ink.

To love is to write poetry.

To be loved is to inspire poetry.

Love is poetry.

and i’ve stopped writing long ago.

There’s nothing as hard to bear as post beer depression.

Found out i ain’t gonna see my family this summer. It’s all for the best, tho i don’t particularly fancy the idea of travelling from West London where i’ll be living to Luton and Brighton.

I miss my cat.

I feel an outburst of randomness kicking in.

Reading 5 books at a time again. My head spins.

Have to wake up at 4am.

*drops dead*

I miss a few persons. I like non rhotic accents. And M&S. Can’t find any Metallica on my hard disk. I’ll have to deal with Clann zu. or vdgg. or camel.

some beatles might do.

Nice to meet you. Sorry, can’t remember your name. it won’t be long.

it’s been a pleasure.

I heard it happens to the best of us.

Why does it happen to me all the time?

My name is diana and i’m sad.

I lost my parker fountain pen. I want it back.

All in all, i hate to acknowledge my life is now somewhere else.

p.s.

cider >>beer. say it isn’t so.

Wish i could turn kilos into inches. This way tho, everything is lost.

On a different note, tired and emotional kids are awesome. But i don’t think i could handle English should i get drunk.

I have a love for all things post.

Just what kind of person do you have to be to wake up at 7am to watch this?

While i agree Russian cinema is particularly compelling, the reasons why i’m being such an early/nerdy bird go beyond my comprehension.

Being in such distress lately has been pushing me into some hardcore doodling. Many times I felt the need to transcribe my occasional fits of rage, and I dare say we should all be thankful I didn’t. Whilst serving the www community by being AWOL for so long, I’ve caused great harm to myself, and it was high time it all came to an end. I’m in no way engaging into reinventing the wheel at this precise moment (though I might do it at some point in my life), and unless you’re here to read my useless rants, go away.

This blog won’t save your life.

It won’t save mine either, but it’s a good and comfy way to pass the time. Being a slacker has never felt this good.

After losing my card on my way to the pub, being the burger queen and getting sick, realizing I’ve got 2 weeks left to write a paper on some American film of my choice (might just give Lynch some praise here) and buying almond butter, I’ve come to realize what I truly madly deeply need is a haircut. Mind you, this may not be the righteous way to productivity, but I’m starting to think in more creative ways, thus I believe it’s a good start.

If I haven’t felt any culture shock (teh horror!) whatsoever upon moving to the UK, there are a couple of things that baffle me. No, I’m not talking about the hilarious amount of hair salons in Luton (although walking down the street and coming across one every 3 metres is a bit frustrating), I’m talking about the hilarious amount of services they offer (at quite a hilarious price, I might as well add, but I’m in no way going there). I can’t remember jack, but they did strike me as uncanny. I don’t know much about hairstyling and all that girlie hooey, but why on earth would I need a cut and BLOW, if my hair was dry in the first place? It sure does more sense when you add the word (and a couple more quid for that matter) WASH, but otherwise it all turns into womanish crap. I don’t know where I’m going with this, what I do want to know is why can’t I have a plain and simple cut, why do they have to wash and dry blow and restyle and whatnot my hair. Why, Mr. Toni&Guy, can’t I pay that ridiculous sum of money just to get rid of this curly nuisance that my hair has become?

I’m thinking of adopting a DYI attitude and get it over with. Too much stress. What a hassle. If only I knew what being a girl involved…

Not that I could’ve done anything.

And one more thing before I get back to Samuel Beckett. I occasionally wake up in the middle of the night and write things on tiny yellow post-it notes. Woke up this morning and one was lying around on the floor, stating I would enjoy living in a world where people could feel the pain of others for a second just by touching them. I know exactly what this thought cues to, and I won’t go there; let’s just say sometimes I feel bad because I feel bad and there’s no way I can prove it.

Later on however, it dawned upon me some of us might become serial killers. Funny how our pain, be it physical or not, might be unbearable for others. Hard to classify, harder to explain, impossible to imagine.

Just don’t call me little miss mass murderer.

People call me many things these days, and i’m glad they do, for they helped me improve my vocabulary quite a lot (although i’m not sure in which way knowing 5 synonyms for the word geek is going to help me in life, but i’m still grateful). However, in 20 years of fragile existence i have never been called old, or ancient, or outdated, or whatever (nevertheless, i refer to myself as being oldskool, but that’s a different matter). Well, not until today, when i turned 20 years 4 months and 1 day. To put you in context, somebody at school couldn’t fail to notice how clean my Converse trainers were, and after proudly declaring that i did in fact wash them, i had to answer a flurry of rather rude questions (not that i mind them, truth be told).

you cook

you clean your shoes

you never come to parties because you’re always reading

you take notes

just

what kind of student are you?

I don’t know man, a good one?!

I do have a record of evasive responses, but i think this might be on the top of my list.

The problem with me is, i’d rather be old than starved. Intellectually challenged than physically. Etc. Maybe i’d make a good mother, i’m not keen on finding out that part. Even smart as a whip as people think i am, i’m still having fun, so just stop worrying about my clean shoes.

On another note, i’ve always imagined people gravitating towards each other in concentric circles. Most of them manage to reach the centre, while others feel more safe at extremities. What the centre people don’t seem to understand is the fact that the others are not really struggling to get where they are. What the centre people fail to see is the fact that the others act as their life buoy, even though at some point we all drown, one way or another, for that floating idea of safety in numbers is a mere deceit.

(Marty: Thirteen. But I have an old soul.)

- At his back the light’s gone blue at the hills

and what’s oncoming night continues to rise from the valley floor ,

enduring slopes and small crested villages,

until what is not under blue, that deepening scrim of blue,

surrenders its final dapple and winks out, breathing away from the windows, dark

and completed

to complete: a breath that bears reflection.

Don’t ever get old. -

8 years ago I was lucky enough to meet my significant other, a Parker fountain pen, and yes, it was love at first…touch. However, the pen belonged to my desk mate, so our relationship couldn’t pass the timid glances stage, and as it wasn’t precisely cheap, I had to get used to the thought that i would never get one.

Last year in August i had some spare money and i convinced myself it was high time i had that pen, so i went into the shop, looked at it and went back home. 2 months ago i found it here at half the Romanian price so i said yeah, why not. 1 minute ago i realized i’m using Word for basically everything, so the pen was a dream come true, but i don’t feel happier having it in my pencil case. Thus i thought maybe sometimes we invest too much into our dreams, wishes, desires etc; so much that when they actually start to materialize we cannot be happy anymore, for they cost us too much soul.

Anyhow, 2 weeks ago i had to meet someone and that person had to write something down so she asked me for a pen. I gave her my fountain pen and i was amazed to see she didn’t know how to use it. I tried not to be judgmental, after all i cannot expect everyone to hate ballpoint pens and love neat notebooks, but the situation saddened me. I know i don’t know many things, but what i know for a fact is that my life would be so much more empty without the occasional stains of blue ink. And if you want to hear more, i also know that everyone should try to write with a fountain pen every now and then, even though the process of finding the perfect one might take, well, too long.

You know what i would do, i’d spend a few days on that bridge, staring at people passing by me. I’d try to invent a story for everyone, like i used to do a couple of years ago. In the end, maybe i could see my own big picture. Maybe their looks would feel more familiar. But no, i do not suffer from the displaced child syndrome.