dalunas

Okay, so a hard difference has come to befall the mournful register of my past entry. I now return to the harsh, unabated satirical rage that my usual persona so revels in. A note on the social aspect will come in time, but first allow me to share with you a moment or insanity.

It is currently 6:30 am. Sixteen minutes ago I was wrapped up in bed, trying defiantly not to allow the pangs of Autumnal-Winter to catch my breath or chill my flesh. I had in half-waking, noted the alarm would (at 7:00am) go off soon. With under an hour remaining of my slumbertime, I endeavoured to relax into a final recess of calm, unrelenting rest.

You may think 7:00 is an early start. Indeed, I agree, but with early enough lectures and a general mentality for self-torture, I have found an early start usually fulfils the day to a greater degree. That said, I can all too often ignore the alarm and sleep till 11. This of course would not be the case this morning, for not even my complacency could keep me in bed.

I used to wake for school at 6:00am every morning. How I managed that I fear I do not know. It was an unnecessary feat of human determination. Having been released from the rigid timetable of secondary imprisonment, and having entered the higher climbs of loose university lifestyle, I have allowed myself the joy of one hour (or two) complacent time, all to myself. The early bird may catch the worm, but I get sixty minutes of euphoric nothings and warmer silence. That and I’m vegetarian and don’t fish. The worm is wasted on me.

Anywho, it happened however that this morning’s excursions in sleepyland were drawn so suddenly, so hideously and oh so noisily to an end. For at 6:15 there came the repetitive cry of an alarm. It was a wail of bansheic proportions – indeed far superior to that of my wee alarm clock, however potent it may seem on other days. In comparison to that weedy siren sound, this great ear raid was a might more terrifying. Having beaten at my alarm clock many times in attempts to silence the noise, it hit me that the source was something far different.

There was a fire. Or so I thought. The bells were ringing loudly and proudly on this cold October morning. Grabbing my slippers and dressing gown, I fled the room to find not only the bundling, weary-eyed persons that occupy my flat and building, but also a number of residential staff, guiding us out into the brisk chill of the still pitch. Indeed, this was a drill.

Reader, I murdered them.

Of all the insanity, a fire drill, an organised event at 6:15am. Amidst the undying laughter at the sheer ridiculous nature of the event, we were all in our own freezing, distempered way, entirely dissatisfied. We were treated to a walk across frost-coated grass, to meet with a gentleman who proudly confirmed that this was a drill and that this was our meeting place in the event of fire. Now, this is all well and good, valuable information, but I fear it was ill-timed. Stating that “we are here to help you”, “if you stay inside you will be burnt like toast” or “if you have any problems hearing the bell or getting out, you must come find us” did not appear to be information that anyone wanted to hear, however noble, at so early an hour, and so cold a disposition. Indeed someone may easily scoff at the backwards logic inherent in that final statement.

One of our flatmates did stay inside and good on him, though how he at all managed to sleep through that noise I can never know. The rest of we lowly men and women trundled back to our rooms in shared aggravation, feeling the moist ground beneath our feet and the sharp chill of the wind in our hearts. I have now a perfectly ruined pair of slippers. Where others may have returned to bed, I have decided to use this worm-catching time to voice my sincere frustration at the fire drill organisers. Curse you. Couldn’t they have done it some evening or other? I fear they are a malicious sort.

Stepping back from that misfortune, I have room to speak once more on my social fears. They are still in play, and I am still concerned, but, for the most part, events have taken a positive turn. I went to a live jam and played some sweet funk with complete strangers. I have had conversation with people on my course without having been forced into it. I have, indeed, taken to mind the possibility that some few people may eventually be considered friends. This is warm consolation. There is still much room for improvement; yet, the security of social contact is gradually finding me once more.

I feel not so alone. Now do excuse me whilst I plot my revenge against the one with his finger on the fire drill button. There will be blood.     

I had pretty much given up on the idea of using livejournal seriously. Often enough my musings end up being spouted verbally at someone or otherwise elsewhere amongst the tides of the interwebs. Today, however, I have the sudden urge to get things down that I don't think belong anywhere else.
One may celebrate my presence, but the circumstances warrant a far more sombre attitude to my reflections, for you see, it is my depression that fuels this impromptu turn to paper. Such hypocrisy that in this oh so public frame I will purge my most personal concerns. In anonymity I surrender my sadness. I apologise in advance.

I want you to know that I am not normally an unhappy fellow. My usual countenance is breezy at best, manic at worst, but all together a thing of jubilation, erratic muse and excitable compassion. I fear many may have found my crude attempts at upbeat humour a matter of annoyance, though I never intended for it so. Still, I give praise to know that so many suffered through in smiles and friendship to welcome my oddity with open arms, if a little suppressed embarrassment. I was an accepted ally and respected as one among a few great and wonderful people I consider friends.

