The Edge Of Sanity.

On my little pink thing I use as a stool to substitute my shortness lies a square brown book. It seems heavy but fragile and on it the words “NAtaLIe rOse HILL” and a rainbow are printed on in the glitter glue I begged Tandra for last Christmas. It’s really heavy and smells like my Vera Wang (my scent, if you didn’t get that part) and it always throws me back, because I always forget about it until I lift up the pink thing to get my secret stash of Oreos, lift the top off, and hear something fall off and thud on the floor. Because, or maybe in spite of the fact that I can never quite stop it from falling, I’m really protective of that book. Anyways, once you open the cover, you realise that it’s actually the cover that’s the heavy part but the pages are light as a feather and are filled with the most beautiful things that I could ever dream of and basically, this is what makes up me. All those old McFly, Busted, Son of Dork and even Hear‘Say tickets glued in, pictures cut out from holiday brochures (when they still did them) of places that I wanted to see, pieces of bubblewrap and wrapping paper that I kept from my favourite gifts and, later on, a documentation from when I was ten telling myself that I’d found that I was really good at art, with loads of drawings on it. So I think: this all makes up me, this IS me, right? And that’s why I love and cherish it, and this is why, in all that I crap on about in the about me section about loving, hating and missing, this is the only way I could ever keep these memories, because I don’t want to let it go. Because people don’t understand just how much I’ve been through, and I have the thing that everyone wants, for reasons unbeknown to me. I have a reason to be depressed. I could let everything I’ve seen overthrow me, buy a load of cats, put on a ripped wedding dress and live in a windowless log cabin in the middle of nowhere. There’s some kind of classy front about it, the glamour, that pit in your stomach that makes you so sad that you don’t know how to contain it, makes you hurt yourself and other people until it eats you alive. I’ve seen too many people go down that road to decide it’s for me, even if I’ve looked over the side, even dared myself to dive in for it. The edge of sanity. But this book is, quoting Emma Coull, “something constant in a world of endless change”, because it reminds me of who I was before the faeces hit the fan, which I know for myself isn’t entirely a good thing, and that’s why I want to keep it.

Maybe this is what my parents think of me, especially my Dad. No, not crazy overprotective book girl! I have the cover, even if it isn't hard or heavy, but once you open it, all the tiny little pointless peices of me eventually fall through the cracks, one by one as the crappy glue i used to hold it all together unbonds itself and you as the reader have to stick it all together to make it better for me again and I just can't do it because I know what the glues sticking together, and it ain't pretty. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of my life. It explains everything if you look deep enough into it and it kind of makes me want to cry, just because I'm so needy and this time there isn't anyone to stick it all back together.

Maybe that's because he's the one who fell apart.

Let Him Die.

When I'm old I'm going to die. Maybe even when I'm younger. But lets not tempt fate. The reason this came about is that my Grandad, Grandad Tom, is dying. I don't just say this, its happening. He's been dying for fifteen years but he's just not allowed to die. Even though he's in so much pain, he can't make it stop. He went into the hospital dead, but they recussitated him, gave him two hours to live and put him in the little back room they put people to die in. He's got that rattling in his throat people get when they've been given a life sentence.

Why can't we just let him go? Its not helping anyone, being constanly on call. But Grandma Bridie

Just. Won't. Let. Him. Die.

She's made them put him on oxygen but won't let him get morphine because that'll kill him. Almost as if he's not being killed already.

Its typical. She has this slow, painful way of executing everything, her husband included, I guess.

But when you've got nothing, a hundred pound giro, a dying cat, four unsympathetic children and a tumble-down house slap-bang in the middle of Shootings and Stabbings that you won't even leave through the fear, I can understand, no matter how selfish it be, why you'd want to keep the only one whoever really and truly loved you in your long and unforgiving life.

Beep. Beeeep. Beeeeeep. Beeeeeeeeeeep. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...

Snow

The snow is beautiful, the way it gathers and wilts the flower petals, the way it covers the bumpy gravel evenly, the way its covered my feet, frosted the eye-lashes framing my wide eyes and how its somehow dampened the inside of my slightly ajar lips in the few hours I’ve been standing here in shell-shock. It’s so beautiful it makes me want to look up to the heavy purple sky and laugh out loud. Or cry. I don’t know which.

Paint Me A Picture.

I like to draw.


Its one of the only things that I can truly say that I'm quite good at. Its one of the most edifying hobbies that I could know and I think that you should try it some time.


And heres what I'm trying to say, even if it sounds super duper weird. When you're trying so hard to draw someone, you have no choice but to look at them, like actually look at them, and draw what you see. You know every bump, every flaw shown, basically everything. I've spent two and a half weeks perfecting one of my best friends jawline, and I think that finally after about a year and a half, I can understand them. I can understand everything. And thats it. I've come to terms with my friends death and even though I know that he can never see their perfected jawline, which makes me sad as hell, and I'm still manically sad about him, I can finally face the fact that he's gone, but I'll always have this to remember him by:

Joe.