Girls rock!

If you asked me to put on a song this time last year, there would have been a 95% chance you’d end up hearing male voices. I was convinced I didn’t like female singing voices so most of my playlist consisted of male singers, boybands, bands with only male members, and instrumentals created and/or played by men. Sad, no?

So what changed? About this time last year I became aware of the lack of diversity in the music I listened to and posted a tweet asking people for recs. At the time my account was even smaller than it is today and my followers were not very interactive so I only got a single reply. Fortunately, even one is enough sometimes. One of my irl friends follows me on twitter and reads my tweets religiously (though she doesn’t interact with very many of them) and she happens to be an avid listener of music made by women, sung by women, showcasing girlpower.

I told her I was looking for female singers and groups with either female lead singers or a membership that was at least 50% female and she delivered. She made me a playlist of a 100 songs by some 80 different artists in all kinds of genres and styles. It was a good mix of old and new stuff and she threw in some wild cards. It took me several months to listen through all of those a few times to make up my mind about them. I was honestly prepared to dislike most of them but I loved (LOVED) at least 25 of them and liked a good majority of the rest. There were many I disliked too and I was very honest about it too. Then a few days later I got a new playlist sent to me. There were 150 songs this time. The ones I disliked were replaced and 50 new ones were added, some by new artists and others by artists now familiar to me.

I’m still going through this second playlist (sorry, friend) but she did conclude I like 1) songs with loads of percussion (makes sense, since I always loved the drumming in metal music) and 2) dreamy songs so this list contains more of that. However, I have made an interesting discovery. I am now, after a year of intense exposure to female voices and songs, actively seeking out music by women without even thinking about it.

Those who read this blog might have noticed that I like kpop. My new header even features Kim Jonghyun of SHINee with a quote that explains the past decade or so of my life. But much of my taste was very limited to boy groups and the occasional male solo singer or rapper. While I still love music by men and male voices, and while I still dislike certain female voices, including even some very mainstream artists who make millions, I find myself looking for female kpop artists too. Now my preference is for solo songs, whether from solo artists or members of groups that got solo songs, because I still don’t really like when many female voices harmonise in a song. I get very overwhelmed and it makes the experience unpleasant but I love duos and solos.

My current obsession is 2NE1’s CL. I’m crushing big time on her and her music is to blame, though she is absolutely gorgeous and her looks are definitely no turn off.

I’m very happy with this positive change I’ve made and I definitely have my friend to thank for it. I did take that first step myself; I reached out to people when I decided something had to change. If I hadn’t done this, I would not be where I am now. I think such a progression might have happened naturally, without interference, as I grew up and grew as a person but it would have taken so much longer, I’m convinced of that. There is no way I would’ve gone from disliking female voices to actively seeking out all these incredible artists in a single year.

And I recommend it to everyone. Is your playlist 75% male? How diverse is your music taste? Finding stuff from women but also from genres you normally avoid might be eye opening. You won’t love every genre but dismissing an entire genre based on one song (or 5 or 10) is dumb and you will be missing out. Reach out to friends and acquaintances, family members and strangers online (me!), and try to learn and explore. Maybe your taste won’t match mine at all and you’ll hate every suggestion I do. But maybe your girlfriend has really good taste but you never bothered to give it a fair shot. And if, after you’ve listened to some two hundred songs by about 100 different artists in at least 5 different genres, you still don’t like any of them, look into yourself and see why. Maybe there’s something wrong with your ears (it might be, I’m serious. I’m a little sensitive so high pitched sounds don’t sound good to me) or it could be a mental/psychological/hormonal issue. It’s worth looking into. Or you could just be really cynical or bigoted. Are you naturally stubborn? Do you hate trying new things? Do you see the world as a pile of shit where anything you don’t already like is crap?

I don’t want to make this post too long and I don’t want to add more negative things. I’ve had a really rough day, month, summer, and basically year but I think talking negatively all the time and complaining a lot makes you more vulnerable to seeing the world that way too and that’s no fun. For me, distractions work a lot better than talking about negative feelings and thoughts so when I noticed this changed perspective when it comes to music I thought it’d make a much better post than anything negative I could’ve put. Maybe your music taste is already super diverse (go you!) but your taste in books or movies could use some work. The same method would work.

