He is all that I need. He is all the good that I see and he is right here with me. His eyes are fixed to mine and he sees me. He sees the good. He sees the bad. He sees me completely. And he stills stays. He will hold me until the Earth itself fades away. He is everything.

This is…

…love?

My emptied pockets are not

Enough to fill half.

There are so many vanity products and processes that one can apply to try and improve on one’s looks: hair extensions, lipsuction, false eyelashes, false nails, piercings, tattoos, makeup, cosmetic surgery, vajazzling, and most annoyingly (for me and the topic of this post) fake tan. It is nigh on impossible to walk through any town in the UK without seeing at least 20 girls and guys with a completely unnatural looking tan on their skin. Not only is it unnatural, it’s not attractive! Orange is just not the way forward for complexion. And the sooner people realise this, the better. There is nothing wrong with pale coloured skin!

For those who still aren’t convinced, watch Snog, Marry, Avoid.

Don’t see the bodies lined up; piled up behind your constantly marching soles.

Don’t ask the question “what if?” and

Don’t regret the path on which you stroll.

Don’t look back.

Don’t turn inwards and think of the Chaos you have caused.

Don’t wonder.

Don’t hesitate.

Onwards and upwards.

To hell.

Light shines from her lantern
of hot petroleum,
as she wanders
from bed to bed of
the writhing, dead and the dying.

Her fingers reach outwards -
spindly and weathered,
yet so graceful
when she touches the
sweating heads and blistered skin.

And in that single stroke;
that one smallest caress,
the pain is gone
and their world goes black
as they fall into deathly peace.

She is no heroine -
no saviour of souls.
She is the end
of humanity,
and time in the world of living.

She is the cloaked reaper.
She is Death.

Inside, and safe from the precipitation, I long to be outside of these four walls. For a moment, I wish that I could take the form of the rain; to fall freely from the heavens and traverse the grounds in search for the waters that will once again take me back to the oceans – back home and back with you.

How long has it been? The marks on the wall say 8 days and yet an eternity has passed in my mind and loneliness is once again beginning to settle. If I close my eyes, I can just about see your face; just about feel your arms around me; just about smell your cologne in the air. The illusions soon shatter though with the inevitable need to open the lids once more and my bedroom has never felt so empty.

You will be back soon though. You will see me, take me in your arms and press your lips against mine. And you will smile. The world will fade, and I will smile back. It will be right once more.

And as I look outside, the clouds have parted: a passing shower.

I stumbled upon a video not so long ago. It was posted on a blog and the stills along with the accompanying comments drew me in to click on the link to see the video for myself. It was a rather enjoyable experience to say the least. Since that first video, I have followed its creator virtually and watched video after video as they were uploaded – each one as pleasing as its predecessor.

A few days ago, I stumbled onto yet another blog, discussing the aforementioned videos. The writer was pretty negative in what he had to say and made some rather personal comments about the creator of the videos. The reason for this negativity was this: the creator asked the writer not to refer to his videos as porn.

The videos do indeed contain adult material that one would usually affiliate with pornography: nudity and graphic sex scenes. Does that make it pornography? Shortbus and 9 Songs are cinematic films which contained explicit sex scenes and nudity, and yet they were shown in cinemas alongside mainstream movies. It is also mentioned on the blog that the videos were posted on an adult website dedicated to the provision of free porn. Does this also automatically make it porn? If I were to post a clip of paint drying onto a site like XTube, would that make it porn?

I found that the more I read of this blog post, the more my blood boiled. There were comments after comments about how the creator was “ill-bred” and “rude” and “barbaric” for not accepting the writer’s compliments. I don’t think it is all that unreasonable to not feel complimented when your creation is not being viewed the way you meant for it to. It seemed to me that the writer was having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that the creator did not make the video as a porno but as a piece of artistic expression. And it is in every creator’s right to label their creations as they see fit. Just because the casual onlooker may watch it and see it as porn, that does not define it as such. Art is not what the observer sees or feels, it is what the creator makes it.

I, for one, applaud the creator’s work. If he says it’s not porn, then it’s not porn – it is a piece of work. A creation born of his imagination and hard work. See for yourself and make your own decisions.

However, it isn’t the plausability of this change that I want to criticise nor is it the decision to pass it. What really bugged me about this whole scandal was the reaction of the students. Chaos broke loose and riots arose; buildings were damaged; people were injured; Prince Charles and the Duchess of Cornwall were attacked en route to the Royal Variety Show. What exactly was the meaning of this? What point were they trying to prove exactly? When you were a child and your parents told you that you had to earn your pocket money now by doing chores, did you slap them and pull their hair, and think that that would change their mind? I seriously doubt it. You probably realised, even at that age, that you would have to just go with the flow or risk not getting nothing whatsoever. The same principle applies here – throwing your toys out of the pram will get you nowhere. You’re an adult, for christ’s sake! Unlike a child, you can actually verbalise your thoughts and opionions in a way that people can understand and take on. When will people learn that violence is rarely the answer?

Before the riots, I was completely on the side of the anti-fee increase group. Post-riots, I just thought “what a bunch of complete twats!”. And I am pretty sure that I was not the only one. It was an immature act that did more harm to the cause than good. Also, the majority of the rioters were either students already in university or people who weren’t even planning to go to university: people who weren’t even impacted by the change!! Seriously! WTF? I hope the proper idiots got their comeuppance, I really do. If you have something to say, SAY it – don’t go throwing punches unnecessarily.

I can only imagine the emotions and thoughts that coursed through her in those dreadful times. Lumbered with the need to help as best as she could but crushingly aware of the fact that even the best was not enough in some instances. That has to be one of the worst feelings in the world: knowing that you’re unable to help someone in need. I know this from experience.

I am no Florence Nightingale; I do not tend to the needs of the sick and fatally wounded; I am no nurse; I am no saint. I am, however, caring. As conceited as that may sound, it’s the only way I can explain it. I care a LOT about those who are close to me. I always try to support my loved ones and I will always help whenever I am able to. It makes me feel good to help – I like that people can rely on me. So when an occasion comes up where I can’t offer my support – where my support is insufficient – I feel awful. I feel useless.

There are so many people I wish I could help out of the situation they are in. I wish that I could wrap them up in something and hoist them out of the hell that burns at their feet. Instead, I can only watch. Just as Florence watched her patients writhe in agony until they stopped. Forever.