Inside my head.

Long days and longer nights. Sleepy eyes and half-hearted smiles to keep you warm when inwardly, that grin has you glowing. Absence and unity, through a slight touch. That's all it takes. It's electric. Your heart skips three beats instead of one. Your breath isn't ever fully caught around them. You bite your lip, you stifle your laughter for it to burst out when you least expect it and frightens both of you. Every touch and you jump, flinch, draw back, just for a second. It tickles, and yet, it's a wonderful feeling. Catching a gaze, a raised brow, a slight movement and something beneath your ribcage begins to react like you can't even imagine. Someone who makes you happier by just breathing near you, being an arm's length away. Someone to shout at, laugh with and be yourself around. The one person who expects not one, but one hundred drunk texts from you. Every. Single. Weekend.

This is for you, and the ego you claim not to possess. It's mad to me, that notion.  You are entwined with my brainwaves and my body clock. I check my phone for your name every five seconds or three minutes, or every time I wake up. You shouldn't just have an ego, you should have the biggest ego in the world. Or at least, I know you would if you could see inside my head, (as much as you really do get inside my head.) The best thing to ever happen to me, even if now, I find myself trailing off mid-sentence to think about you or something. This doesn't count, evidently. I'm comfortable around you, in a way I've never ever been with anyone. So, I guess you should feel pretty fucking special about that. Where's your ego Lukas? Well, it's hiding in my dark, twisted little mind as far as I'm concerned. A little place reserved for you. My happy place. (yes, my inner Pheebs is calling out, AGAIN.) 

I'm blank when you feel low or are all spent with confidence, because, I don't see you like that. If only you could see yourself through my eyes, I think it'd work wonders. I can't even put it into intelligible words or sentences, because frankly, you fuck with my head (in the best, most intense way possible) so sometimes, yeah, I can't string a thought together. I love that. Honestly, truthfully, undoubtedly, this is the happiest I've ever been. So, those doubts, well, hide them away, or shout them from the rooftops, but they're your own criticisms, not mine, and there's absolutely no need for them. You're none of those things in my eyes; you're my rock and my ego, so fair is fair- I guess I should be at least partly responsible for yours. I can work on that. ;)

Hello Ego. Welcome to my world. You'll fit right in. Trust me.

x

Meeting deadlines.

Its as one of my best Friends would say, (yes. Phoebe Buffay does count) "merry Christmas Eve eve!" Tomorrow is the day that every child waits eagerly for, stockings out, a drink for Santa and lots of presents wrapped cosily under the tree. Songs constantly playing, traditions in full-swing. Excitement is brewing. It's only a matter of hours until December 25th, and everyone is getting frantic. Whether you're one of these overly organised people, with all of their gifts bought, wrapped and hidden, or, instead, you're burying your head in the sand and trying not to think about how many presents you still need to panic-buy. I'm somewhere in the middle of this. I have one or two things I still could potentially need, or could buy. My bank account is gasping in shock every time I charge another item it's way, after months of attempting and failing to pace myself with regards to my lovely student loan. (What can I say..) 

So as I started thinking of the limited time until Christmas, and then caught sight of my blog view count. There's around 8300 views since March this year, when I started blogging for real. I'm shocked and chuffed that I've got anywhere near a figure like that. It baffles me that anyone would like to read the stuff I write, I mean, it's not like it's overly literary or profound. It's just truth. Mostly anyway. None of what I write is dishonest, it's just I don't tell full truths in certain situations. So, this is my dreamed up target. I hope to, and I am determined to, keep my blogging up next year, and hopefully get somewhere with my personal writing. I'd perhaps, quite naively like to reach a huge, 10,000 blog views to see the new year in. I know that's ambitious, but I am. Let's give it a go. Get reading. Pass my link on if you're feeling nice. Let me know if there's something you particularly enjoyed reading. I want to know! Gimme some help if you can :) 

Let's be dramatic.

I've come to the conclusion that my writing is sparked by drama. Not the methodical act of drama, or drama in a worrying, chaotic kind of sense, but as in something dramatic. I write when I'm feeling, well, passionate. Yes, that's it. My blog is full of posts full of happy thoughts and gushing enthusiasm, as well as those on the other end of the spectrum. Those sad, tear-soaked posts. The pieces I write at 3am when I'm feeling upset or angry or distraught or just totally numb. Passion helps me write. None of these neither-here-nor-there feelings; the days that I'm "just okay" that are of no consequence, and just a week later will blur into the background and become a forgotten memory. My writing seems to, I've noticed, flares during emotional times. I write to illustrate my life, document an event or just to simply get a thought off my chest. My happiest pieces are usually written when I'm wearing my best smile, while my negative, upset pieces are composed when I'm wearing a deep frown and even maybe shedding the occasional bitter tear. It's took me a while to realise, but I'm just not one of these people who can write something brilliant on cue. (That's probably not a good thing to admit when I'm studying a creative writing degree, but y'know!) I feel like because I tell people "I want to write" they immediately think I should be able to whack out a bestseller in my lunch hour or during the adverts of Jeremy Kyle, but quite the opposite. It takes time, inspiration and patience (something my mam keeps telling me I need more of, and yes she's very right.) So, my ever-increasing dramatic life may actually give me some content for my "novel" but whether my personal life thrives or fails, well, it remains to be seen. 

My blog baby.

This sounds weird and slightly neurotic, but I've recently become quite protective over my blog. I still don't talk about my blog, just in passing to my closest friends, but no one else. I occasionally tweet my blog URL and it's linked to my profile, and despite my view counter, I'm under the impression that this thing is hidden from nearly everyone I know. I never used to be so protective over my writing, but I'm starting to adopt a sort of kinship with it. It's like my baby, metaphorically speaking. My best kept secret. It's like my online diary, in one respect, in another, it's merely a vacuum where I can vent my deepest passions and my greatest desires and upsets. My interests, my loves and hates, everything and anything. Non-specific. Not able to be thrown into one category or the next. From my endless Friends references, to my slight pessimistic streak, it's all contained in a little package I like to call The Beautiful and The Damned.

And you know what the most ironic thing is about it all, I've never even read The Beautiful and The Damned.