Personally I noticed that many of my favourite books are by white male authors. Why? Because 90% of the books I read are by white male authors. So this year I decided I’m only allowed to spend money on books by POC. Then next year (sept 2020-aug 2021) I will only buy books from people of the LGBTQ+ community, or those that don’t want to be in the LGBTQ+ community but aren’t allocishets. And throughout I’m trying to buy more books written by women than by men. I’m also looking for enby authors but that’s a little harder when you don’t have access to Amazon. I try though.

Whatever you take from this post, I hope it will make you more adventurous about trying new things, moving slightly out of your comfort zone. There is unfortunately no creative piece at the bottom of this post but 2019 has not been a good year for writing for me, or any kind of productivity, really. Hopefully 2020 will be better and I will try to stock up on some short pieces or poetry so I can update more frequently.

Have a nice day! And if you want to recommend any music or books or movies, please do.

Guess who?

It’s me. Back in less than three months yay. This time with a poem, too. (Scroll down.)

I forgot to tag the last post with anything because the new editor is weird and dumb.

I’m still recovering from June but I’m doing better. I’ve started applying for jobs and got the nicest rejection for the first one I applied to. It’s really hard to find anything in the area so I have to look for stuff further north.

I’ve also been working hard on my fantasy story but I’m a little tiny bit stuck now that I’ve hit 13K but it’s okay. I’m sure I’ll figure it out.

I don’t have much more to say. Next week I’ll be going to see the Lion King movie with some classmates, which should be fun, but that’s that. Life post-graduation is weird. I don’t know what to do with myself.

Also, my holiday got canceled so I’m sad.

Anyway, poem. My first one this year.

writer.

하루 하루

매일 매일

words sdrow

we puzzle

cut and glue

this place

that place

are you right

correct

not wrong

where do you go

what order

why

choices choices

each deliberate

let inspiration flow

surprises

decisions

suddenly a sentence forms

meaning or gibberish

who decides

do you understand

what’s there to understand

one true meaning

or a thousand interpretations

why

why

what’s the point

who cares

why bother

they say music’s

the vaguest

text but who

decided words

were clearer

poetry

literature

creativity

it’s all the

same

source of

colours

show me yours

yellow

orange

red

blue

who am I

writer.

I’m back

Look, I know it’s been three months and two days but I have returned. The format of these little blog posts remains the same so if you wish to skip the chatter, head over to the end for a little creativity.

So where have I been? In 2018 I’ve impressed myself by keeping somewhat of a schedule and a new post was due right when I hurt my ankle and couldn’t walk or do anything fun, right before Christmas holidays. I’ve sprained my ankle before and even broken it once or twice but recovery has never lasted quite this long. I’m still not fully functioning. The pain’s been enough of a distraction to keep me busy but I’ve also been stressed over school and work. I couldn’t really work (much) so my income was lower than usual but I’ve also still not received my January paycheck so my bosses are being dicks too. At least I’ve recovered enough to be able to work full shifts. A relief. As for school, I’m doing a one-year Master’s so I have to pass EVERYTHING this year or risk another delay, which I cannot afford so I’d have to drop out. Moreover, I’m back to thesis writing, only this time the length has doubled/tripled (from 8-10k to 20-24k).

I do feel better prepared this time. I really enjoy my topic and I feel like I’ve finally mastered all the skills they expected me to master, except time management perhaps – if I had the funds I’d go see a psychologist and ask about ADHD.

Initially, I was going to post something else yesterday but only one person read it and their feedback was bad so I’m holding onto it for now. Perhaps it’ll see the light of day but I think I need to look at it myself a few weeks from now to truly judge it properly. I’m also posting later than expected because my work canceled due to the heavy rain and wind, which has woken me at 6.30 this morning. I’m not a morning person so my brain’s been foggy all day and if anything in this post seems weird, I blame my lack of sleep. Also it’s carnaval here in the Netherlands so we’re on holiday for the week, which is why I’m extra salty about being woken so early. On the upside, I’m going to Prague with some classmates tomorrow and we’re staying until Sunday. Yassssssss.

If anyone has any recommendations about places to visit or foods to try in Prague, let me know!

Now, without further ado, “the story”:

Untitled (is anyone even surprised anymore?)

In the next train he found what he was looking for. Stuck between the seat and the small radiator was wedged a note, scrawled writing on a torn envelope that anyone could’ve mistaken for trash. Why they thought this was a good idea was beyond him. It was 2019; surely they had more efficient methods.

