Go listen to Sia's "Breathe Me" and Will Young's "Grace".
- Current Music:The XX - Islands
So, Skins is an amazing show. Not something you'd want to let your parents or your church-mates in on (heck, the last episode I watched had everyone tripping on mushrooms.) but immensely entertaining nonetheless. I've fallen in love with each character, no matter how annoying or obnoxious they were originally represented as, each episode continues to build and add to them, coming to a point where it's nigh impossible to hate a single character for more than 2 episodes. No stereotypical trope-laden characters- no, a single season itself gives you a look at the multi-faceted lives that each one of these characters lives, behind the facade of their bawdy antics.
If that stupid embed still doesn't work, here's a link to one of the songs that I love which was in one of their episodes.
www.youtube.com/watch
I heard a sample of that song ages ago in a montage video, the moment I heard it playing in the background in the episode, I tracked it down with a vengeance. I think this is the 7th time I've listened to it. Lovely stuff.
If that stupid embed still doesn't work, here's a link to one of the songs that I love which was in one of their episodes.
www.youtube.com/watch
I heard a sample of that song ages ago in a montage video, the moment I heard it playing in the background in the episode, I tracked it down with a vengeance. I think this is the 7th time I've listened to it. Lovely stuff.
Let's get the disclaimer out of the way.
No, I will not be judged by others, I will not be compared to your ability or past experiences. What I'm typing, is purely and simply my experience from the peculiarly cathartic (in the sense of cleansing, not of defecating. Although that would be hilarious) morning jogs that we lads in green pixellated camouflage dread as we trod down that path towards camp.
Three and a half hours of sleep between my eyes shutting and that annoying drone of the three alarms I've set by my bed, a mad rush at an unearthly hour to throw on a uniform over skin that just scant moments before was wrapped up under the cottony clouds of an overstuffed blanket, gobbling down a breakfast so meager that it barely qualifies as sustenance and jamming my feet into boots that set every raw, weeping blister on my feet burning. Not a great start to the morning. Lacing up said torture devices and setting off towards the station, not forgetting to mumble a prayer for the family and my love under my breath as those tiny droplets of perspiration already begin to form under the uniform, partly from the heat, partly from the physical activity, but mostly because there are daggers being plunged into my feet as the contact points between boot and flesh only continue to tear and rend at the once plump and atrophic feet which now resemble dried meat. Get to the station, board the train, whip out the cellphone- time for good morning message to the girl that makes me thank God I'm alive. For a few minutes, my mind is completely abuzz. Hit that send button, pocket the phone, survey my surroundings. Brain goes dark. Back to the routine, of a routine, of a routine.
Snap back to life, rush off the train as those pricks block the entrance. I give them the good old stink-eye as I walk past them, trying to look as menacing as possible. A pissed off soldier who had had enough of an unappreciative society, one that continually ignored whatever significant contribution boys like us had to make for the country they live in. One that has reduced us to disgusting, unkempt ragamuffins who only served to introduce unpleasant odors into their precious daily commute. Forget it, they'd never get it. Time is too precious to waste on bitter thoughts. Just walk on.
Walking down a winding path to get to the camp, twisting through void decks, pillar after pillar, painted sickening shades of green, pink, red. An atrocious rainbow that only serves to cover up the dull gray blandness of the underlying concrete. The camp gates loom within sight, at last! A reprieve! Bags clatter as they hit the table, velcro and zips hastily part as a moving column of green zips past inspection and continues trudging towards the headquarters. My feet are host to several more blisters now, but as that familiar pong of the locker room hits my nose, I know that the sweet relief of yanking off those boots and wiggling my toes awaits me.
Hullo feet. I count the blisters. One, two; two blisters reopened, oozing out that clear fluid that we've all learned to dismiss. Fresh socks are pulled on as the locker room quickly turns into a fracas of people struggling to find space to swap out their uniform for a PT kit. Utter chaos. Total anarchy. Changing room politics as grunts and pushes quickly replace the spoken word. "Fall in in 5 minutes!" someone shouts, a completely unnecessary reminder that only serves to slow us down, as if to spite the source of the voice. An inexplicable need to rebel against anyone who nags.
