offwiththeirdollheads: (Default)
It's a strange feeling when you come to the realisation that nothing will ever be the same again. We might think things are constant, we might even indulge in the same fruitless activities day in and day out with the preconception that it's ALWAYS THE SAME. But it's not. Somewhere, clock hands are turning, seasons are making their small changes daily, cells die and replicate. They are all making their subtle changes. As are we.

As I sit here on a cold Sunday in July, listening to the rain which hasn't ceased all day and Beach House's 'Apple Orchard' on repeat, I realise that I'm clambering to hold on to the things I've lost. Those seemingly endless hours of youth where adulthood felt as though it was an alien life-form living in a far off galaxy.

This was the moment the mild epiphany (if you can really call it that) occurred.

And you will have to forgive me for indulging in one or two clich├ęs here, but sometimes they convey the idea in the simplest manner. Why spend time looking backwards when it has no use anymore? The past is the place we have come from but it sure isn't where we are going (unless time travel is discovered to be a reality). It's like being stuck in mud and you're facing the wrong way. You are not able to see any of the opportunities in front of you because you're fixed in one position, looking in the wrong damned direction!

I guess, I am a creature of habit and there's a certain security in looking at the past. It can't have any immediate effect on you. It's all over and done with and all you have to show for it is are a few fragmented memories, a bunch of scratches and scars and a little/infinite knowledge firing its way around inside of your skull. We may have collected all these things from the past and carry them around with us on a daily basis but there is no point in utilising them only to study how they were obtained back in the past and they may not even serve any purpose in the years ahead. However, one thing's for sure, the things coming at you, from this illusive concept we know as 'the future' sure can.
offwiththeirdollheads: (Default)
Life is a delicate architecture and each day presents it's own earthquake. The foundations we have laid may not be as strong as we may think and sometimes we need to re-build. It could be one or two rooms at a time and sometimes you need that earthquake to bring the whole goddamn thing down so you can start again.
offwiththeirdollheads: (Default)
I thought it was time for a Blog overhaul. Part of me wanted to go through all the entries from the past couple of years and delete them. There was an urgent need to wipe the slate clean and start afresh. Nonetheless, I resisted the urge and I decided to let them reside here for now; there's no harm in leaving them outside and allowing them to breathe for a while longer. A persistent niggling urge still summoned me to change something though, so I toyed around with several different formats and themes and eventually settled on this current one for the time being.

I also changed the name.

I dug a little hole and buried 'Ouija Disco'. It didn't serve a purpose anymore and I settled on the name: 'Not an Oracle'. An obvious statement one might conclude. I'm also not a professional advice-giver, psychologist or animal trainer. I'm merely a thirty year old man who thinks way too much. Both a curse and a blessing but I've gotten used to its prickly grasp. I'm not sure what use this minor modification will have but sometimes it's nice to embrace a little change, shake the sheets, blow the dust, rearrange the furniture. So for now, 'Ouija Disco' lies in a tiny make-shift grave just outside my bedroom window. The beauty of graves however, is that they can always be dug up again...
offwiththeirdollheads: (Default)
There is much to celebrate and yet there is much to look back upon. These are the last moments before an inevitable change. They drift in and out of focus, bittersweet and poignant. November draws to a close whilst a dark and forlorn December is ushered in with cold winds and short days. The bare walls and cupboards speak only in echoes and I pack my life away in a multitude of boxes, stacked high by the bedside. I think to myself, 'this is the last time I will walk by this very river' or 'this is the last time I will walk through this door'. There's a sombre silence that hangs high in each empty room, like clouds of distant memories, of thoughts and of conversations. This was a home, a place of escape and fortitude. There's a certain sadness in letting go and saying goodbye but this is the process and this is what shapes the next era.

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Not an Oracle

January 2016

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