2215 clock tower 558489094 was written on it, or so he hoped because one mistake and he was done for.

The kids on the seats surrounding him gave him strange looks as he scuffled past them, note clutched in his hand, nervously looking around. Was this really a good idea? What did he have to lose if he chose to quit right here and now, if he just sat down next to these kids and continued the journey towards the train’s final destination, pretend he’d never seen the envelope? It wasn’t like they knew what he looked like anyway. He could just disappear into the crowd, go back to the wallflower he was used to being.

Except obviously he couldn’t or he wouldn’t be here in the first place. He’d been on the verge of killing himself when the stranger approached, handing him a cellphone and a bag of cash. He’d stepped down from the railing, leaving the Han river to flow uninterrupted. He’d been curious, eager to know what chance he’d been given. He still wasn’t sure what was about to go down but he was to deliver the package to that address if he wanted to make a change. If he didn’t they would probably kill him but he didn’t much mind. That had been his own plan all along.

He shoved the note in his pocket and walked decidedly to the exit. As the train came to a halt, he felt a hand on each shoulder. “Don’t make a sound,” he heard from his left. “Move along but keep your eyes on the ground,” was added on his right.

His heart skipped a beat as he did as he was told. He was dying to turn his head and identify the person beside him but something kept his gaze focused on the floor. He was led through the maze that was the station until they stepped into the cold autumn air. A tourist was singing along to Psy’s hit, a regular occurrence in Gangnam ever since the song gained worldwide popularity. He still didn’t dare look.

He awaited further instructions but it remained quiet. When a stranger bumped into him he noticed he was all alone. The note had disappeared from his pocket and the package he’d been carrying was gone too. This was not the clock tower, nor was it the allotted time for the exchange. He wondered what had happened and wanted to report the situation, explain himself, but he had no way of contacting anyone; the phone was gone too.

He thought about what he could do next but nothing came to mind. When he heard a screech from his left he looked up and saw a couple goofing around. All around him were people talking, laughing, enjoying the scenery. A girl was putting on some lip balm while a guy was holding her phone for her. A group of teenage boys was admiring a group of teenage girls from afar. The bright moon was surrounded by twinkling stars in a dark sky.

He took a deep breath and smelled the air. It was clean and fresh and he could feel his cheeks getting cold. He smiled to himself. Life still had its surprises. Perhaps it was worth sticking around a bit longer.

fun times at university

When I get frustrated, it’s often because I don’t understand something or am misunderstood myself. Yesterday was a culmination of both. For class I had to read Eric Hobsbawm’s text on Invented Traditions (forgive me for not looking up what it’s called), then discuss it with my classmates and the professor in class next day. The text itself isn’t horrible per se but it is quite vague when the main point he seems to be making is “there’s this phenomenon taking place in the 19th century that hasn’t been studied enough; get on it” yet for some reason he needs 60 pages to say this, inventing his own terminology in the process.

The main question we asked was what invented traditions are and how they differ from ordinary traditions. Yet no matter what everyone answered, there was no clear difference. So I kept asking because I was dissatisfied with the answer because it didn’t answer the question. However, the more we discussed the further we strayed and the more questions I asked the fewer were answered. My classmates, and even my professor, might have thought they were answering my questions but really they were rehashing things I already understood and agreed with. I don’t think they purposely misunderstood but it is frustrating that I still don’t get what the hell invented traditions are and why he didn’t just focus on the important things instead.

That’s how I ended up crying in class. Fun times. Then as icing on the cake, one of my classmates “reassured” me by telling me the text was “very intellectually challenging” so it only made sense I wouldn’t understand. Thanks, girl. Truly helpful. Instant raise in confidence. What’s worse is how nice and cool she seemed before yet the moment I opened up to her she was like “uhhhhh bye”. It’s sad. How are we ever to learn to open up and speak up about who we are and what we value when the moment we do there’s some person who will tear us down? Does she realise how hard it was to open up at all? How hard it was to trust her? And the way she said it, so sickly sweet and “understanding” or “empathetic” as if she was some kind of saint for acknowledging and finding a reason for my struggles.

Needless to say I am done with her and anyone else who thinks it’s okay to say these kinds of things. Silence would have been a much better choice. Why don’t people know when to shut up?

