As I speak, I am wrapped in blanket in the chilly city of Cardiff, in a hotel room watching Danny Mac dance beautifully on my tv screen.
I know, you are probably getting bored of my consistent posts about the various places that I have been visiting for universities, however it is pretty much the only interesting thing I have going on in my life at the moment, except the worst cold of my life intertwined with laryngitis. No pity necessary, I am giving myself enough.
Today, I am not going to post about my travels, or anything about Cardiff and the multiple welch names I have been seeing everywhere I look, including a sweet little cafe called ‘Hoffi-Coffi’ which I already knew meant coffee. I know you are doubting me; but trust me, it’s the truth.
I have written a few paragraphs this weekend about, well, I’m not all that sure what they are about BUT I would like to know it makes sense. If you have the heart to tell me that my writing is sensical or non-sensical, it would be appreciated.
Lines circle peripheral vision. Different colours for each different route, being inoperable for the colour blind. With colour for colour to colour spasm. Which colour is which; which colour to follow. With green as red and red as green…constantly thinking that the north route was south and the south route was north. A useless person, really? Useless to be around. Useless to use.
The thoughts about where he was, the feelings that clambered into his brain with a colourful blur of monochrome. Where he was, was hidden from the world, built for him and him alone. Him for his emotions that arose calligraphically. Prettily. He was so far from normal masculine stereotypes it scared him, so. At the end of a red line, (that was green to him) he thought the line was positive because of the connotations, but there was really a red sign above him screaming WARNING shooting him several times in the back with a tranquiliser to get him to become emotionless and the stereotypical man.
His house was a giant, a big, unfriendly giant. Full of ghosts jumping out at him when he pranced through the front door using a fork as a weapon. Four spikes, one victim, easy to defeat. The weaponry in his house ranged from forks to machine guns that of course were only used to fool the commoners when they came round for an innocent cup of tea. He couldn’t remember the last time he went into his kitchen, or his lounge for that matter. He was in desolation. Stairs, step up step up to his room. Antiques glistened from the walls. Fragile. Fear of them tumbling down to smithereens. He was totally alone. His parents wouldn’t speak to him anymore, due to that incident. His wife was on a safari journey through Africa and hadn’t had a mobile service since she got there. His children went with her. That incident was accidental, but his parents thought it was deliberate. WHY? he thought, while he unpacked his brand new antique teapot and placed it on his wooden shelf in his bedroom.