Paraprobablynormal ActivityApril 07, 2012
Oh it's pun heaven over here lately isn't it. I regret precisely NOTHING.
...was that title even a pun? Have any of my puns ever been puns? I don't care. I'm calling them puns.
I'm eating fudge, it's lush. Thanks Baby Jeezy C.
TOPIC CHANGER. I don't know if I believe in ghosts, it's never something I've really thought about. My mum does though. She's adamant that after her Nan died she woke up in the middle of the night (my mum, not her nan, because would be WORRYING) and saw her Nan sitting on the end of her bed. They chatted for a while before she put my mum back to bed and said goodnight. Adamant. It wasn't a dream.
I don't want to believe in ghosts until something happens to me. I'm not religious, but I do believe in something. I don't know what that something is, but it's ingrained in my brain that there's something else there. A soul maybe? I want to believe in a soul purely because thinking that we're just a bunch of cells, a machine with systems that need maintaining, is a depressing thought. We're just here to keep the environment provided with carbon dioxide and thus alive. I get freaked out every time I'm hungry or tired, because my mind doesn't WANT to be hungry or tired, it's not a desirable thing. My mind is totally different to my body but where the hell is my mind? And why is it different from everybody else's? I, as a human, am so horrendously complex in my head, that I seem detached from the rest of me. All the time. And I find it not right that we can't control our bodies when it comes to illness and even feelings. No matter how hard you try to not be upset, or embarrassed, or angry, it happens. I failed in trying to find a quote I saw to put here, I think it's by Stephen Fry where he talks about being able to change states, but I found this one by him instead:
“We are not nouns, we are verbs. I am not a thing - an actor, a writer - I am a person who does things - I write, I act - and I never know what I'm going to do next. I think you can be imprisoned if you think of yourself as a noun.” - Stephen Fry
That's how I want to think, but right now this machine thing is freaking me out. Being in a hungry and tired state it happens because I essentially need refuelling. Like a machine. THAT'S WEIRD, RIGHT?! TELL ME YOU GET FREAKED OUT BY THAT TOO?!1??!1
So I want souls to be a thing. Or something LIKE a soul, I'm not necessarily using it in religious terms. What about fate? I'm in two minds about fate. I want to believe in fate because of the weird unexplainable occurrences that happen to me. The people I meet, it being a small world, dreaming and fantasising about things and them coming true, seeing a word you've never seen then seeing it everywhere that week, thinking you've seen a friend but it's not them and you see them minutes later. Just odd STUFF that can't just be coincidences. Everything happens for a reason, etc. Fate is my safety blanket, or fatey blanket (lolol) if you will, and whenever something goes wrong or I'm worried about something, I just believe that it WILL happen and everything will be fine. If something's meant to happen then it will happen. I have a direction in life and no matter how much is seems I'm slowing down or veering off, everything will come together and be fine.
But then that's boring. If we're all destined to be or do something, then what's the point? There's no freewill then. No spontaneity, no doing something out of the ordinary, no being daring. Just an excuse to be lazy, waiting for things to happen instead of making them happen. So then, I don't want to believe in fate.
That's why I believe in something. A something without a name, which I like and don't want it to be named because it makes it more flexible, mysterious, and quiet. It doesn't stand out, but I know it's there. I can't explain it, but it makes me feel better.
But then this something freaked me the fuck out big time the other night so we're now on rocky terms.
I've lived on my own this past week while my family were in Devon. No, no no don't, put your car keys down. The house is fine. NO. Disconnect the call. It's FINE. No fires, no break-ins. What? NO! Course I didn't you dirty cow.
On Friday morning, at 5:45am, music woke me up. I thought it was my radio at first, that my alarm had gone off early, but when I slapped it to hush it, it carried on. I had no choice but to properly wake up. Tsk. My next thought was my brother, and even from Devon I wouldn't have put it past him. But as I stood in the middle of my room, delirious with... deliriousness...I figured it was coming from my wardrobe. On top of my wardrobe. This music was still going loud and strong and my ears had deciphered the type. It was a music box. But I don't own a music box. I grabbed my chair and stood on it, not really the best idea when you're practically unconscious and it's a swivel Argos chair. But nevertheless, my hands waded their way through a spider rave where cobwebs were their smoke machine, and the music slowed. The closer to the source I got, the quieter and slower the music became. Then, as I pulled a box full of a old Christening gifts to the front, and grabbed the music box, it stopped. The music stopped dead as soon as I touched it. It was smothered in dust, and I tried to find the knob thing you twist to make it play, but it had broken.
THE MUSIC BOX WAS PLAYING ON ITS OWN.
It hadn't been touched for a good 17 years and was broken. How did it play? It had never done that before. It can't have cued by vibrations, or initiated by a previous twist, because IT WAS BROKEN. I couldn't make it play again when I tried. An inexplicable circumstance.
It was my something; my lovable, my awesome, my creepy as fuck something. And don't tell me otherwise because I want my safety net.