home is where the bakchormee is.

i sit on my brand new porch, staring into the dark, illuminated solely by little specks of light that remind me of little else save stardust, and squint outwards at the unfamiliarity that i call home. i am nomadic; my room has been ripped of its messy interior, stripped bare of all its wooden trappings, waiting for a fresh set of wardrobes to adorn its walls. all is new, but strangely familiar. it's like life has changed in its entirety, but remained exactly the same. new job, new school, new car, new home, new life.

for once (and such occasions are, indeed, rare, as any readers of this blog will know) i am truly happy. life borders on perfection.

the first week of the rest of my life.

the end is so close it's practically knocking on my door. i gaze around the room, my room, and realise that in a week or so my life will be in packed up and sealed in little cardboard boxes, a thought that is simultaneously exhilarating and fearsome. the pictures, the posters, the miscellaneous junk that adorns my shelves and walls will be stripped away. my laundry basket, piled high with clothes and other assorted washable materials, will once again fall into disuse; never again will i need to fear a lack of clean, laundry fresh clothes. the maid will ensure it. rare will be the day i will have to concern myself with groceries, or cooking, or the like.

in a week, i will (God-willing) have a job, a new room, a brand new life. time they say, is the great equaliser. never before have i felt the absolutely truth behind that statement so acutely. i am at once equal parts pain and sorrow, on one hand, and utterly unfettered joy on the other. this is, after all, simply the end of the beginning.

flowers on my window.

i woke up this morning with the realisation that in a month, my life will be radically different from that to which i have grown accustomed. it's not a negative thought, just a scary one. i lay in bed for a little while and contemplated the fact that no matter how hard i try, there is no escape from the inevitable, inescapable need to grow up. and then josh pounded on my door and told me to wake up and go to the library, so i guess we now return to normal programming. bah.



shot and photoshopped by su. respect.

politewinter.

you never truly see a city for what it is until just after midnight, when the faintest hint of moonlight tinges the treeline with burnished silver, and the buildings themselves seem to whisper ruminations overheard the day past. the wind carries the voices of a dying day, and the weariness drops from your brow for just one brief, fleeting moment, before you lower your eyes and the weight of the world comes crashing back down on your back.

the contemplations of the bored.

i've been living in a cubicle for the last week. the same songs on repeat mode in my ear, all 500 of them on loop mode; constant, inexorable, unchanging. tbe same food, the same surroundings (oh, the unrelenting green-ess of the place). i'm trapped in a prison of my own choosing, spending most days floating in a sea of legal terms. the realisation hits me- the law is a but a set of reified human constructs, no more real or tangible than greek myths or roman gods. it exists because we say it does. we allow books to govern our lives, just because the word statute precedes them.

my neglected little corner of the intarweb.

i know i don't write as often as i used to. it's certainly not because i don't have anything to write; it's more because i ought to be writing something else (my final year project) but i'm not, so it feels like i'm sneaking off and doing something illicit when i even think about writing something that is't related to bankruptcy.

shh. i'm cheating on my essay with my blog. don't tell anyone. if ms word finds out, it'll have a catfight with firefox, and my desktop will be the battlefield.

clearly i need more sleep.

the carrot & the stick.

sometimes i sit back and wonder if all this is worth it- the constant grind, the worrying about grades, the plodding through endless reams of judicial reification and parliamentary debate on issues that i wouldn't ordinarily give a passing thought to.

maybe it's for the money- but that's just plain materialism. no one needs the moolah in excess, just to live confortably. materialism, consumerism on a vast scale is supposed to be bad, isn't it? spending vast quantities of money on things we don't really need when people are starving and suffering in our own back yards is unjustifiable, is it not?

and then i watched top gear (the XKR v. AM V8 Vantage bit), and i remembered why i need to succeed. some things you can get without vast sums of money- the house, the urban SUV, the kids. but some things redefine consumerism and transform desire into need. some things blur the line between necessity and passion.

nothing blurs that line more than these two.

you work not because you're afraid you won't live the life you always dreamed about. you're never really afraid of the stick. it's the carrots that make you run on that treadmill, regardless of how instinctively stupid it seems at the time. and if being able to drive either of these babies somewhere down the road, then bring on the work.

i'm ready for it.

nullity is bliss.

spending time doing nothing is possibly the most rewarding feeling of all. after enduring a hellish combination of medical coursework and banking set-off, i spent the weekend retreating into my youth, reading comics about shiny people in psychadelic costumes. the joy of kicking back on my bed and allowing my brain to collapse into near catatonia in a swirl of colour and sound (BIMBAMBOOF) is unparalleled.

the only difference between clothespegs...

...is how far they are along the line.

it's been one of those weeks where it's not so much that you get hit by a truck, but run over by a steamroller at an excruciatingly slow clip. the inevitable looms ever-so-barely on the horizon. it's a new year, but it feels like everything is mired in the past- the overwhelming ennui of the year past seems infectious, and i seem unable to remove myself from the constant curse of mediocrity i have shoeholed myself into.

it's meant to be one of those years that defines your life. the final term of university, graduation, leaving for good; the air of finality is less pervasive than i imagined. perhaps i've been overly influenced by hollywood images of people in caps and gowns, smiling with friends as they pose for insipid photographs and lie about keeping in touch.

so instead of going out and defining my life, i sit in my room and click the little purchase for items i don't really need, slave to self-constructed addictions and relentless consumerism. the winds of change will blow, and soon i'll be sitting somewhere else, clicking different little buttons. there is no choice, no autonomy in what i do.

my life isn't a road, it's a railway track. roads imply exits and alternative destinations.

maybe i'm right, and this is the definition that i so desperately seek. a life of pushing buttons, both real and imagined, with a result that is certain. a definite outcome, a foreseen starting point, and a predictable in-between. ah, cynicism is my gift. i wonder why people see me as a lawyer.

still. all this ranting implies unhappiness. i am not unhappy. i am, however, hanging on, in the void between childhood and adult independence.

if i'm right, the transition will be barely discernable.

bursting at the seams

if you feel discouraged/
that there's a lack of color here/
please don't worry lover/
it's really bursting at the seams/
absorbing everything/
the spectrum's A to Z
- death cab



thank you su for the gift of flickr. the gift that keeps on giving. for a year, at least.

of oysters and crocodiles

"all the little oysters stood/and waited in a row"- lewis carroll, the walrus and the carpenter

in my case they were dumped into a guiness and steak pie and cooked by the beefy juices for two minutes. a most unique way to eat the little buggers, it must be said. speaking of unique things to eat (or, indeed, drink), they don't come stranger than this:



i prayed for barrels, and lo did they appear. self-imagined nostalgia is a speciality of mine.



it's days like this, when the air is crisp and the sky is a shade of pastel grey that london seems most like it is meant to be. the people bustle, but they do so alone. the city seems at once full of, and devoid of all life. it's the noisiest silence you'll ever hear.

new year, old habits

i find it extraordinarily difficult to suppress the urge to write, despite my constant self-assurances that there is, indeed, little or no point in keeping a chronicle that scarce anyone would bother reading, let alone a future version of myself.

and yet here i am again, leaving my little digital scribble on the vast page that is the intarweb. no matter, i'm too stuffed with fine waterfowl to quibble with myself. what matters is that i once again have a wee nook on the web to call my own. huzzah.



in truth, it's probably just an excuse for me to complain about everything this side of jupiter and then post irrelevent photos. technology facilitates whinging.