Hang With Me.

Just don't fall

Recklessly headlessly in love with me

Cos it's going to be

All heartbreak

Blissfully painful and insanity

If we agree

Oh you can hang with me.

Robyn makes too much sense sometimes, it scares me.

I should rename this post 'Limbo', because that is how I am feeling right now. There are always several worlds you could exist in, and just because you have neglected one/some of them doesn't mean they disappear. They just repair themselves and become better than ever, waiting for you to return to it.

That's why it always seems better to get away from the world you are in right now, because the other one seems so much better than you remember it. And it is. It's everything you want it to be : calm, devoid of drama and everyone you love and care about loves you the way you want them to. Skies are always blue, beaches are always warm, and everything feels as real as it can.

Beach resorts don't really need marketing strategies, to be honest.

But that isn't where you can stay forever. Something in the other world will call you, claw you perhaps, and maybe drag you back into the world you hate to live in. It's got disease and disappointment and drama that only involves you.

That's where I am now. In limbo between two worlds. At first I hated being here. I wanted to return to the dream that I was living - with the comfort and the freedom I felt always. I eventually forgot about the loneliness and solitude that would have killed me had I not put it out of my head. I found solace in spending on clothes and shoes and beautiful things that would inspire me, and made the only place I had to myself, my sanctuary. Where no one could hurt me, destroy me and remind me of all the things I didn't have. Here, I could tell myself all the things I did have and feel grateful for them. And if I squeezed myself into one of the corners, I could dream of all the magical places I could be in at the moment. Where I had everything and everyone I wanted.

But then I had to realise that I was no longer dreaming. And I was becoming more comfortable with reality. I was more comfortable with having people to talk to and people who love me surrounding me at all times, and slowly I was waking up.

Soon I have to return to dreaming. I'm not going to like it, unless the dream gets more interesting. Which might not happen. And I think life is only going to get harder for me.

Fuck all this - things could just have been easier.

Cheers.

PS. I don't know what I am saying anymore so if there are grammatical errors then correct it yourself.

Kaythanksbye.

I Love The Way Nylon Feels Against My Skin.

It's better than leather.

Especially when it's crisp, glossy and filled with pages that try to pass themselves off as portals into a wonderland where music and fashion and photography combine into a melange of ecstasy.

NYLON magazine is not a drug. Although it's a close substitute.

It easily slides into the top spot on the list of my favorite magazines, right next to American Glamour because the only thing that's as good as a magazine that tells you what to do to be amazing, is a magazine that tells you the exact opposite. How to be an individual. How to be a rebel. How to embody all things hippy.

How to be in the indie about town.

But there is something so compulsively addictive about NYLON. Despite being a mainstream magazine, there is nothing mainstream about it; it's almost as if it's a constant battle to fight that label. It represents all things underground, from mid-level fashion to grungy attire for the decadent teen. It represents the pictures of the shutterbug with a less-than-efficient camera (think of the period between Lomo and SLR where no one really ventures) who still manages to portray some sort of adolescent angst through them. It represents the music you wouldn't listen to because no one told you to. Yet.

I won't elaborate because I know that once I entirely dissect this magazine, something in me will change my view on it and I will detest its very existence until my terribly short memory kicks in.

NYLON + GLAMOUR US = LITERARY ECSTASY.

Another thing. What is with this flood of indie, never-heard-of bands with nothing more to offer than a keyboard jingle and a bad haircut? First of all, they all look the same. You can literally spot them on the street in _____ (insert name of famously indie English city) ______, decked out in ankle-high pirate boots, skinnier-than-skinny skinny jeans and raggedy t-shirts with random prints, passed of as vintage.

All they play is trash! First of all they sound the same, they seem to date their influences to the same artists of the same time period (I don't expect Gaga to be mentioned but maybe you could pick an artist that hasn't already been worshipped?) and they all think that a cool haircut is one where you get really high and go crazy with a razor.

It looks stupid. There is nothing sexy about you. No one listens to your music.

Deal with yourself?

Cheers.

This was a completely nonsensical post. Yes, nothing has changed.

I Don't Know What I'm Doing Anymore.

I don't know how to feel.

Cheers.

Happiness Is Relative.

Absolute depression is more worth achieving.

Emotions. They can really tear you apart. You don't even need a reason for those emotions, really. It invites itself into any situation, mindfucks you beyond belief and then leaves you to crawl away barely breathing.

It might not hurt as much if there was a reason for it all.

I seem to have been submerged in this state of depression lately. It's been a while since I left it, since I started seeing the opportunities in life to actually have fun in my life and seize them. But it's dragged me back. Perhaps during my darkest days, I managed to sink to the bottom of the pool and sign some sort of diabolical deal to forever hold my soul within it. So as fast as I try to run, or as strong as I am to hold myself back, an invisible hand always has its gangly nails within the skin of my back, ready to pull me in when I get too happy.

Or drown me, if it sees fit.

I don't know where I belong anymore. I don't know how I am meant to feel anymore. Two months ago if anyone had asked me exactly what I wanted, I would have said that this would be it. This would make my world a little bit brighter. This would make me love life a little bit more. This would take all my problems away, for just that period of time.

Ask me now, and I could not even pretend to say that same.

The emotions that are clouding my head are a mix of guilt and general discontentment. It's like I feel that I am disappointed in a lot of things but guilty that I feel that way at the same time. And alongside all of that, I am longing for something I can't have right now. I find myself counting down the days, rather than counting away the days and putting myself in a state of denial that the days are longer than they seem.

I wish the days weren't as long as they seem.

And then comes that guilt trip I have been sent on. All I can think of is how I am letting down the people who love me more than I can feel about them at this point. How I wish I could feel the same joy and desire and passion that they feel about our embrace than I feel about starting a conversation with them. How I can't bear to let them know that only one of our smiles is true.

While the other one is more fake than the red lips on a whore.

I wish I had a reason for how I felt; at least then I could come up with a solution to rid myself of these feelings. What was meant to be a time of leisure has turned into weeks of mental torture because more than the fact that I feel bored, is that fact that I hate myself for feeling that way.

And the physical agony is just as painful. The sleepless nights, the appetite-less days and the idle mind.

I can't fucking do this anymore.

I hope it's just withdrawal symptoms from not visiting Topshop.

Cheers.

In My System.

Because I am out of it.

I am out of my system, quite literally. The system of coming up with a substantially cohesive blog post every other day has destroyed itself. And now irregular verbal diarrhea is all I manage to compose, which I try and pass off as something worthy of my blog.

Usually this works.

I think the whole novelty of blogging my life away has worn off. Somehow I seem to have found another outlet to vent my frustrations (god forbid that outlet be living) and listen to me mindlessly fabricate episodes of my life that don't really play out like I say it does.

Even at this point I am finding it difficult to get my point across. I guess it's also due to the fact that this blog doesn't get as much traffic as it used to, so I haven't got much of an incentive to blog about important things anymore.

I'm sorry.

Cheers.