PT kit on, feet now wrapped up in white cotton socks and in running shoes that feel like pure heaven compared to those leather coffins I had on moments ago. Ready and raring to go for the run. The clatter of feet as we walk towards the parade square dampens out the distant shouting of the people already warming up. People mill about, some jogging on the spot, others standing slack-jawed and misty-eyed. Shell-shocked survivors of the invisible war we all wage on physical training.
The command is given and we're off! Feet pounding at the tarmac, adrenaline coursing through my veins as I take flight. It's still too early for my muscles to start seizing up, too early for my lungs to quake and sob for air. Every bound propels me forward as the world around me distorts into a blur of colors, the smear on an artist's palette as his brush strokes become more imaginative and aggressive, colors fusing together to breathe life into a masterpiece.
One lap, no sweat, I could do this all day.
Two laps, a little winded, but my pace is still good. I don't even feel the blisters anymore, I don't even smell the haze. All I feel is the perspiration slowly making its way through the fabric of my clothing, the heat on the soles of my feet as the rubber soles of my shoes heat up from the friction.
Three laps, I've slowed down considerably, and the fast pace earlier is really beginning to bite back. I've gone from steady regulated, breaths to deep inhalations and sharp, quick exhales in an attempt to evacuate the carbon dioxide from my system and replace it with oxygen as quickly and efficiently as possible. Still good,albeit slower.
Four, and my lungs are going up in flames. Forget breathing, I'm gasping for air, my airways probably contracting and gulping down whatever oxygen it can get like a fish that's been pulled out of the water. Perspiration is pouring down in quantities that amaze me, my body's way of compensating for the insanely high temperature it's hitting now. Worse than any fever ever, hot blood pumping through your veins as that acidic tensing of your muscles begins to set in. Every step is a game now, a challenge to see whether your will is stronger than your body, with your legs crying out for you to stop, feet pretzeling about, refusing to find solid purchase with the ground. It's crazy.
Five, and I just want it to end. One last burst of strength to sprint to the line, thrashing my body, gritting my teeth and just flat out sprinting. It's beautiful. You should try it sometime.
I cross the finish line, breathless, pale, exhausted. My vision already obstructed by those dark rings that form around the edges of your field of vision, blue sparks going off like fireworks, the glowing, pulsating green ring shining bright in my eyes when I shut them. Your own private little fireworks display. I'm hearing things like they've been filtered through gauze. Muffled, distant. Just a collection of different tones and voices. I can't form words because my jaw feels unhinged. There's so much pressure in my head it's actually shutting down my senses. Amazing. You feel like you're dying on your feet, but you've never been more alive.
I get through the rest of the day, go home, take a shower. Pardon the stink, o ye righteous civilians, but washing up in the shower stalls which dribble water down on you in camp just does not give you a proper cleansing. Besides, most of it's the result of us having to rush around wearing our uniforms in the heat for the rest of the day. You don't stay perspiration free in the army.
The rest of the day flashes by, not eventful enough to register much within my memory. But as I crawl into bed, into those pillowy sheets again and set my alarm to wake me up in another 3 or 4 hours, I just can't wait for the next run.
Oh, and, to whoever decided to play "Barbie Girl" over the PA system in the parade square during the run just now? Good call man. Having that song blaring that loud in front of all the high ranking folks in the camp and a bunch of sweaty, tired guys really knocked me for a loop. You sir, are a genius. Bravo.
No, I will not be judged by others, I will not be compared to your ability or past experiences. What I'm typing, is purely and simply my experience from the peculiarly cathartic (in the sense of cleansing, not of defecating. Although that would be hilarious) morning jogs that we lads in green pixellated camouflage dread as we trod down that path towards camp.
