creative writing · Death · Grief · ideas · journal · poetry · romance · Uncategorized

Forgetting Faces.

And O, how I forget.
I forget about you, sometimes,
The times I am happy I forget.
And then I regret.
I curse myself thinking,
That I forgot.
How did I forget?
Time is passing and I’m forgetting
And you’re getting lost in the ether,
In the space between time and my mind.
Now I’m forgetting you.
What did you say?
I’ve forgotten those days,
The small, little, significant days
That mean so much now.
Now I’m forgetting you.
And now that I forget
I’m growing old too,
And my memories fade
Just like yours used to
And they say life is cyclical,
Birth and death.
But I will never find you again,
Or even feel your breath
In the Sky.
Or the Dirt.
And it pains me that I’m forgetting
For the only predator of humanity,
is the ticking clock.
And now that I’m forgetting, you’re dying
Again
And now I’m crying.
Again
So, whose going to tell your story now?
If all it was is now words
Words on a page,
vowels
and consonants
And I forget?
I forget about you.
And I’m scared,
Because I’m forgetting you
Because time is cruel,
And hold no bounds
Not for us mortals mewling.
But still I forget you.
And in doing so
I’m enduring, continuing
without you
But I don’t want to
Never.
Please.
But O how I forget.
I forget You.
Sometimes

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creative writing · ideas · journal · poetry · romance · Uncategorized

Talking about Twitching.

I wrote a short story titled ‘Twitching’ for my dissertation last year. It is a story featuring a Magpie and a girl names Sally. The Magpie talks to Sally and she eventually listens to him. I wrote this story from the perspective of someone with clinical depression, but some bits I couldn’t incorporate into the story. This is one of them. Enjoy.

 

The bird loved Sally. The bird loved Sally so much that the bird wanted to be her bestest friend in the whole world. The bird liked to whisper and squawk and squak in her ears. The bird liked to tap tap tap at the window and fly into her dreams. The bird liked to play with her in the oak tree. The bird liked to watch Sally as she slept in her bed. The bird liked Sally so much the bird promised he would never leave Sally. Never ever ever.

If you want to read more of ‘Twitching’ please comment!

Scribbling with stars.

 

 

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Scribbles.

These are just a few scribbles from my creative journal. Enjoy.

A memory of being scrunched up in a ball of paper and stuffed into a mouth…… she crushed my words back down my throat with a feathery lightness…… she combed my thoughts and cut out the tatters………coiled into her mouth, forcing its way down the throat of a child………….lost in the strings of voices, tangled and knotted into a ball of yarn.

My words decay when leaving her mouth…….like mushrooms in a field of green……..the rot seeps from her lips and muskily haunts my scent.

Scribbling with Stars.

creative writing · poetry · romance · Uncategorized

She’s only.

He’s in love with her stars

and her sky

and her sea

 

She’s marble,

perfectly chiselled

white and shining

Perfect and blinding

 

He thinks she’s Aphrodite

and Medusa

Beautiful and mighty

She’s a river

and a feeling

 

He could never leave her.

He says

“she’s beyond earth”

“she’s a paradise, she’s Eden.”

 

But she’s moss

and worms

and moths.

 

She’s seaweed

and sandstone

and bones and moans

 

She’s hair and nose and mouth

and body and skin and loss

 

She’s freckles and scars and bruises

 

and a name.

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Falter.

I’m very bad at poetry, but I often find that the best ideas for prose that I have usually start in a form similar to this. I might wrote something along these lines later, I might not. Either way, its a wonderful creative exercise and I enjoy it despite the outcome not being fantastic.

I wrote this one a couple of years ago and still haven’t written anything from it, but its nice to know that I have a large portfolio of ideas hidden away in cyberspace.

You can’t hide,

Not from me,

Not behind the suave exterior,

Not behind the social graces,

Not behind the illusion of grandeur,

Not behind your painted face.

Because I am you,

And you are me.

So

Just give up, give in, give out

I can’t speak for you.

because

You can’t speak for me.

But they speak for you.

From the periphery of your mind

I can transcend your being,

I can see into your self.

I can see who you are.

And what you are is fantasy.

Deception.

Misconception.

