Figurative Loveliness

Hell, the first blog after my little miniature revolution (I wish I had a cool flag to wave about and a guillotine to chop old thoughts’ heads off), and it’s about metaphors. Bloody figurative, imaginary, insubstantial rhetorical devices. How pretentious and stuck up can I get? As you’ll soon find out, much more so.

Just to clear things up, similes are where you include the word like; for instance, ‘this post is like rainbow of thought and imagination’ is a simile. Metaphors get rid of the whole ‘like’ deal, they don’t need any crutches to justify how cool they are. You accept them for who they are. No exceptions. Metaphors are Tyrannosaurus Rex’s, they are Jaws’, they are the Gods of literary technique. And that sentence was a big old whack of metaphors. I’m a sneaky bugger I know.

I don’t know why I use them that much, honestly I don’t. If I had to take a guess, it would probably be because they make everything feel that little bit grander. No, I’m not wondering what my next post will be about. I’ve been kidnapped, drugged, hooked up to an explosive device and being poked with a pointed wooden stick into choosing one of three boxes. One box contains a pair of comedy breasts, one contains the combination for the padlock currently locking me up, and the last will blow me up should I open it.

A lot more tense, don’t you agree?

My love of metaphors is probably not all that surprising now that I think about it. That crazy, swirling imagination is so much more exciting than the grim boredom of reality that I need to keep letting it out, or little pieces of brain will shower down on the populous.

I’ve been told I personify things far too much. If you’d ever spend a day with me, perhaps even an hour would be enough, and you’d notice that I have a tendency to act out as a lot of different things in a very short space of time. I can be a blade of grass, I can be hatred, hell, I can be an oxygen molecule being bombarded by mean glucose molecules. I mean, honestly, what’s their problem? You’re mooching about in the air, minding your own business, and then suddenly you’re sucked into the respiratory system and being forced to break down so that some selfish little prat can live? The cheek of it.

So, um...yeah. I like metaphors because I like pretending to be a swordfish than accept my life will never be that cool. Your life isn’t all that cool either. You should metaphorise more. We could be friends.

This whole post is a metaphor for me being unable to sort out emotions without long winded discussions on semantics of feeling. Go figure.