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I miss writing poetry.
But it's one of those things I can't control.
Occassionally I've tried to force myself to write,
but I never like the poems later.
But it's a past-time that I really cherish.

I hope my words come back.
I'm getting sick of excerpts and sad stories.

So, maybe for a bit I'll post other things than my writing,
things I love and want to share.
Just enough to remind me.

Awake

I want things again.
Plural.
And I really want them, I care about them, I have enough energy to try and get them.
So this is about all the things I want, to remind me if I ever forget again.

I want to dye my hair hot pink

I want to appreciate people and personalities



I want to finish the HSC and do well, not because I need to but so I can be proud of myself

I want to kiss someone who I actually care about

and when I do I don't want to be numbed

I want to act

I want to read

I want to write

I want to travel

I want to meet people

I want to experience

I want to fight for who and what I believe in

even if that means breaking the rules sometimes

I really want to remember the inherent goodness of humanity

even if it's hard to see sometimes

And honestly, part of me

wants to go back

but not for a bit

And until then, I want to remind others about what I so easily forgot

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Thank you for everything

You all helped me a lot.

Waking



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The thing is, she had realised she was asleep. After more than 6 months, by an almost-year, she had realised and often consoled herself with the fact that all sleeping things must wake (and if not it is said to be the best way to go, dying in your sleep). And I know that when you realise it is a dream you are meant to be able to control what happens, and she tried -I swear she did- but she found the dream slowly fell into a nightmare around her. And a part of her relished the fact that she was slowly losing faith, that she had lost control. So she dreamt.
She dreamt she was running from something she couldn't escape
                               suffocating                              
                               being torn apart
                               lost in the wind                              
                               and the whole time falling, falling, falling,
and then, just before she hit the ground, she woke up.
                              
                         

i promise

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YOU ARE NOT THE SUM OF YOUR MARKS

                                             OF YOUR WRITING

                                             OF YOUR APPEARANCE

                                             OF YOUR WORST MOMENTS

you are so much more

i promise

and even if you can't see that now,

please, just hold on to it,

hold on to it until you can.

Psalm 139:7

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anna



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There is a small smile playing on her lips, and as your eyes follow her you get the feeling she's smiling at her own private joke. She walks, head high, long strides across the stage to accept her award. Smiles as she shakes his hand. There is an air of unashamed intelligence about her, a calm manner that suggests not shyness, but a level of confidence in which attention-seeking is not necessary. That is probably what is most appealing about her, that wicked smile and quiet air -it makes you wonder what she's thinking, because that's all you can do, wonder.
I suppose she's pretty, in a dark-haired, olive-skinned way. In a sweet-smile way. But what makes you look at her is her eyes, not because they are beautiful, but because they are deep and dark and steady. Because, she has this way of looking you directly in the eye without ever meeting your gaze.
And you wonder if she's slipping away from this world as you speak to her, like gradually she's distancing herself until all she needs to do is pull the trigger.

spirit

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I think the worst thing about it was the light in his eyes. It seemed to reinforce everything I've lost.
And I found myself wondering if i have passed the point of no return,
if there was a way to claw back the goodness that seems to have disappeared from myself.

It's a funny thing, goodness. You don't notice it until it's no longer there, and then you can feel its lack of presence taking over.
It seems to gradually suck up everything that you had defined yourself by, and leave you with this.
This, which is so uncared for, so desperately unneeded.

Which makes you selfish and self-centred and lonely.

More than other things, i find myself thinking of myself from three years ago, and admiring her, missing her. My mind may have grown but my hearts has shrivelled up.

I could learn a few things from her, but truthfully, i can't even remember her.

I can't even remember who i was.

"People are lonely because they build walls instead of bridges"

-J. F. Newton

And don't i know it.

knowing

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I get it.
That in the quiet moments, you can't ignore it.
When you are in the shower with it's too-warm water pounding on your face
And water droplets gathering like granules on your back.
When you are walking to the bus-stop, your hands fiddling with a shirt-button.
When you are at a party and for a moment your thoughts stop.

I get it. That in the quiet moments,
You can't ignore how unhappy you are.

your story

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Watery sunlight leaks through your curtains, your eyelids.

It will become apparent to you, maybe wake you.
Gradually and then suddenly.
You will tug at your limbs, that lie dead against the thin, the white sheets.

It will be easier to give up.
To lie in half darkness, to let it wrap you up in it's consuming warmth. To let it smother you. To stay there all day, longer.
And so you will. You will lie and sleep and doze in a murky haze of reality.
You will lose track of time.
Family, then friends will worry. And -even though none of them are bright enough, and those that are will be too bright, too artificial- they will want you to wake up. But no, all the while you will drag your heavy curtians shut tighter.

You will choose darkness. Because there is a kind of comfort. A familiarity in it.

You will choose darkness. Because for as long as you can remember, that's how you knew it would be.

You will choose darkness. Because that's how the story goes.