A pipe dream.

Self – aggrandizement.

However, my suit and tie,

Don’t try to look at my two- faces.

Because

I believe what I say.

Wholly.

Truly.

But I don’t believe what I write.

What is truth about me, about you.

I can’t tell.

So neither can you.

Admit it, we don’t even know anymore.

But I do forgive you,

For the pretences

The lies

To myself

To you

And I do try to laugh at the illusions,

The world I have created for myself

But I always falter.

Always.

 

Scribbling with Stardust.

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I love.

“I love you.”

At the beginning of last year, I had this intense belief that I could never be loved. I truly believed this with every part of myself. It wasn’t something bad, something that made me feel lesser or disgusting or unworthy. I honestly believed that for me to be happy, all I needed to be was constantly and consistently okay. Never elated or upset or mad. Just okay. That’s it. Olivia Morris could not love or be loved, and she was okay with that.

I was okay with that fact when I first started talking to him and when I first felt those feelings of want. I was okay with not being loved when we messaged from the moment we woke up in the morning to the moment we fell asleep. I was okay with it when I videoed him in my mismatched striped pyjamas, whispering into the light of my laptop screen. I was even okay with it when he first kissed me on the top of that sinking sand dune in the freezing cold wind.

I was not okay with it when I realised I had fallen in love with him.

Finally accepting that I was in love with him, and that he was in love with me too, made me terrified. I was so scared because I wasn’t just ‘okay’ anymore. I was elated and upset and mad because I had been wrong for so long. I had fooled myself into thinking these things to stable myself, to try and make myself content with ‘okay’. Being just ‘okay’ worked for a while, until it didn’t anymore.

He had already told me he loved me, but when I told him I loved him, I was awkward and weird. I didn’t even look at him in the face. I laughed nervously. I blushed profusely. It was the essence of cringe-worthy, and it was beautiful.

I didn’t ask to love or be loved. I didn’t cry out for it or need it like they do in all those movies and shows. I wasn’t waiting for my princess or prince to rescue me. I just waited. I got on with my life, watching the ground for dips in the pavement when I accidentally stumbled into love. I was a bit scared, a bit messy and a bit lost.

But beyond everything I thought about myself, beyond all those negative thoughts and negative emotions, I found the most beautiful and simple of all gestures:

Love took my hand, steadied me, smiled and said “I love you too.”

Scribbling with stardust.

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Circles and circles.

“Sometimes I feel like the only thing I do is go round and round and round and round and round. The same thing, a cycle, an endless stream of the same. Going to sleep is the only thing in my life that I look forward to. It is the only moment that I feel like I can be rid of this static state, of this cycle of nothingness, of this temporal pause. I feel as if can’t move, like I can’t breathe and I can’t change.”

Being stuck somewhere you don’t want to be can be the most frustrating and upsetting moment in your life. It can make us feel as if our static lives make us feel worthless and unworthy, as if nothing could change the fact that we are unable to move on. Trying to move can feel fruitless and an almost impossible task, something that you don’t have the energy to keep pursuing.

But pursue we must, because without it, we will never move; the static will continue and we will remain in constant and perpetual sameness. We must continue to pursue something better because these moments of static are exactly that; they are mere moments in our lives, and not their entirety. We will change and move and live more, but we have to get past these moments in order to see it. We have to move on in order to retrospectively look back and see that we were always able to move on.

Scribbling with stardust.

 

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Sometimes, choice is wrong.

In the deepest depths of my sadness I wrote:

“I have chosen loneliness. I sit in the dark and not for one second do I allow myself to think. I’m always doing something, watching a new show, browsing the internet, music blasting in my ears; anything to stop me thinking. I don’t want to think because I don’t want to realise. I don’t want to recognise what I’ve always known. I don’t want to know that I’m lonely. So I sit in the dark and listen to my music and forget. I pretend that I’m in a fictional space.

I’m not lonely anymore; all my invisible friends are here.

For those moments I’m happy, or at least contented, because I’m not alone. I have fiction to surround me and cast out my realisation. I don’t have to face reality because I live in fiction. I choose to remain in the dark because it’s easier than going out. No one judges me in the dark, no one can reject me in the dark, no one can give me pain in the dark and no one can bring light into the dark.