But the worst thing is that a few hours later I found out I failed my first class with a shockingly low 4,5 (which is lower than any grade I’ve ever received at university before) so I’m starting to think she might’ve been right. My confidence was finally up after graduating from my bachelor’s degree after all that time but then it only took this one day to push me back down.

I keep coming back to this one factor, to this same story, whenever I think about academia and that is my way of thinking. It doesn’t match other people’s. We read the same texts and while they do get some different things from them, because they’re a diverse group of individuals with unique backgrounds and life experiences, somehow they still end up thinking in the same direction, or at least following the same trail of thought, whereas I am left with conclusions an ocean away, seemingly drawn out of the blue when I mention them.

And when I ask questions I get these looks, as if I’m asking something crazy or ridiculous or obvious. Either I’m the village lunatic who doesn’t comprehend the world and anything in it or I am the ignorant child who doesn’t understand the basics you learn in elementary school. So tell me: how am I supposed to improve if asking questions is ridiculed? And why are only my questions ridiculed when other people ask far stranger and more obvious ones? Why me? What’s wrong with me that I can’t think the way they do? Am I really that different? Or is it them? Are they simply unable to burst out of their safe little bubble and see what’s out there, all the possibilities? I don’t know and I don’t get it.

I am so tempted to call my GP again and ask her to refer me to a psychologist to check what the hell is wrong with me but then I’m reminded of last time I tried and how she basically ignored my request and suicidal me was left with no one and a complete lack of trust in any doctor out there. I reached out to her last January, had a breakdown in her office, and asked her to refer me to a mental health professional, and she said “sure, I’ll call you” except she never did. I’ve seen her a few times since and she never even brought it up again. You would expect a doctor to understand that reaching out and seeking help is hard so she should be on top of things. There is no way in hell I could bring it up again myself, not after the first time. It was hard enough doing it, but getting ignored or forgotten like that really doesn’t do your image of self-worth any good. If even doctors don’t give a fuck whether you live or die, where can you turn?

And now winter’s coming again, the time when it gets dark at 5pm or earlier and everything dies. The time it’s nigh impossible to get warm, the time we celebrate stupid things just to feel less alone. And my birthday is coming up next week, which I am not looking forward to, not because I hate getting older because I actually appreciate having survived another year but because it’s always been the loneliest time, because friends always cancelled in favour of something else, because only my closest family cared to spend time with me.

So yeah, this is a bit of a pity party but it’s also all these buried feelings resurfacing, old wounds being scratched open, getting salt poured into them once more, because nothing got better with time. Everything still sucks. Nothing that needed to change has. I have tried so hard to become a better person but apparently I’m just not likeable, not someone who should be heard, not someone that can be noticed. And I don’t know what to do because I just can’t seem to make any meaningful connections. Is it me? Am I the problem here?

You know, I just finished reading Arthur Japin’s Vaslav the other day and while I could strongly relate to Peter, what worries me is how much of myself I see in his portrayals of Nietzsche and Nijinski, both of whom went crazy in the end. So I don’t know whether to take their path and just love people regardless of who they are or how they see me or if I should do the opposite, start living life for me and me alone, attempt to stop caring about people who are “unworthy”, whatever that means. I just don’t know. But I am done crying over this. People can suck all they want, they don’t deserve my tears. I’ll try to do my thing, write some books and some more poetry and just surround myself with good people, even if I have to resort to old videos online because they died or are far away.

Oh and if I fail the resit of this class I failed, I will have to drop out and redo the whole year next year. Not gonna do that. I decide this is going to be my last year at this university. If I fail, I’m dropping out for good. I will either find something else to study elsewhere or I’ll start looking for a better job but I am not restarting this programme next year if I fail. I said so last night and my mum agreed so it’s decided.

I did remember the advice my mum’s weird friend gave me last week at a party we threw. She told me I should write down everything I like and then see what jobs might come out. I did. It made me feel a bit better. I ended up with 10 potential jobs, and only a few of those are ridiculous but they had to be written down. I got author, translator, embassy (worker), travel guide, English teacher (abroad, though I hate teaching but being elsewhere would help a lot), poet, content creator (intentionally vague), world leader, monarch (I’m sure this is the most realistic option here but it might be too easy so I’ll leave it on the backburner for now and focus on something that would take a little more effort on my end).

I’m sure after this shitfest of feelings you’re all super stoked to read more stuff I wrote. Here goes.

