The post title this time comes from yesterdays late night pondering. I had, for some unexplainable reason, the song 'How to save a life' on my brain, in my brain, in my head, seriously it was everywhere except for maybe in the fridge (cold places are often silent places, i don't know why). But instead of hearing the original lyrics i heard... well, the post title. So i didn't get much sleep last night as i was slightly worried about the morbid way my head works.
Me blogging now is just an excuse really, i should pack. I should prepare, i should, i should. But i don't want to! I mean, i want to go to Africa, don't get me wrong, but why does it have to be so much preparation involved? The cleaning I'm alright with, i don't mind making things look nice and tidy. But the sorting out what to keep and what to throw away or give to charity is hell on earth for a sentimental person.
Everytime i pick something up from the ridiculously huge pile of
things i own, i get these vivid flashbacks of summers past and old dreams, and i just want to keep it all. But i shan't (is that a word? It is now), i shall throw it all away never to see it again. How dramatic.
The only sentimental treasures i allow myself to keep are my diaries and notebooks, and the jewelry given to me by old friends, lovers and relatives. One of those pieces is a homemade sheep tooth necklace given to me by a friend just to mock my vegetarianism, i feel like Luna Lovegood everytime i wear it, but i refuse to depart from it.
I have 17 notebooks, some of them over ten years old, and i love them all to bits. Reading all the bad poetry and silly short story ideas is like watching my imagination and creativity growing up, like i am two people at once. My diaries tells a completely different story, they tell about boyfriends, arguments, alienation, all the regular teenage rants. I do have some disturbing 'what's so bad about suicide' pages in there, but i guess that's just part of the whole diary thing.
I mean, who haven't thought about suicide at least once while growing up? Or thinking that they might be gay or religious? Or both? I even went through a period where i refused to step on grass, convinced that it must be excruciatingly painful to be stepped on all the time.
I must say thank the birds for Neil Gaiman (just a stray thought really) if it weren't for him my favourite author would be a dead, gay man. And if you do not know who i am referring to, you are not worthy of reading my blog. So there.
