I love the fact that yesterday was Easter. I love the fact that my God has defeated death. I love the fact that my God has authority over everything in the world. I love the fact that He died for me. And I love the fact that He's alive today.
Other than that, I can't breathe, and I'm trying to fail quietly so that mum won't wake up and ask me why I can't breathe and expect me to answer whilst trying to breathe. Lungs eh.
Anyway, when I was little, there is no way to link this to anything so don't get excited, when I was little, I loved colour. I still do. I especially loved highlighter pens, because the colour was more vibrant than my regular felt tips. One day, my parents came upstairs to find their magnolia (always magnolia) bedroom...jaundiced somewhat. Florescent yellow higlighter pen had been used on the walls, the numbers of the phone, the stripes in the radiator... when asked about the source of this neon wonder, I did the only reasonable thing at four years old and sharply identified my brother Tristan as the culprit. I don't know if it was the guilt in my eye or the fact that I'd drawn around my reflection in their mirror, but my lies were not swallowed. I can't remember how I was punished, or how they got it all back to magnolia, but I can remember that mum didn't let me have highlighters for literally years.
The point is, that I am an English Literature and History student and sometimes I have to highlight things gosh darn it. But every time I pick up a highlighter I remember kneeling under the windowsill and improving the radiator. What's worse than highlighters is black marker pens. Sharpies! My word. There is nothing like a clean and new black marker. Now, if I am bored and a pen is to hand, I literally throw it across the room to remove the temptation. It's not that I get weird urges to draw on my legs normally, just if the temptation is there. So it gets lobbed.
What I'm stupidly skirting around is that I'm thinking about temptations and vices and where to put them. When I revise for exams, I get distracted by my guitar. So I put it in the corner. I find myself playing it five minutes later. I shut it in the bathroom. I soon find myself admiring the acoustics of the bathroom. I resort to putting it under my bed, because I fear going in my bed because I always drop the lid and nearly break my arm. Some things need to be not only put down, but thrown as far as possible. Some things need to be put places that we can't see them. I'm often amazed at how far my body will go when it wants something. I decide not to buy biscuits at uni so that I won't snack and become a circle. But you know, if I fancy a biscuit, I will apparently walk to the store at 2 am in pouring rain for a pack of cruddy digestives. I cannot be trusted. My right hand doesn't know what the left is up to, and the left is up to something that's going to get it chopped off one of these days. So there's a thought. Wouldn't it be so easy if life were that simple, if something causes trouble you just threw it away, without affecting anything else? Yes it would. But it's not.
And I think some complications are on the way. Typical really.