Another time, another era

When he painted he was free. This was something he’d known from the moment he dipped his fat finger in the little jar of paint as a toddler in pre-school. Nowadays he used brushes and sponges and other tools but every once in a while a painting called for some finger action that he was always happy to provide.

He took a step back and observed his creation. He’d started on a portrait but somewhere halfway through he abandoned the idea. The result was an abstract work with many bright colours, yet it had something sinister, as if the paint was about to melt and something dark would appear from behind it, something that remained hidden, that should remain hidden.

It was his heartbreak. Ever since that summer his paintings had a haunting quality, seeming cheerful but feeling rather sinister the more you observed them. He wasn’t sure how others experienced them – he refused to read the reviews – but every time he looked at his work he got scared all over again.

She was there beside him, always, to comfort him if he needed it. She saw through his happy façade and pushed him forward when all he wanted was to look back and remember those blissful days.

She understood. Her own girlfriend had abandoned her in favour of a loveless but conventional marriage to a man of decent standing, some banker who would spoil her and satisfy her family. What could she have expected? Women were not allowed to be together like that, she knew that, yet she couldn’t help her rapidly beating heart, the warmth that gathered in her chest at the sight of those crimson lips, that soft jaw, that sharp nose. Johanna. She was in love.

He could sense her sadness, her longing, as it mirrored his own. It was kind of pathetic, how much they had given only to have it all thrown back in their faces, to see the resentment in their lovers’ eyes.

“You seduced me,” Markus had spit at him as if their moments together had meant nothing. “I never would’ve strayed without you.” His usually warm eyes now seemed icy, all tenderness long gone.

“I wish we’d never met.”

It was too much to bear. He dropped down on his knees and let his tears flow freely. Why had he left? Were they not in this together? The new legislation had even decriminalised sodomy; things were finally looking up. Why now?

It was getting hard to breathe. He curled forward and slammed the floor with his fists. Why wasn’t he good enough? Wasn’t love enough?

He started to shiver. If only he’d been born a woman. If only…

He couldn’t finish his thought. Would things be better in the future? If he’d been born a hundred years from now, would they have been able to lead a quiet life? Why was it so wrong for him to love a man?

She found him like that an hour later. She looked at the envelope in her hand once more, then at him, then back at the envelope. It was pretty, his name written in ornate golden writing. She put it away. There was no reason to hurt him more. He would read about it in the newspaper tomorrow anyway.

She kneeled down and hugged his limp form. If only she hadn’t introduced Johanna and Markus.

Healing

Am I the only one who thinks Korean and Arabic have a similar sound? They’re both really pleasing to my ears but it goes further than that. Back when I was even worse at Korean than I am now, I would occasionally mistake the two. Nowadays that no longer happens but I still see similarities. Perhaps one day I’ll attempt learning Arabic too.

Lately I’ve been struggling to write anything at all but I couldn’t really pinpoint why. I’m still not sure but my best guess would be stress. My life is currently filled with so many activities I feel like I’m heading into an abyss. I don’t want to relapse from stress. I’m not sure how I’m going to approach this problem yet but at least I managed to write a little snippet today.

Healing

In this reason to believe me I have found myself.

In this darkness that surrounds me I am just myself.

In solitude, without you here, I can hardly breathe.

In this ocean of forgiveness I learn to live with that.

Let my faults be faults

Let my dreams be dreams

I reconcile with myself.

And perhaps some day

In a year or so

I’ll accept your apology.

I’ll show you

It’s been ages since I’ve written anything. Between school, work, and sleep, I haven’t had time to do much of anything, and when I did have time my energy levels were at a low. I don’t know how to find time to write anymore.

I’m currently at home, skipping school because my body hurts all over. I hit my back on the corner of the bar at work while cleaning and at taekwondo a friend accidentally jumped on my leg while doing an exercise so I’ve been trying very hard not to move today so I’ll be fit for work this weekend.

One thing I did manage to write is this poem, which remains untitled for now.

Untitled, september

If I show you my face,

Will you welcome me with this same openness?

If I tell you my story,

Will you tear it apart?

If I allow you a glimpse,

Will you be satisfied?

Or will you demand more,

As if I owe you in return for your support?

You are not entitled to my time,

My secrets, my thoughts.

Enjoy my art and the snippets I give you,

Without leeching for more, sucking me dry.

