Mourning the death of small things.

And no, I don't mean children and animals.
Today boys and girls I will be talking about the loss of youth and the everyday changes that usually go unoticed.
I think back to just a few months ago and so much seems to have changed. I feel I'm going mad and I sit thinking that I can't be that different to how I was..I just couldn't change that much practically over night without realising it. But it seems I have.

I'm sure I'm not the only person in the world who's changed recently. Almost everyone in college is completley different to how they were when college began. Within the ranks of my fellow bloggers I see complete contrasts between them now compared to when we began college.

It's not that I don't like change or that I'm unwilling to change...It's just that it seems unreasonable that I should be so busy that I can't even enjoy the development and change within my own life.

So this entry is dedicated to mourning the death of the small things we lose as a byproduct of the aging process and although I'm only eighteen I have alot of mourning to catch up on already.

The first of these is 'The magic of the library' ; writing this from a public library I shouldn't be too judgmental, but I will be. As a child I cherished visits to the library. The colours the cushions the vast amount of stories lining the walls just waiting for you to delve into and be transported to a world where theirs never any chores to do and ice cream never gives ytou an ice cream headache. I'm afraid to say as I have grown older I've realised that chores are inevitable and niether relish the thouht of marigolds and flash 'all purpose' I neither detest it either, I've become desensitized to the labourious work of chore and that, my friends is worse. I blame school and college for causing me to not be content with story hour and a quick book on tape. Not obnly are libraries now object I associate with Brecht, set texts, textbooks and general none fiction my local public library is next to the supermarket. I'm ashamed to say that instead of enjoying the peaceful blanket of silence laid upon me by crossing the thresh hold of the library my brain begins to use it as an opportunity to start a virtual shopping list. The internet in the dark seedy corner looms, bringing in unwanted and unwashed drifters. I see these people as the dirty line of filth arounf the bath of society. And I move quickly as I type to tell you that the state of those who surround me as I write make me feel as if I have wandered in on 'peado's hour' in the conmputer suite. I'm yet to work out if the man sat next to me is actually publicly masturbaiting via a hole in his pocket as the movment of his hand might suggest.

The next loss I will mourn today is the ability to not wear make up. Don't get me wrong; I don't wear make up every day. But I see those days when I don't wear make up as a chance to get my own back on society by making them gaze at my grusome paintless face all day long. It's a sad day in a females's life when she changes from wearing make up to look older (getting into pubs and the like) to wearing make up to look younger. A sad day indeed sadder still that mine came on my eighteenth birthday coinciding with my new found ability to become an angry, paranoid mess whenever somebody guesses my age as a couple of yuears older than I am. My remedy for this; stop asking people how old they think I am and wear make as the mood takes me. I've lost that ability to get up and leave the house without hours of preparations and the layers of products and make up that I layer my head in cause me to see myself in my mind's eye as a sort of Elizabeth the first character with the 3cm thick layer of plaster securing my face and thick cobwebs hanginf down from the end of my hair.

So ladies and gentlemen raise your virtual glasses of wine and join me in my banquet celebrating the death to the young Kashka Georgeson and her naive ways and toast with me to the new older, and hopefully wiser version of a self that we once knew.