For Lack of Anyhting More Interesting to Say.

The most random shit ever. The other night, after having a very fruitful conversation about blogs with my friend, Jade, I realised that I really don't care what ends up on here, or even if they read it, just that I continue to have things to SAY. Things I feel like saying. Things I feel like I need to say. After this aforementioned conversation, I then proceeded to write my own little 'journal' entries that I realised could be turned into future blog posts. I will be updating more frequently, I believe (don't hold me to that), and even more than that, Jade agreed to help me amp it up, to look better in general. Now you actually have something to look forward to, should you come back.

FYI: Pictures are IMPOSSIBLE to place!!! I tried, and maybe it was just my netbook (*ahem*, FAILBOOK) but nothing really moved, it all just appeared at the top and sat there looking all sardonic and mocking my technological illiteracy. Yeah, I can hear the techno-geniuses cracking up like hard-boiled eggs (oh yeah, world-class simile, baby).

On to the initial point of my new post, I scribbled a little something down the other day, and for a lack of anything better to do with it, I've chosen to share it with you. It's not really well edited, it's not literary gold. It's just something I wrote.

Oh yeah, and it's about a whale.

Possibly more than that, but I'll leave it up to you to decide.

On a sandy beach amidst a sea of dancing glass, lies a whale, its body snugly fitted into the recesses of the damp earth. In the distance, the sun glimpses off the peak of each wave; every tiny reflected fragment shining in the yet-living, beached whale's eyes. Teasing it, one could say, with the final glimpses of it's home and where it should be, safe, and free. The whale's fins flap uselessly at the sand, and the broken bottle beneath it prick and cut it's tough skin; it hurts, but not as much as the last rays of the setting sun highlighting a home it will never be able to return to. The pinks, oranges, and yellows reflected there a water colourist's palate, dashed across a wash of the purest blue, fading ever darker into the deep indigo of the night time sky. A breeze rustles the leaves on the nearby trees. The whale only just notices the wind.

As the night presses on, the less it moves. The whale's fins finally stop, and it relaxes, letting it's eyelids drop to a heavy half-mast. The whale has given up. The moon, a pale disk floating in a ballet of bright, silver stars, draws higher in the sky, painting it's glowing hue even farther across the rippling ocean waves. Even in it's darkest hours, the whale can always see hope. It can always see the way home.

This has nothing to do with religion, nothing to do with depression. I'm not really sure what it is, it's just something I wrote. I hope you enjoyed it. I think I'll name the whale... Norton.

Norton the whale. How poetic. :)

Till the next (and hopefully fully upgraded) post.

Chloe.