Three and a half hours of sleep between my eyes shutting and that annoying drone of the three alarms I've set by my bed, a mad rush at an unearthly hour to throw on a uniform over skin that just scant moments before was wrapped up under the cottony clouds of an overstuffed blanket, gobbling down a breakfast so meager that it barely qualifies as sustenance and jamming my feet into boots that set every raw, weeping blister on my feet burning. Not a great start to the morning. Lacing up said torture devices and setting off towards the station, not forgetting to mumble a prayer for the family and my love under my breath as those tiny droplets of perspiration already begin to form under the uniform, partly from the heat, partly from the physical activity, but mostly because there are daggers being plunged into my feet as the contact points between boot and flesh only continue to tear and rend at the once plump and atrophic feet which now resemble dried meat. Get to the station, board the train, whip out the cellphone- time for good morning message to the girl that makes me thank God I'm alive. For a few minutes, my mind is completely abuzz. Hit that send button, pocket the phone, survey my surroundings. Brain goes dark. Back to the routine, of a routine, of a routine.
Snap back to life, rush off the train as those pricks block the entrance. I give them the good old stink-eye as I walk past them, trying to look as menacing as possible. A pissed off soldier who had had enough of an unappreciative society, one that continually ignored whatever significant contribution boys like us had to make for the country they live in. One that has reduced us to disgusting, unkempt ragamuffins who only served to introduce unpleasant odors into their precious daily commute. Forget it, they'd never get it. Time is too precious to waste on bitter thoughts. Just walk on.
Walking down a winding path to get to the camp, twisting through void decks, pillar after pillar, painted sickening shades of green, pink, red. An atrocious rainbow that only serves to cover up the dull gray blandness of the underlying concrete. The camp gates loom within sight, at last! A reprieve! Bags clatter as they hit the table, velcro and zips hastily part as a moving column of green zips past inspection and continues trudging towards the headquarters. My feet are host to several more blisters now, but as that familiar pong of the locker room hits my nose, I know that the sweet relief of yanking off those boots and wiggling my toes awaits me.
Hullo feet. I count the blisters. One, two; two blisters reopened, oozing out that clear fluid that we've all learned to dismiss. Fresh socks are pulled on as the locker room quickly turns into a fracas of people struggling to find space to swap out their uniform for a PT kit. Utter chaos. Total anarchy. Changing room politics as grunts and pushes quickly replace the spoken word. "Fall in in 5 minutes!" someone shouts, a completely unnecessary reminder that only serves to slow us down, as if to spite the source of the voice. An inexplicable need to rebel against anyone who nags.
PT kit on, feet now wrapped up in white cotton socks and in running shoes that feel like pure heaven compared to those leather coffins I had on moments ago. Ready and raring to go for the run. The clatter of feet as we walk towards the parade square dampens out the distant shouting of the people already warming up. People mill about, some jogging on the spot, others standing slack-jawed and misty-eyed. Shell-shocked survivors of the invisible war we all wage on physical training.
The command is given and we're off! Feet pounding at the tarmac, adrenaline coursing through my veins as I take flight. It's still too early for my muscles to start seizing up, too early for my lungs to quake and sob for air. Every bound propels me forward as the world around me distorts into a blur of colors, the smear on an artist's palette as his brush strokes become more imaginative and aggressive, colors fusing together to breathe life into a masterpiece.
One lap, no sweat, I could do this all day.
Two laps, a little winded, but my pace is still good. I don't even feel the blisters anymore, I don't even smell the haze. All I feel is the perspiration slowly making its way through the fabric of my clothing, the heat on the soles of my feet as the rubber soles of my shoes heat up from the friction.
Three laps, I've slowed down considerably, and the fast pace earlier is really beginning to bite back. I've gone from steady regulated, breaths to deep inhalations and sharp, quick exhales in an attempt to evacuate the carbon dioxide from my system and replace it with oxygen as quickly and efficiently as possible. Still good,albeit slower.
Four, and my lungs are going up in flames. Forget breathing, I'm gasping for air, my airways probably contracting and gulping down whatever oxygen it can get like a fish that's been pulled out of the water. Perspiration is pouring down in quantities that amaze me, my body's way of compensating for the insanely high temperature it's hitting now. Worse than any fever ever, hot blood pumping through your veins as that acidic tensing of your muscles begins to set in. Every step is a game now, a challenge to see whether your will is stronger than your body, with your legs crying out for you to stop, feet pretzeling about, refusing to find solid purchase with the ground. It's crazy.
