No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight...

Opening note: I wrote this last night. Fell asleep too fast to post it. :)

Here I am, sitting alone in the semi-quiet room. The skies outside are black like death, looking perfidious and unfriendly. Maybe it's the glare from the lights, but from the window it looks blank and starless, like someone just wiped a blackboard. The eyesores of bright, white unnatural glow beaming from the garden centre next door show the reality that we've ruined our earth, failed at stewardship, and the next generation to receive our world in their hands will be left with a mess of fluorescence, chewing gum encrusted pathways and an absence of trees, pandas, polar bears, fossil fuels and natural magnificence. Look back at poetry of great writers that died before they could see how we destroyed their muse.Their work speaks of magical nature; seasons changing, the colours, the sheer amazement of flowing streams and soft golden rays of sun. With these strange weather patterns, It's as if our earth is crying for help, pleading for our attention. As a human, I am ashamed.

The Mocks closed in so fast. Last time I checked, it was January the First at12am & I was watching that Hootenanny thing with my dad, jumping around idiotically to Dizzee Rascal and Florence & The Machine. After this, it's a short jump to Junior Certificate (in which I haven't completed two projects that everybody else has and I'm too embarrassed and anxious to ask the teachers for help) and then it's two shorts years and Leaving Cert. And then the rest of my life. I've brought this up before, I know, but the utter rapidity of it is mind-blowing. I just hope I do okay in the mocks. Maths and Geoggers were today. I feel I did terrible in Maths, but very well in Geography. *pride*. I finished Maths in an hour and then highlighted my hands. I've got no motivation for studying lately, much like everything else. This type of unconscious apathy is so immature, but I can't rid myself of it.What if I don't end up as some sort of writer? What if I end up as a bum, drinking scotch all day, bones protruding and wearing atrocious attire? My dream is to write, and get my fifteen minutes of fame and spend my life in my dinky London apartment overlooking the Thames; wearing patent Louboutins and elegant beige and tope linen, floral tulip skirts and sweet heart mini-dresses with my pro Nikon slung around my neck. I guess I just don't deserve it.

I was googling some poems for English when I came across two poems I hadn't read in a long time: Ode To A Nightingale by John Keats & Lara, 10 by Michael Hartnett. Reading them aloud to myself, I felt captured and embraced by the sugar-spun, indulgent writing styles. I'm going to share extracts with you, because frankly, creativity isn't what you grow or are born with, it's bestowed upon you by what you encounter:

'O for a beaker full of warm south,

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene

with beaded bubbles winking at the brim

& purple stained mouths...

...Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

Or new love pine at them beyond tomorrow...'

                -Keats

'Here's my blessing for you, girl,

and it is no petty grace-

May you have the beauty of your mother's soul

and the beauty of her face.'

-Hartnett

Before I call an end to my piece of shite post, go listen to 'Smile' by Lily Allen.

Cracking tune.

How y'all have a good day, ya' hear?

Lucy

xoxo