A strong word

Who is hatred? Where was she born?
Has she always dwelt in our hearts or is she a creation of our own?
How does she manifest herself into acts of malevolence?
Does she spring from a bad past,a deficient childhood,the lack of love or the absence of solidarity?
Does she house herself dormantly within the walls of tolerance and seep out of the crevices created by pain,
or is tolerance just a mask unveiled when hatred is revealed?
Is she coupled with love,the antidote? Or is she just the all-overpowering,all encompassing drive of action?
Is she a spur of the moment rant or is she a cloud of negativity omnipresent?Is she a defence mechanism,denial,repression,blah blah?
Does she feed on familiarity or does indifferent ignorance make her the fiend she is?
Is she the fiend at all,or is it you and me?
Hatred is a teenage identity crisis,"who am I?"
                                                       

Charmed,I'm sure.

"And I like large parties. They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.”

-The Great Gatsby

There's just another frazzling charm about big dance parties-
Walking into blinding darkness,flashing lights,mirror mazes and groovy chandeliers.A picture here,snap snap,a million shutters going off like paparrazi,
Hustling to muffled music in the quiet washroom,skirts twirling in time with the music,
Smiling mid-dance at people you don't know too well,because there are no formalities,you really feel the heartbeat of the dancefloor pulsing through all of you.All of a sudden you dance even if you're a shy dancer and such is the vibe,the pulse of the lively bout.
Frantic phonecalls made in attempts to stall exiting the grandeur of it all,away from the everyday,away from effort-
All only you to leave you wit post-partum depression form the event of extravagance and in snares of hope for the return of it all.

Nuclear abberations

The inkling between dusk and night,when the flowers all look too pretty not to be painted fiction against the sky?
The death of the beat in a song,before it hits a high that reverberates?
The instant after you put your pen down in a paper and look at your destiny staring back at you,frozen for that second?
That's what you live for.
It's crazy how the most beautiful things don't take credit for their beauty.Hah,they don't even realise they're being created in a moment of pure inspiration,bright flashes and innocent effort.Unaware that they will ever resemble the grandeur of what would be termed art.
And why,irony is the wallpaper theme in the room of uncertainity.Yes,irony is a metaphor of life.
This,that,everything is iconic as John Huges 80's teen movies that came of age-All you believe is in a metaphor.

Mid week miseries.

She looks like love

"She speaks in smiles,and smells like crushed petals.
The language of her efforts speaks of pleasure and reflected pain,but never pressure.
She whips up her thoughts until they can be piped out like whipped cream icing and makes you believe in dreams.She would always be an investment for one's happiness,and an asset to one's  contentment.As it usually so happens,until you're in love,you never realise it's about choosing to give rather that picking to be given your share of it.She who showed me the beauty of it all,the sparks that make the world shine on,is the one who breathes life into my fire,ignites the dormant volcano of desire within-is my perspective of being loved,too.It's she,only her,that has me with all of my heart-and it's she that is the mark my world is most imprinted with.She's the sun in the centre of the crayon caricature I made as a kid and it feels like holding light,itself in your arms when she's in them,she looks like love."

The Last first time

Desks with graffiti carved out all over the tops,names and dates and places I will never know,favourites and lyrics the only form of familiarity.Looking down at it feels like describing unity,being somehow strangely connected to every kid who once sat here,carving out their niche in the world,leaving traces the future would fail to recognise,and time would acknowledge,anyway.
The last first day of school you'll ever have,they all said,and the finality of it all hits home like a hurricane.
The courtyard is sprawling with little girls walking hand-in-hand with their parents to their first ever day of school,the entirely sentimental scene of taking the first school photographs occupies these young parents and in the midst of all of it,I'm not sure how to feel.
Calling the school experience bittersweet would be too much of an understatement,really and like a friend of mine says "School is our normal." Call it sucky,sleep through most of it,or wake up with a smile because you have a home,a niche,that nurtures your heart,lets you be,it's all too overwhelming to even digest that it's going to slip away soon,and you're going to be out of school and it feels more like being school-less,like some sort of abandonment that orphans you of a home.
I've loved school and I've detested it,the same.I've been the kid who lives only to see another day of school and also the kid who is so sickened by it,they need a break to create breathing space.It's the place that's so full of love and so full of crap,and you put up with all of it because you don't know better and you don't really want to.
I wish I could deduce a definition for all that runs through my mind at the moment,but after all I sum up,the truth is,I'm only in deep denial of accepting change,never been a fan,anyway.For once,though,things don't seem to be falling apart,aspects of my life seem to be adhesive to each other,making so much sense that I seem to be waiting for the next teenage catastrophe around the corner.Oh well,here's the year rolling out like blue hills in the distance,only slowly rolling into sight.