Political apathy? More like political disenchantment.

It's that time of year again folks - voting time. Hearing about these elections, however unimportant they may seem, set my brain ticking, and harking back to around this time last year, as the UK approached the biggy - the General Election, which led to the Marmite Coalition, that one you love or hate. It wasn't the the parties I started pondering though, or the government that was made. It was the real 'Kingmakers' (to quote what Nick Clegg loved saying he wasn't last year); the public, each individual voter that has the power to make or break a candidate. And specifically, it related to their perceived apathy towards politics.

Political apathy is often thrown accusatorily as young people; young people don't care about their country, they'd rather listen to rap music and mug grannies. The kind of stuff we're getting to used to being told about ourselves. Only last year in particular, and in the previous election for MEPs, this accusation of apathy spread out from young people and was applied to the wider population. Controversially, head neo-Black Shirt Nick Griffin, leader of the British National Party, was elected as an MEP, yet his party had actually received less votes in that particular election than they had in the previous European Parliament elections. And so the public was blamed; if more people hadn't been so uncaring and bothered to go and vote, Nick Griffin would probably not have got in. And it's true, and I was and am among the ranks of those who wish more people had voted, if only to stop the BNP; not because Griffin will really be able to achieve anything in his position, but because it gives them credibility as a serious political party, rather than just the National Front in suits.

However, I now dispute that the lack of voters then and in last year's General Election was due to vote apathy. I didn't realise it at the time, but it's come to me more recently, as my mood has shifted. I admit, I am a paid-up member of the Labour party (albeit only because I could join for £1), but my loyalty towards them is beginning to dwindle. Only it isn't being replaced by a growing affection for any other party. The truth is, none of the mainstream parties (or any of the others, really) appeal to me; none seem to have policies in line with my views and beliefs, and on a much more basic scale, none seem very nice. Politics seems to be full of sniping, back-stabbing and vitriol thinly veiled behind sentiments of "the right honourable gentleman". The House of Commons on Prime Minister's questions day may look like a bunch of school children waving paper at each other, but there is an undeniable dark undercurrent, that's often not actually that far under the surface.

And so the disullusionment set in, with Labour, with all parties, with politics in general. I began to wonder what the point was, thinking that no matter what I did or how I voted, nothing would be different, nothing would change. If a snap election was called tomorrow, I honestly wouldn't know who to vote for. And if you don't really want to vote for anyone, what do you do? You don't vote at all.

It isn't the nicest concept to consider; democracy is certainly not something to be taken for granted, not when people have died - and continue to die, around the world - in the struggle to gain the right to vote for their leaders. But it is undeniable, and a hard thing to overcome. Last year, my mother, who had been a staunch Labour voter all her life and who comes from a very socialist family, voted Lib Dem. A strange choice, considering the Lib Dem candidate had barely even bothered to campaign in our constituency. Perhaps it was one of those protest votes, a lot of people were doing. It certainly wasn't out of any desire to for the Lib Dems to get power; when I asked her why she'd crossed that particular box, she simply replied "I don't want any of them." The conclusion to draw from that seems to be that she knew the Lib Dems stood no chance of winning here, so she voted for them simply to be able to exercise her right to.

Political parties, the media and all sorts are running campaigns trying to get people more interested in politics, to care. However, I believe that people do care, and it's because they care that they feel stuck in such a quandry and even unable to vote. Political parties need to stop trying to score cheap points of each other and get back to what's important; instead of thinking the way to win votes is to point out the flaws in the opposition, they need to win people round to their own fine points. People will listen, people want to be involved, but not until politics and the people involved in it change.

Deluded about reality?

I just signed in here and was suddenly hit by the title of this blog, and by how inaccurate it is. Maybe I felt it once (is it just me or does it seem a bit emo? Well, I was a ‘real’ emo, a teenager who really was depressed) but now it seems the opposite is true: reality is all too real, and what I like to imagine is the illusion.

I’m scared. There, I said it. Time goes on, things change, and it’s hard for me to take. This month marks eight years since I was diagnosed with ME, and this summer will see in nine years since the start of symptoms. So much has changed, and yet some things haven’t. I found myself forced to grow up before my time, to face being ill with no hope of treatment when I was still a child. I am old, “wise” maybe (I hope) beyond my years but well in line with my experiences. And yet there are parts of me that are still that 11 year old girl who never had her chance to grow up. I think these two conflicting sides of me are always going to be there.

And the changes continue. I’m 20 now, an adult, who should be beginning to make her way in the world. What do other people my age do? They have jobs, or are soon to finish university and have a good education under their belts. I have neither; I’m failing to complete a basic course. I think about moving in with my boyfriend, and real possibility that has been discussed, and I’m terrified, and not for the usual reasons of commitment, but I cower in terror at the idea of having to stand on my own two feet, away from my parents; and frankly, that fear isn’t unfounded, when there are enough times when I struggle to stand up on my own quite literally. How can I face the world when I just want to curl up in bed and sleep to escape the pain tormenting my body and the fatigue that makes it hard to walk to the toilet? How can I face the world when I’m a scared little girl who wants to run away from the reality of what faces her?