It seems however that things have taken a turn for the worse, and so I now present myself most unfashionably as someone quite affected by my own sadness, enough so to seek the open void of the internet as refuge.

Tonight I sit alone. Again. This is my story. And so it seems to continue thus, with my silence emanating off of these cold, rough walls. They box me in like a poor insect caught without air, waiting to die. I realise my imagery is something morbid and excessive. I apologise. One should never hide behind exaggeration. Yet, sitting once more before the clinically white screen of my laptop, with its faintly whirring fan and clacking keys, I find myself surrendering once more to the fancy of hopeless fear. Namely, I fear I am alone. Indeed, I fear that I shall be alone for some time. Allow me to explain.

I have recently started at University, the pinnacle of a young person’s cultural, social and academic experience. I am here to study English (of all the god-forsaken subjects) but that is not the source of my fear. The point stands that since my arrival, over a week ago, I have no one I may call a friend. Sure enough, I know people. I share a building with twelve others and all are perfectly nice, wonderfully pleasant people, all keen individuals and social creatures to be sure. We all began in the same state, and yet, somehow, by some cruel turn or another, I feel I stand on the periphery. Here I find twelve who already seem so close. Every night since my arrival they have, as a group, socialised en mass. For some fault of my own and by unpleasant fate, I have yet been able to join them on their night-time escapades. Still, living in the same building with them, I have no excuse and indeed have had many an opportunity to become part of the group. Each night they meet in one room or another and discuss things, drink, enjoy themselves and otherwise get closer together. I am invited to join them, and yet it seems always some time after they have already begun. I feel like an outsider walking in on something truly wonderful, and yet I don’t feel that I am part of it. Despite the invitations, despite the welcome, I ultimately feel like I am always standing and watching a group of someone else’s friends. Always on the edge.

I confess I am an introvert, a hermit, a careful, aversive, cautious individual, quiet and overlookable. It has always been my way. Somehow, despite all things that add up against me, I, in past years, secured the few friends I care for so dearly, the great people who suffered through me. I do not know how I came to call them friends. There was some work of fortune that I cannot seem to duplicate. By some accident, I found compassion, camaraderie, and most importantly, love.

It’s hard to imagine, sitting here, that that was ever possible. I took it all for granted and now I suffer for my faults. One may argue that I simply need to throw myself head first into the swing of the social climate and enjoy everything. It is just not in my character to do so. I have joined societies, gone to meetings, but left not knowing a single name, hardly having uttered a single word. I have gone to lectures in rooms filled with hundreds of people, all sharing a common interest in their subject. Yet, looking across a sea of heads, I notice that everyone sits beside at least one other whom can capsulate them in conversation, share some small dialogue at least. Amongst the sway of communication, I speak to no one and no one speaks to me.

My fear stands hence that I shall continue in this manner and ultimately find no one whom I can call friend. I fear that, worse, I shall find no one whom I can love and be loved by in return. Although the magnificent creatures of my past still love me from afar, the immediacy of friendship, the physical love found in simple compassionate contact, I fear shall forever escape me.

It is my biggest fear. I truly am scared. I cannot live alone, and yet I bear a character bent on loneliness. I miss so much of my past years, things I may never know again. I can hear the sound of goodlier people enjoying themselves in the company of others surrounding me. And yet, I sit in silence, in fear, and feel a cold greater than that of the night creeping over me. It is the chill of a vacant space where someone should be holding me. It is the whisper that I cannot hear for my own deafness. It is the smile I can no longer see.

I am the architect of my own destruction.

Can I let my fear become reality? I fear I shall. Hypocrite. Failure. A broken, loveless shadow of a man.

To all that I once was and could have been, to the creature of potential I may have become, and for having you suffer through this mournful epicede, I apologise.

Oh, peer pressure, will you ever leave me be!

No, no! For once again I have been summoned onto another spawn of interwebial social interaction.
The summoner? My dear and most wickedly handsome lover. He shall pay for this cruel act of friendliness! I was quite happy to wallow in social retardation. Alas, I have been proven frail once more.

Given in to the whims of internet catharsis, I shall continue from this point to purge great chunks of my life story here for all to enjoy. As this story unravels, so will the ever-loosening strings that hold my sanity in one piece. Blue tack will not do it this time.

For now, let my bizarity lead you into a world of otiose delights and excessive use of the term 'embuggerance'.

Welcome all to the House of Cooper. Madness awaits!