I shut myself away because I don’t want to deal with anything else. I refused to be in pain anymore. So I shut out the pain and I also shut out happiness.”

I realise that my ‘choice’ was not a choice, it was an obligation for my depression. I pandered to the voice in my head that said I wasn’t good enough by pretending what I was doing was the path I had consciously chosen.

My error was not in shutting myself away, it was living up to the pretence that I was responsible for it.

Scribbling with Stardust.

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I am mine.

Processed with VSCOcam with c1 preset
Processed with VSCOcam with c1 preset

I had a sudden realisation at the beginning of 2017.

It is mine.

And by ‘it’ I’m meaning me, my life, my worth, my value. Before then, I believed my value derived from what I surrounded myself with, and to some extent it does. I have good friends, a supportive and loving family, wonderful hobbies and a career that I am aspiring towards. But if I didn’t have it, and if I couldn’t have the things that people tell me I should have, what then? Do I lose my value? Am I a lesser person because I can’t have it? There are many things in my life that I can’t have. Right now, I can’t be paid for my career choice (writers don’t get paid well- who fucking knew?!). I can’t move out of my family home because I don’t get paid enough. I can’t own my own dog. I can’t eat a whole block of cheese without wanting to throw up. So do I have less value, less substance than those who have those things?

Well, no. I don’t.

Its nothing to do with my age or what I can achieve in my twenty-two years of existence, but it is to do with who I am. My value, which I attribute to being synonymous with who I am, derives from exactly that, me. I am powerful because I accept who I am and I go with it. I’m messy and unorganised and I procrastinate. I’m loving and caring and a good daughter. I’m angry and frustrated and paranoid. I’m happy and strong and I have badass green hair.

I can change, but I don’t want to.

I have been told throughout my life that there are certain things that mean I’ve ‘made it’, that mean that I am a success and should be proud. Good grades, a good job, money, a supportive nuclear family blah blah blah.  All of which I don’t have. But I’m proud and I value other things, big and small, that make up me. I’m proud of accepting my chub, despite being told its ugly. I’m proud of doing a degree that means something to me rather than being told to do something more vocational. I’m proud of being a tall, broadly built woman despite being told to be slender and small. I’m proud of living everyday despite not wanting to.

It is mine. My life is mine and I don’t have to answer to anything or anyone to gain value from it. Because my life is mine and I am proud of what is mine, I am valuable because of who I am. My value is completely inherent and therefore I can’t ever lose that worth. It is mine and absolutely nothing and no one can take what is mine away from me because I am mine and I’m proud of what is mine.

Scribbling with Stardust.

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A Lily in the Waves

I USUALLY don’t like New Year’s resolutions. Most of them are selfish and impossible and untrue. They float between the waves of hope and uncertainty like lilies caught in unrelenting waves. However, in 2017 I made a resolution that was all these things combined and I never thought it would last but, inconceivably, it did.

My resolution was to be my authentic self.

I wrote it down on a scrap piece of crumpled paper in scribbled ink scrawls. It is a reminder, a promise and a hope. I wrote: ‘I think the time to realise your truth comes unexpectedly and in different forms. I have realised that I have restrained the authentic me by trying to achieve what someone else thinks are right. I don’t want that. You are in control of your own life and your decisions. You can be you despite everything and everyone else.’

This is not to say I have been false up until this point, far from it, but last year’s resolution was more about revealing more of me. We all change and adapt our personalities according to the social situations we find ourselves in, but we shouldn’t completely give up who we are in that moment. We should blossom into our authentic selves, despite where we are, what we are doing or who we are with.

Up until that moment, I had presented only part of myself, the part I thought was the best, the part that I believed people wanted to see. But I was wrong. My ‘bad’ parts, the ones that I used to lock behind flowers and mirages, are the parts of me that create the good ones. Hiding the bad dilutes the good and I finally found contentment in both.

Lilies can be very hardy plants. If careful consideration is taken whilst planting water lilies, they can grow and thrive in their watery homes. They will be strong and unwavering, pollinated by bees and fed by the sun. Lilies can hold unyielding against waves and wind.

Scribbling with Stardust