For my reality - the reality of constant pain, exhaustion and all the physical stuff; the reality of being left behind while time ticks by, taking my life with it – is, sadly, not an illusion. And somehow I have to find the courage to face up to it.

Envy of faith?

So long and so often I have scoffed at faith and those who bear it. So often I have pitied the poor, naive fools who believe in such absurdity, the fairytale bedtime story they take as truth. For we are alone, alone in a world built by science, molecules, matter; existing by accident, not divine intent. This is us, this is all we are: a tiny, miniscule race, insignificant in the subterranean vastness of time and space. We are born, we grown old, we die, and awaiting us is the long, dark dreamless slumber.
But now, though I may never share their beliefs – cannot share them – I envy them. They feel life has meaning. No matter what heart-breaking, soul-shattering event may befall them, no matter how bruised and broken they may become, they can clasp their hands together, cradling hope, look towards the sky and find strength and courage and purpose. Beyond this temporal existence, there is a perpetual light shining, everlasting peace and harmony stretching on through eternity. They have a constant companion, a ubiquitous friend to guide them. And in their dark hours, there is always comfort.
So yes, I envy them. For me, in the late hours of the cold night, as I lie awake in the blackness enveloping me, there are no arms to embrace me, no fire to warm me, no light to guide me. There is just me, me, and the long, dark, dreamless slumber ahead.



I came across this on my harddrive earlier. Pretty depressing eh? Not surprising though, conisidering I was depressed at the time of writing. But dsepite the maudlin overtones, I think I still agree with its main point; I don't understand religion, the whole concept seems implausible, when there is evidence to the contrary to it. Do people really believe that the first two humans were Adam and Eve and they ate an apple which had them thrown out of paradise? Do they have love for the being who told a man to murder his own son, or who tormented Job to win a bet? We'd characterise such a person as sadistic, wouldn't we? Yet religious people - Christians in this case, as it's the only religion I really know enough about to comment on - proclaim this being to be loving and just. I don't see that at all, not in the Old Testament at least. Jesus seems like a sound man, with good ideals. But I don't believe he was anything more than a man ahead of his time.



People believe in the flood that killed the world (another act by that totally loving being) happened, and that God protects them. I don't understand it, I certainly don't share it, but I'll let it be (I don't have anything against religious people, aside from those who use it to justify crime or who try to force it upon others - and hey, athiests can be just as evangelical in that regard). And yet, as in the above extract, I do envy those with that solid faith, because of all the comfort they glean from it.



It may also surprise you to know that I'm not an athiest; I suppose I'm an agnostic of sorts, but my beliefs are strange and I'm not entirely sure of them myself. Might do a post about those one day, maybe it'll help me get them in order.



In the meantime, I'll leave you with this message from Epicurus, another man ahead of his time.

Valentine's Day

I logged onto Facebook and Twitter on Monday, the day of soppiness and teddy bears holding hearts, to find a strange mix of posts decrying dismay for the day, dismissing it as commercial nonsense and exultations of love and how great it was to share such a day with their beloved. Something struck me about this; I could be wrong, but this is how it appeared: the majority of those people writing in the former category were single, the latter, in happy relationships (obviously). Make of that what you will.

I spent many years in that former group. Indeed, the last two VDays in particular were pretty awful, as both years I was dumped just a few days before, having bought cards and presents. And buy the same bloke both years too. But that's another story, and he's long gone now. So I'd never had a good experience of this most flowery of days. Until this year, and I warn you now, the gushing starts soon, so read on at your peril.

It started quite inauspiciously; the boyfriend had gone off to uni and I was in the flat. I walked into the front room around 11 o' clock, expecting, I don't know, flowers? A card? A present? And I found nothing, that is, but a messy room. Feeling somewhat deflated, I decided to go back to bed, seeing as I'm able to do that being the lady of leisure I am (I think the Twitter tag here would be #sarcasm) where I remained for a few hours, must've needed that nap. I ended up in the living room again around 3, not really sure why now, and was probably heading back to bed, when in the boyfriend comes, an hour earlier than I was expecting, brandishing a lovely bunch of red roses.

Are red roses clichéd? Maybe they are, but you know, most clichés are clichés because they work, are popular, or are just the best. And red roses are the best type of flower.

Later I was treated to a sumptuous three-course candlelit dinner cooked again by him, which consisted of baked camambert cheese with home-made garlic bread and chorizo and thyme bread to begin, salmon and leek filo pastry parcels with salad for main, and (get this) bowls of melted milk and white chocolate, with fresh strawberries, raspberries and blueberries to dip. Then he gave me a card and my present.

This was no ordinary present, however. No bear holding a heart for me, oh no; along with his flatmate, he'd composed a beautiful piece of music, which his flatmate had recorded himself performing on the guitar, and my boyfriend serenaded me by singing one of my favourite poems to the music. It was just...wow. We then slow-danced to the music and...well, what followed I'll keep to myself (hehe), but it was truly amazing day. This time last year (and the year before), I couldn't have imagined such perfect romance existed, but it does. And I know I'm one lucky girl.

Paradise lost?

