Chapter Two: Idols and Illusions
I hate page breaks, I hate, hate, hate them. Anyway, my internet broke down for the last three days and I have only just got back on. In the meantime, I have received twenty-five emails (admittedly, most of them were junk), confirmation that I have work experience at a television production company next year and more new posts in my forums than I have time to read.
Sometimes, I can't help but think how terrifying dependence on the internet is.
So, chapter two:
Before I started writing this again I was re-reading a memoir by one of Jareth’s aunts, I am halfway through the chapter the deals with her marriage to a man two thousand years her senior. She was an extremely malicious person, and spent a great deal of the passage describing the plans for revenge she was finalizing as she walked down the aisle. When I read her story, I am never sure whether I should be amused or disturbed.
He had the strangest beautiful face I had ever seen on a man; his thick, golden hair made him seem oddly angelic. Maybe otherworldly would be a better term, he never seemed prim enough to be an angel. He was English, intelligent, and sounded ten times more cultured than anyone else I knew. I had only met him a few times, but he had managed to impress me and I could never bring myself to hate him like I hated Irene.
The only way I can describe my position is like this; I was in a tiny, coffin like room and watched myself through a window as I drifted aimlessly through a beautiful ballroom. Many others were in the place with me; the room was thronged with masked people who shot me sly, sideways looks.
.
.
.
The photo of 'Jeremy' is, of course, of David Bowie.
Sometimes, I can't help but think how terrifying dependence on the internet is.
So, chapter two:
Before I started writing this again I was re-reading a memoir by one of Jareth’s aunts, I am halfway through the chapter the deals with her marriage to a man two thousand years her senior. She was an extremely malicious person, and spent a great deal of the passage describing the plans for revenge she was finalizing as she walked down the aisle. When I read her story, I am never sure whether I should be amused or disturbed.
He had the strangest beautiful face I had ever seen on a man; his thick, golden hair made him seem oddly angelic. Maybe otherworldly would be a better term, he never seemed prim enough to be an angel. He was English, intelligent, and sounded ten times more cultured than anyone else I knew. I had only met him a few times, but he had managed to impress me and I could never bring myself to hate him like I hated Irene.
The only way I can describe my position is like this; I was in a tiny, coffin like room and watched myself through a window as I drifted aimlessly through a beautiful ballroom. Many others were in the place with me; the room was thronged with masked people who shot me sly, sideways looks.
.
.
.
The photo of 'Jeremy' is, of course, of David Bowie.