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Turning 18

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I turned eighteen on the 15th of March 2010!

When I woke in the morning I followed a path of pink circles, downstairs to the “big room” (as we always call it) where I glanced a huge “one” and a huge “eight” cut out of cardboard, beneath it were presents.

Screening of the day: Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland in 3D.

I enjoyed turning eighteen though there’s also a flipside (see the subheading after the images) WARNING: The flipside is not intended to be depressing, rather it is thoughtful and melancholic.

(Ideally I would like the page to flip round to the other side, though this would involve Flash, which I can’t get my head around, instead the flip can be imagined – it’s probably more exciting that way!)

Hopefully there will be more to add to this entry in the future, keep your eyes glued to turning eighteen – even if other entries, that pretend to be more exciting, though actually are not, suddenlly appear.

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The flipside of turning 18

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Turning eighteen has come at a moment I least expected. In this entry I examine the disparity between my most crucial and significant birthday, and my unwareness and inability to experience and express it’s apparent importance. This personal diary entry was written the night before turning the wondrous yet strange eighteen, rather than being a determinedly accurate representation of me feelings, it is, rather, a deliberate exaggeration, an excercise in words.

Sunday, 14 March 2010

These are the last moments in which I will be seventeen. When tommorow dawns I will be eighteen. Yet I cannot face the two digits the one and eight, they seem to have materilised from nowhere in the midst of a confusion of nothingness. My eighteenth birthday seems to have appeared at a twilight, an experessionless landscape not yet formed, a time in between times, irregular in it’s manifestation. Even the words I write seem malformed and false, without the usual delibrate intentions, they seem flat, deflated in poignancy, appearing unstasisfyingly expressionless. It is ironic, and unfortunate, perhaps, that the entry that I will in the future reflect upon with most deliberation, will for always remain blank and emotionless, devoid of the animated vitality of life that so often caresses these pages, constantly desiring to impress upon them feelings intense and thoughts lively. Instead I will always be struck by a most peculiar artificiality that arises when one is inside a maelstorm of the unresolved, and the inconceivable draws nearer. There is, noticeably not a pang of nostlgia, not a hint of any consideration whatsoever regarding myself, only some unforgiving nothingness that I must face for nothing itself.

I cannot say that it is what I imagined or hoped for, rather it is the most inevitable and mudanely possible reality conceivable. Why has it arrived at a time that itself renders it insignificant? How is it that events most important arrive amist chaos? That expression itself now seems intermittently paralysed  so that words become half decent, secondhand and keenly worn; so that I am left, half clad with clothes tattered and torn, scavenging for oddments that are barely words and placing them into piles, creating phrases, that are like useless, discarded, unwanted junk? How is this?

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