I wish I was seven again. Yes, seven was the perfect age for me; no illness, parents still together and happy. There was the nasty big brother, but can't have everything. Weekends were the best, when I'd willingly be up by 8 o clock (tell me an adult who happily does that?!) and downstairs, curled up on the best spot on the sofa in front of the cartoons and kids TV that makes me cringe nowadays. How I had to force myself to wait till 10 before I could run upstairs and wake my dad, the boiled egg for breakfast in that special little egg cup of mine that turned the egg into Humpty Dumpty.

Life was simpler then, and easier; of course it was, what do you have to worry about when you're that age? I loved those early years of my life, I wish I could rekindle some of that lovely bright joy to now. Every kids deserves those paradisal childhoods, but I'm wondering, are they being lost?

I've seen society change a lot even in my lifetime. Constantly I'm hearing, for example, about childhood obesity, and there are initiatives to improve school dinners and stop crips eating unhealty food. But that's not what's doing it. Of course, there were the fat kids when I was little, but obesity? No, that was something I never encountered. And I think the reason is how we lived. We played, played in the old fashioned way, not exercising our thumbs on games consoles.

I have a friend who's a teaching assistant, and I was incredulous to hear some of the things that go on there. For instance, in the winter, children who didn't have hoods on the coats weren't allowed outside; and when there was snow, they weren't allowed out at all! Preposterous, utterly. Snow is one of those enchanting wonders. You may grow up to loathe the stuff, but it's magical to children, a true wonder, especially when you first encounter it in its purest form. Playing in the snow, throwing snowballs and getting them in your face, and doing it for so long that your hands go numb and you're so cold you want to cry, that's a right of passage. Ok, maybe we can dispense with the last bit, but robbing kids of the childhood magic of the snow?

It's a crime, and unfortunately sums up quite a lot of faults in today's society. But it goes deeper even than the health and safety brigade. It wasn't just in the playground we used to play, but outside in the streets. Every day I'd be out, climbing trees, riding my bike, having the time of life, as it indeed turned out to be. But that's a rare thing these days, and I can understand that; I think right now I wouldn't want my children playing in the streets beyond my sight, and that's because I'd be afraid. There are gangs roaming the towns, child murderers and paedophiles lurking on every corner, even children turning on other children in the most horrific way. Parents are simply too scared of letting their kids out into this dangerous world, they'd much rather have them sitting in front of a TV screen and being safe than risking it. I would be the same, I have no doubt. Whether society has really changed in the two decades of my life, or we're just made more aware of these bad things, I don't know, but either way, how sad is it? How truly sad that this generation of children, and who knows how many more, are going to miss out on all those experiences that I wouldn't change for the world.

So many possibilities, probably only one outcome…

Now that I’ve got my book review-cum-obsessive waffle out the way, here’s a ‘proper’ blog post. If there is such a thing. And yet again, it’s been longer than intended since my last one. I really want to be a regular blogger, truly I do. It seems like it would be fun. Problem is, my life just isn’t interesting enough. What would my posts be filled with? Ranting about how poorly I feel, how much doctors annoy me, how much people in general annoy me. And that would get tiresome after a while, tiresome to read and probably even tiresome to write (considering I’d be writing much the same thing, constantly).

So, that leaves me two choices. Persevere, or give up. The latter is probably the best option. But, as quite often is the case for me, I’m not going to  take it. I’m going to persevere, either in hope of finding more interesting things to write about, or no longer caring whether or not there’s even the slightest bit of interesting content and just doing it. Again, probably the latter.

We’ll see how it goes. The case will more than likely prove to be that I never write here again, or at least not for a few months, and then I’ll come on and write all this again.

So until then, I suppose I shall bid you…adieu.

Obsessed, me?

What immediately springs to mind when you think of Stephen King? Horror, in some form or other, I’m guessing. Maybe the creepy-as-shit clown in It or vengeful psychic Carrie. Certainly it was that sort of terror that first came to me, and, being the terrible squeamish wimp I am, resolved that I would never touch Stephen King, not with a hundred foot barge pole.

I realise now I was missing out. There is so much more to King’s repertoire than chills and screams. Perhaps his greatest work –certainly in my mind it is – is The Dark Tower series, an epic tale of the struggle to save reality itself – alongside deep questions of what reality is that you’ll be left pondering for weeks to come.

I struggle to define what The Dark Tower is exactly; what genre does it fit into? Fantasy, perhaps; there’s plenty of magic and sorcery and evil creatures that aren’t quite human. Sci-fi maybe; multiple worlds, metaphysical questions about the nature of reality. Horror? There are certainly aspects of it (the Doorkeeper from The Wastelands possibly my favourite example of horror in TDT). Arguments could even be made for western. And yet it doesn’t quite fit into any of these categories. It’s something so unique, so totally different to anything else, that it almost creates and fits into a genre entirely of its own.

I can’t pontificate and gush enough about the merits of these books. I can’t summarise them for you; they are beyond summary. I can’t explain them; they’re beyond explanation. Read them. If you’re not hooked after the first one (it had me wriggling on the end of the ling after the first sentence!) then…I don’t know, I can’t imagine that happening enough to think of what would happen then. The Dark Tower is waiting for you, go to it.

The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.