EMBRYO

10:10:00

The Google result for 'beginning' gives you the title for this post. Personally I find it really cheesy to write it as a title, let alone post it. Call me a hypocrite. You just did. If you think I am some rude- intellectually stimulated-glob of anxiety- hidden behind a distant demeanour kind of a person, yes, I am. You still have time to yawn and snort and click another hypable or Holywoodlife article and forget this ever happened. Bye. But for those of you who are loser enough to stay please go ahead. *reluctantly mumbles* thank you. -_- I have been contemplating what feels like forever about actually buying confidence on sale and posting my thoughts online. Well I guess I just did that or else it would have been the gazzilionth post on my 'save' hoard. God. I just got to know that my first ever real-person crush recently shifted to FRANCE. FUCKING FRANCE.

So I am doomed for a life of a desolate, misanthropic spinster. *sigh*

This post is a fucking embryo, don’t kill it before it sees the sick sad world, as Daria would say. Save the hate for later commoners. So, traditionally I should be posting something about myself so that you feel the thread that connects us all with the cosmos; relatability (I tend to be a tad verbose, if you haven’t noticed). And my outdated software indicates with a thin red line that I have misspelt the word. Fuck it. Sometimes this software makes me want to pull off a Sylvia Plath.

I normally write very ornate sentences but my brain disagrees today. I write because I feel brave when the ink spills on the pages, the black characters dance across the screen. I write because I think it’s important to share what you feel, if only with paper. I read because this life is just not enough and I distinctly remember this line from somewhere but I am too lazy to look it up. I read because it means that silence speaks when the world shouts gibberish. It’s exhilarating to keep some strangers thoughts with yourself and feel propelled by them. I carefully construct this haven of pages and ink to escape from reality. When J.M. Barrie urges me to be kinder than necessary, or when Nathan Filer talks about being trapped in the pain of our minds, when John Cooper Clarke says that he doesn’t want to be nice, when Vazaki Nada says that my sanity is your fabrication, something unites with my own essence; I understand like we understand silence(instinctively). These thoughts never cease to dazzle me with the imperceptible mundanity of reality. I think art is the most accepting divinity there ever was. I also think that I think too much. Maybe it’s not a bad thing after all. Art that makes you feel something. Anything.

When I am speaking of art; Music revives even the dead. When you close your eyes and sway to 'Rape me' or hum to 'come as you are', you realise that reality is a beautiful illusion. I love the independent rock genre if it’s not stereotypical enough for a newly born intellectual. But I adore almost all kinds of rock , especially the raw bluesy kind that makes you feel ancient and wise and profound and purposeful. Unabashedly, an Arctic Monkeys fan(besides being blindingly hot, they offer meaning). I love how their lyrics are so carelessly yet carefully constructed of the bland indignities humanity faces everyday and yet pensively embrace sadness. Bring me the Horizon might not impress your parents but it is as legitimate as twenty one pilots. Deal with it. I appreciate Florence Welch for her surrealism and pseudo spiritualism. Music connects you to emotions you thought were deeply buried into the abysmal chasms of your being. (I incorporated abysmal chasms) Seriously, I am trying too hard. You will find heartbreaking pieces of the human imagination in these lines. It’s up to you to find them.

I dance like a hippie.

Just random important facts about me:

I am random to the point of disintegrating into a million pieces of chaos. Also, I have a habit of being corny and cool at the same time, like now. I am a creative thought, shot from the cosmos dimly illuminating the darkness of this mortal frame. See what I said about being corny. It's a riot, A fucking emo kid scene. A circus, my mind I mean. I am really fond of building up pseudo realities and impossible daydreams where a nerdy raven haired boy is a fairie in disguise and loves mismatched socks. I doodle indie patterns and save retro vintage stuff off the internet for my never ending projects. I obsess over non-existent crisis and my imaginarium of dreams. I collect souvenirs of the dead moments gone by. There is this magnetic pull of time, it's so bewildering, like wine, words absorb profundity and mystery with time. Sometimes my heads spins faster and it almost becomes impossible to contain the wonder that it is Just(Alex turner accent) short of bursting at the seams. It's a party.

I have an unmistakable yearning to travel. Wanderlust as commoners call it. CONCERTS make me drool incessantly. No shame. At least I accept absurdity. I love dark things. I love sadness. I love this familiarity, the comfort, the peace of being in my true element when I am all blue. Like a smurf. I've got a sense of humor. Heh. And I hate that this post has a lot of "I's". 'I' sound like a narcissistic desperate bitch right now. We die every time we care, I think. So I don’t care (I do). I wish we could rise above this crippling need. Brutal isn't it? Supreme Self deprecation at its haunting best. NOT to forget that I stalk Brits. All and everyone (which is a song by the way). All this time I am keeping a count of pop culture references essential to keep the readers interested, I am failing calamitously.

Sometimes I dream that my hands are charcoal and my face is melting and there is just music and the moon. And I am flying back to 'it'. whatever that is. I hope I am making enough sense for you to follow me to the end. Reader, don't judge me for being too corny as Holden would say.