Five, and I just want it to end. One last burst of strength to sprint to the line, thrashing my body, gritting my teeth and just flat out sprinting. It's beautiful. You should try it sometime.
I cross the finish line, breathless, pale, exhausted. My vision already obstructed by those dark rings that form around the edges of your field of vision, blue sparks going off like fireworks, the glowing, pulsating green ring shining bright in my eyes when I shut them. Your own private little fireworks display. I'm hearing things like they've been filtered through gauze. Muffled, distant. Just a collection of different tones and voices. I can't form words because my jaw feels unhinged. There's so much pressure in my head it's actually shutting down my senses. Amazing. You feel like you're dying on your feet, but you've never been more alive.
I get through the rest of the day, go home, take a shower. Pardon the stink, o ye righteous civilians, but washing up in the shower stalls which dribble water down on you in camp just does not give you a proper cleansing. Besides, most of it's the result of us having to rush around wearing our uniforms in the heat for the rest of the day. You don't stay perspiration free in the army.
The rest of the day flashes by, not eventful enough to register much within my memory. But as I crawl into bed, into those pillowy sheets again and set my alarm to wake me up in another 3 or 4 hours, I just can't wait for the next run.
Oh, and, to whoever decided to play "Barbie Girl" over the PA system in the parade square during the run just now? Good call man. Having that song blaring that loud in front of all the high ranking folks in the camp and a bunch of sweaty, tired guys really knocked me for a loop. You sir, are a genius. Bravo.
You sit there, beneath the stars.
You sit there, your arms wrapped tightly 'round yourself, your knees drawn up to your chest.
You sit there, surrounded by a cacophony of sounds, distant echoes resounding through the night.
You sit there, with your body screaming out in protest, begging for rest, but you have no choice but to deny it even the briefest respite.
You sit there, your spirit broken, your will weak, your eyes heavy.
You sit there, and you let a solitary tear roll down your cheek.
You sit there, and you think of her.
All I wanted was to see her. I got through all of it- the marching, the running through the jungle while gunfire rattled away at you, your eyes red and raw from the lack of sleep, your lungs filled with the stench of gunpowder and the rank odor of your uniform; the punishments, kneeling on rocks, holding your body up while your arms quake and threaten to give way from the weight of all the equipment on your back; the trudging through sloughs filled with mud that reeked of rotting vegetation, everything; I got through it all, and all I wanted to do was to see her, to hold her delicate body against me, to finally let my burdens go while I found a haven within her arms. I craved it more and more with every passing second, till all I could think about was to finally see her. Just as she had to go.
Hurry back home sweetheart.
I miss you so.
You sit there, your arms wrapped tightly 'round yourself, your knees drawn up to your chest.
You sit there, surrounded by a cacophony of sounds, distant echoes resounding through the night.
You sit there, with your body screaming out in protest, begging for rest, but you have no choice but to deny it even the briefest respite.
You sit there, your spirit broken, your will weak, your eyes heavy.
You sit there, and you let a solitary tear roll down your cheek.
You sit there, and you think of her.
All I wanted was to see her. I got through all of it- the marching, the running through the jungle while gunfire rattled away at you, your eyes red and raw from the lack of sleep, your lungs filled with the stench of gunpowder and the rank odor of your uniform; the punishments, kneeling on rocks, holding your body up while your arms quake and threaten to give way from the weight of all the equipment on your back; the trudging through sloughs filled with mud that reeked of rotting vegetation, everything; I got through it all, and all I wanted to do was to see her, to hold her delicate body against me, to finally let my burdens go while I found a haven within her arms. I craved it more and more with every passing second, till all I could think about was to finally see her. Just as she had to go.
Hurry back home sweetheart.
I miss you so.
I wish I could smell like power tools and jet fighter missiles too. :(
But damn, I'll never be as manly as this guy. He was on a HORSE.
To celebrate my newfound love for tea. That's right. I'm now an uppity, better than everyone, tea-drinking sophisticate.
The video's by joehands0me on youtube, his video editing it AMAZING. Heck, even if you don't like video games, give one of his videos a watch. They're so pretty.
