It's almost farcical to think that you can forever be happy in life. No feeling can, or ever will last forever no matter how much money, talent or self-belief you have. You're only human, after all. As pessimistic as that all may sound, it often helps to be a realist where emotions are concerned. For some apparent reason emotions, even though it's said we cannot control them, drive everything; from that bad day at work because your boss majorly woke up on the wrong side of his king size bed, to the little playground spats as a child where the boy from the class next door decided that losing his pokemon card was your fault; and thus proceeded to take it out on you for the remainder of the day.
So more to my point, the most famous of the emotions out there is the one that everyone craves. Yes, love is desired by all, especially those that claim they don't want to be in love. In actual fact the biggest cliché in the history of mankind is love itself.
'Love conquers all'
Really? I can't imagine cupid beating many people in a fight. But on a more serious note, love can be so, so brilliant. It's quite easily the most intense and exciting feeling that you can experience, from that first kiss when you realise you're falling for that special person to that moment where they break it off because 'it's not working'. Love is a feeling you cannot shake; as if it's an emotional shroud around you grasping at your every movement, coursing through your body with every beat of your heart. Almost like a drug, love can make your heart pulsate in ways you could never understand, then it can make your stomach do backflips until you feel so queasy you almost can't take it anymore. Love makes you feel happy when you're at your worst, but it can also bring you to lows you never thought you could experience.
For it is also true that love comes hand in hand with other emotions, trust and jealousy to name a few. When emotions get together and gang up on you, that's when you truly lose a bit of self-control. You wonder how a feeling that your own body has created can make you shudder with joy but at the same time feel rage that you never thought your body could even contemplate. That moment where you feel your stomach has suddenly lifted to the top of your chest (you know the one I mean) can mean so many different things. Of course, to fall in love with someone you must be lucky, for in most cases you're loved back and if that's the case then it can make you feel like nothing else will ever matter. Love encapsulates almost everything you can give to someone. From the single rose you buy in the cheesiest manner for them, to that grand gesture of a proposal in front of hundreds of people, love makes you do actions you never would even think about doing for other people.
Everyone wants to be loved, and thus everyone must want to also love somebody else too. Therefore, to put it frankly, love is quite simply the most unforgettable feeling anyone will experience.
Friday 28 October 2011
Thursday 13 October 2011
#2 ME AND MANDY?
http://youtu.be/TMSSqCEZaOk
Above is the link to my personal favourite song. Ever.
You probably think it's awful. Fact.
But for some strange reason it's stuck with me as something I can always listen to, usually a good indicator that for me, anyway it's a favourite. Sang by the artist 'Example' (who has now consistently turned out commercial s**t for the masses) it’s part of his much earlier work. Lovely.
The chorus states;
'She won't say where we're gonna go and I do not need to know, oh no,
'Cuz it's just me and Mandy,
We sit there looking at the Thames don't give a f**k about our old friends,
'Cuz it's just me and Mandy.'
Brilliant isn't it? An exhibition of genius in the format of wordplay and rhyme it's a demonstration of what in my eyes a true song should be. Personally it just seems as if the artist himself does not care, the song seems wild, it's blaring, it's riddled with profanities and laced with references to underground drug abuse and culture. Like I said, brilliant. The first line itself even states;
'Youre a bitch.'
How attention grabbing. Even now as I type these very sentences and words down, the song blazing through my headphones in this otherwise silent library, the lyrics just transport my mind to a day dream of utter chaos. Call it a party if you wish, but it's far more abstract than that. Yes, the use of 'Mandy' is clearly not about a female lover of the artist as he clearly calls her his 'crystal mistress' but it is this quirky and frank description of how his 'head and not my genitals' are buzzing off the molecules put across the suggested images of pure ecstasy (oh the irony) and jubilation he has during this night out and thus what the song reflects upon the listener.
He calls the experience the 'best 12 hours of the last 6 months', how enticing that such an effect could be so incredible. All it makes me consider is pure curiosity, that the effects of 'Mandy' could apparantly be so delightfuly life-changing. With no cares in the world expressed in the song itself, it truly oozes the obviously intentional rush and buzz of the experience. Plus it's a pretty good tune too...
Above is the link to my personal favourite song. Ever.
You probably think it's awful. Fact.
But for some strange reason it's stuck with me as something I can always listen to, usually a good indicator that for me, anyway it's a favourite. Sang by the artist 'Example' (who has now consistently turned out commercial s**t for the masses) it’s part of his much earlier work. Lovely.
The chorus states;
'She won't say where we're gonna go and I do not need to know, oh no,
'Cuz it's just me and Mandy,
We sit there looking at the Thames don't give a f**k about our old friends,
'Cuz it's just me and Mandy.'
Brilliant isn't it? An exhibition of genius in the format of wordplay and rhyme it's a demonstration of what in my eyes a true song should be. Personally it just seems as if the artist himself does not care, the song seems wild, it's blaring, it's riddled with profanities and laced with references to underground drug abuse and culture. Like I said, brilliant. The first line itself even states;
'Youre a bitch.'
