paul arrived at 7:40, just in case the bus should come early. Every morning, the bus would reach Paul's school at 8:30, having stopped several times to pick up students after Paul. Paul always sat in the second row from the front, by the window, and his friend, Clyde would sit beside him. I guess you could say Clyde and Paul were best friends, but it was more because they had been assigned seats beside each other on the first day than anything else. On Monday mornings, Clyde would over-excitedly describe in great detail the happenings of his weekend and Paul would attempt to look interested. In truth, Paul didn't really like Clyde all that much, he found him tedious, but he wasn't bothered enough to do anything about it. On every morning but Monday, Paul and Clyde would discuss homework, or rather, Clyde would discuss his homework and Paul would make an effort to look like he was listening. Some mornings Clyde would talk about the weather as well, but the subject matter never strayed from mundane things. 

Paul was an average student. He always had his homework in on time, which, at first, his teachers had been impressed by; but he was neither diligent nor did he ever show any initiative, he did only the bare minimal and so they soon lost interest.

Paul was humble, content; he had no expectations nor did he have any goals. He wanted nothing from anyone and so; he gave nothing and recieved nothing in return. 

Introductions.

I'm a little eccentric and a big art freak.

I live in Dublin and love London.

I love museums and writing.

I love photography, books and unicorns.

I drink a lot of coffee and I hoard things.

One day, I'll know who I am and who I want to be, but for now; I remain utterly perplexed:

I have too many interests and not enough experience,

I'm sick quite often and I love to draw.

I love vintage clothes and nostalgia.

I'm a perfectionist, but I'm really messy.

I'm in love with the past and I'm so excited for the future.

I don't drink and I'm a Bahai.

I love acting and the theatre.

I'm learning Japanese and I'm still in secondary school.

I'm pleased to meet you.