I feel like holidays makes it easier to blog (I have been working on one blog post for a couple of weeks now) and even though Halloween isn’t celebrated in South Africa, we have to admit that the new colonialism tool, the television, has made this one big American world (not that I’m complaining where would I be without The Vampire Diaries?).
This is another in-the-interim post while I’m busy writing up a longish fresh and original blog post. This the poem I referenced in my last post:
When I was an innocent teenager (pause for laughter) and a boy wronged me or righted me (I know that word is highly incorrect and very rarely had a boy ‘righted’ me) I would pick up my pen and journal and write a poem. I am not claiming to be a Sylvia Plath (my poems were never as good or as emo), it will be a compliment to even be likened to Emma Robert’s whiney character in Unfabulous (yes, I watched Unfabulous and I’m unashamed) but poetry was an out for me to express my feelings in a way that wasn’t as public as talking or as open and descriptive as journaling.
Over the last few months, the amount of poems I have written has declined immensely, this could because I have not been hurt enough in order to passionately express in poetry, but rather oddly I am now sitting on 4097 tweets. The sad thing is that life has became too fast-paced for me to wait to get home to get my favourite leather-bound journal in order to gush about my day, I need to describe it 140 characters or less, attempting to maintain the cryptic, ambiguous and mysterious tone I had with my terrible dramatic poetry. So in many ways I would like to think that I’ve grown out of lines like “Then he looked at me/And everything around me faded away” (Bleugh! Eew! Shut up!) but I know that all that has changed is the medium that I use. I still give in tweeting things like “Interested to see once all the excuses have lapsed” which noone who follows me would understand.