How attention grabbing. Even now as I type these very sentences and words down, the song blazing through my headphones in this otherwise silent library, the lyrics just transport my mind to a day dream of utter chaos. Call it a party if you wish, but it's far more abstract than that. Yes, the use of 'Mandy' is clearly not about a female lover of the artist as he clearly calls her his 'crystal mistress' but it is this quirky and frank description of how his 'head and not my genitals' are buzzing off the molecules put across the suggested images of pure ecstasy (oh the irony) and jubilation he has during this night out and thus what the song reflects upon the listener.
He calls the experience the 'best 12 hours of the last 6 months', how enticing that such an effect could be so incredible. All it makes me consider is pure curiosity, that the effects of 'Mandy' could apparantly be so delightfuly life-changing. With no cares in the world expressed in the song itself, it truly oozes the obviously intentional rush and buzz of the experience. Plus it's a pretty good tune too...
Tuesday 11 October 2011
'Something I attended' OUCH!
Blog post one. Or if you're a baguette wielding French man named Pierre (and for some strange reason have come across my blog) 'un'. I enjoy writing, and I enjoy myself in a strangely non-twisted kind of way. Hence I thought why not base my first post almost entirely around myself; or at least some sort of experience. Call this an introduction to yours truly...
As a keen footballer and athlete from the University football I often find myself lying face down in my room after a Wednesday night, various missed calls upon my mobile, wondering what exactly occurred to make my head feel ever so slightly disgusting. Generally, it's the toxic substance secreted from various pumps and dispensers in those wonderfully inviting (with their little flashy lights) bars and clubs, or it could be an occurrence from an even less likely knock on the head the night before, needless to say I do enjoy a drop of liquor after celebrating a win that afternoon; or if it be a loss then drowning my sorrows, or if it be a draw then simply celebrating life and the wondrous things upon this God given land.
Speaking of knocks on the head, at times it's clear I've had one too many. Presumably that's what others often think of me after a night out, after I exert my various moves in the amplified atmosphere of the discotheque I often frequent. Thus here is my story from one particularly 'sloshed' eve at such a place.
After proceeding to beverage a whole bottle of the finest Co-Operative Rose, and a few light beers the hops clearly took hold of me and I left my inhibitions at home. With my chums we then trotted to the students union bar, revelling in the beauty of the strobe lights and various bass lines offered, and to a certain degree the mixture of liquid substance that continued to pour down our gullets for the rest of the night. Two hours later and we could be described as 'on one', or to put it less street, intoxicated. After our merry night ended we eventually managed to find the brightly lit exit of the Union and decided it would be a clever idea to hop the large gate, under the assumption that obviously we were now some sort of ape-human being able to clamber large obstacles at any time we wished. How wrong I was.
One rip later I was over the fence. How simply lovely it was to raise the palm of my hand and discover that I had a large gash down the middle of it, apparently that's called your life line by some; if that's the case I was definitely a dead man. Que the bleeding, how exhilarating it was to watch this white open space upon my palm suddenly turn to a vibrant pool of crimson shining under the streetlights. Gladly, my fond friend Mr Carling had worked his magic long before and feeling anything on my body was no longer possible (until the next morn). Yes, three stitches later and a long drowsy sleep I awoke no longer able to slap a fellow man upon his face with the palm of my right hand, of course not that I'd want to...
As a keen footballer and athlete from the University football I often find myself lying face down in my room after a Wednesday night, various missed calls upon my mobile, wondering what exactly occurred to make my head feel ever so slightly disgusting. Generally, it's the toxic substance secreted from various pumps and dispensers in those wonderfully inviting (with their little flashy lights) bars and clubs, or it could be an occurrence from an even less likely knock on the head the night before, needless to say I do enjoy a drop of liquor after celebrating a win that afternoon; or if it be a loss then drowning my sorrows, or if it be a draw then simply celebrating life and the wondrous things upon this God given land.
Speaking of knocks on the head, at times it's clear I've had one too many. Presumably that's what others often think of me after a night out, after I exert my various moves in the amplified atmosphere of the discotheque I often frequent. Thus here is my story from one particularly 'sloshed' eve at such a place.
After proceeding to beverage a whole bottle of the finest Co-Operative Rose, and a few light beers the hops clearly took hold of me and I left my inhibitions at home. With my chums we then trotted to the students union bar, revelling in the beauty of the strobe lights and various bass lines offered, and to a certain degree the mixture of liquid substance that continued to pour down our gullets for the rest of the night. Two hours later and we could be described as 'on one', or to put it less street, intoxicated. After our merry night ended we eventually managed to find the brightly lit exit of the Union and decided it would be a clever idea to hop the large gate, under the assumption that obviously we were now some sort of ape-human being able to clamber large obstacles at any time we wished. How wrong I was.
One rip later I was over the fence. How simply lovely it was to raise the palm of my hand and discover that I had a large gash down the middle of it, apparently that's called your life line by some; if that's the case I was definitely a dead man. Que the bleeding, how exhilarating it was to watch this white open space upon my palm suddenly turn to a vibrant pool of crimson shining under the streetlights. Gladly, my fond friend Mr Carling had worked his magic long before and feeling anything on my body was no longer possible (until the next morn). Yes, three stitches later and a long drowsy sleep I awoke no longer able to slap a fellow man upon his face with the palm of my right hand, of course not that I'd want to...
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