Deja Vu

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I have this feeling that keeps coming back to me
like not only have i been here before, but i've said these things before, I was in this exact situation before
more than that, i have lived this exact life before
and like groundhog day i keep screwing it up
so i am forced to relive it
and i think
oh the cruelty
because more than ever i believe the mistake will be some kind of tragedy.
will be something bad.
but instead of peace i will be forced to relive it
to start again
to endure everything i've taken so far
again

it feels like moments are gathering towards one
and although i can do anything to change it
i don't know how to
or want to
because the idea of making it up as i go along,
of not unconsciously knowing what's in store
is fucking scary

let it go

  dont worry about what it is or if it means anything
dont you get it?
the best things mean nothing
the happiest people dont think
they dont know
dont care

dont you get it?
Madame de Stael was wrong
The greatest happiness isn't to transform one's feelings into action.


the greatest happiness is to stop feeling
stop thinking
but keep acting

IGNORANCE IS BLISS
people are lonely
the world is fucked up
you will never be happy not really

and if you really think, really feel, it will be too much
you will lose yourself
(and if you don't lose yourself you aren't doing it right. if you don't lose yourself you're already doing this, subconsciously)

but if you act without thinking
without considering
others

you might catch a glimpse of happiness

because someone's always going to be unhappy
someone's always dying or crying
someone's always laughing
but it doesn't concern you

let it go
because empathy can squeeze your throat so tight you suffocate

and noone wants that

not really

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Ignore it, I dare you:

this is your future.

maybe baby

and then,
(and only then)
i might let myself

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letterhead #5

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Dear Meg,

This is my second letter to you.

You could already know what I'm about to tell you,

But somehow I don't think so.
Despite how confident I sound in my previous letter I wasn't sure it was you.
I thought maybe it was someone else,
Maybe I was making things up,
After all- a lot of people like frozen raspberries.
But tonight you cleared all doubt.
You have a blog, with 18 followers, you've been on it a year.
You signed a comment recently with your real name.
But most importantly, tonight you said you wouldn't want me reading your blog.
Wouldn't want me following your blog.

Sorry it has taken me so long to tell you.

I guess I didn't want you reading my blog,

Knowing it was me when you did.

But that only reinforces the point that I should be honest.

At first I wasn't sure what to do,
But I think I have the solution.
We stop following each other.
Stop reading each other's blogs,
Which sucks because yours is one of my favorites.

I don't want to force you to stop following mine but

How can I post everything that's going on if I'm afraid you'll judge me?

Afraid you'll tell someone or interpret it incorrectly?

This blog is the equivalent of my diary, of counselling,

It's everything I don't tell my friends.

I guess I'm taking the easy way out.
I really admire your writing.
I haven't breathed a word to anyone and I promise I won't.
Please do the same for me, no matter what you read or what you've read.

And please don't stop posting, I would be so upset, feel so guilty.

I even considered not telling you because I didn't want you to feel like you couldn't use blogger anymore.
And now you've left tumblr cause people are reading it.
I'm sorry I screwed this up for you.

I've already read all your posts so it's okay if you do the same.

But, please don't utter a word.

Please.

Thank-you for being so nice to me when I started.

Fair's fair.
I thought I should tell you on our own turf.

It's Grace.

Story.

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Once, in a land far from here, in a time that may never come to pass, I escaped from Despair, a demon who was hunting me. I arrived in an unfamiliar land, where despair did not follow me. As I walked through fields of tranquility, I met a young girl with sweet melodies plaited through her hair and light in her heart. She spoke in colours. As we talked I told her of my world and the monster I was fleeing, confused, she questioned me, "What colour is despair?"
"Black, I suppose."
She thought about this. "But what kind of black? Black like a crow's feathers? Or nightfall? Or-"
"No," I cut her off, frustrated, "black like in your room, alone at night. Like the deepest part of the ocean where just looking at it you feel like you will lose yourself. Like nothingness, the unknown."
Confusion clouded her face and envy filled my depths. She lived in a world where that colour wasn't a feeling, where it didn't exist, her next words confirmed it.
"I don't think I've ever felt that colour."
"How I wish I could stay here," I whispered with a voice like glass.
"You can." She murmured, her face filled with warmth.
"I can't," I whispered, longing clouding my voice, "what about all those I love?"
She hesitated, "Love? What colour is that?"
My breath ran away, and in an instant my envy transformed into pity. After much thought, I spoke, "Well, I suppose, it's every colour."
The girl who spoke in colours searched my eyes for the hidden meaning that she couldn't reach, not here.
"Do you mean white?"
"No," I choked on the words, "not at all...I'm sorry, I- I don't think there is a colour."
And with that I leant down to kiss her on both cheeks before walking away. And as soon as she was out of sight I began to run. And as I ran I sobbed, my heart cracking open, emotions filling my lungs. I prayed I could find my way back home and no longer feared the monster that had chased me here.
Because feeling horrible beats feeling nothing.
Because I didn't want to close off.
Because that poor girl would never feel love because she lived in a world without hate.
Beacuse I'd rather be fucked up anyday.