I’m a shell, all is out in the open.

Are you satisfied yet?

How much more will it take?

Is this the price of fame?

Privacy no more than a dream forgotten

In the spotlight, under a magnifying glass.

Now you know everything.

Am I worthy or will you move on to the next

Victim? Shower them with you love until

They thank you for killing them?

What started out so innocent, so well-meaning,

So loving: when did it become so toxic?

I miss you. Please leave me alone.

Of doors

I’ve been awake for 2 hours and it’s only 7 o’clock in the morning. I’m spending my holiday well. The good news: I almost finished Faust. I’ve read part 1, the unpublished bits of the walpurgis night, the Urfaust, and the first two acts of part 2. Helen of Troy is about to appear properly this time and that’s all I know because I’ve refused to let myself be spoiled, even though the book is some 200 years old. (Can’t believe how close my guess was to reality. I have done no research and I couldn’t remember anything I knew about Goethe except his colour theory so 200 years was a pretty wild guess.)

Last night I couldn’t sleep either (I think I got about three or four hours of sleep total last night) but at least I spent those hours productively, writing a piece on a whim. It was wholly unplanned and I had no idea where I was going with it but I kind of like it. Initially I balked at the cliché first sentence and tried to move away from it but something in me wouldn’t let go and once I accepted it the rest of the story flowed more or less automatically.

It’s not my usual genre but I’ve come to accept that I don’t really have a usual genre or style (yet). I love to experiment with my writing (and with most other things in life) so there hasn’t been much consistency (just compare my poems) but at least I’m happy with it.

Its title kind of sucks but I’m really not good with titles and I just had to figure something out quickly so if you have better ideas let me know. They’re very welcome.

Of Doors: wide open, closed, ajar.

When one door closes, another one may open but sometimes you end up locked inside a room. That’s what happened to Chelsea. She knew she shouldn’t have followed Adam but she had to know whether he’d gone to see her again. Unfortunately reality was much more horrifying than her imagination.

Sometimes people ended up stuck in a situation without escape. Metaphorically or literally, they were stuck with no way out. It had happened to her mum, metaphorically, proving fatal in the end. She never expected to follow in her footsteps. Except her situation was literal, locked inside this gigantic mansion, its owners vacationing in Spain until winter’s end.

What was she to do? There were no windows, no keys. She knew; she’d checked every corner of the room, every nook and cranny. Worse yet, there was no sustenance of any kind, no water, and not a toilet in sight. If only she’d hidden in the bathroom but she’d panicked when his footsteps neared. So now she was stuck.

At least she had her phone. It was off for the moment, her own doing. No use risking the entire operation just to check her Instagram. She couldn’t risk turning it on yet. He tracked her gps, she knew, and she really didn’t want to alert him of her location. Perhaps she’d risk it later, just to call the cops, then turn it off again to be sure. Surely he wouldn’t find her if the device was turned on for a few seconds. It was her only hope.

She wished she wore a watch. She always argued against it, using her smartphone as proof. How she regretted it now. She had no way to tell what time it was, when she could make her move. She was stuck guessing.

Had her mother felt the same way before she died? How do you escape an invisible cage? Where do you even start? At least her cage was visible. There had to be a way to escape. If she ever got out, she’d divorce Adam and pack her things. She heard Russia was nice this time of year. She was sick of this weather, always drifting between warm and cold, accompanied by everlasting rain.

She longed for snow, craved the burning in her hands from playing outside without gloves, her mum scolding her. Back when they’d all been free. Before the heartbreak and the pain, the sleepless nights and fits of fright. Before the yelling and the grief, feeling endless yet so brief.

Her dad remarried a year later, supposedly to give them a stable life. Maybe it worked for Josh but not for her.

Oh Josh, how she missed her brother’s firm embrace. His last postcard arrived just last week, speaking of adventures Egyptian and Greek. Army life must suit him well.

Suddenly she heard a whisper from behind but when she looked there was no one to be found. A rustling of paper, the clinking of keys, perhaps it was coming from outside the room? The clicking of heels amplified as she neared the back door, or at least that’s what she dubbed it for lack of a better term. A toast and laughter – was that Adam’s voice? She couldn’t scream or kick or draw any attention to herself. Her trust for him had vanished the moment she’d seen him that evening, bent over that girl.

She didn’t want to think about it. She had to focus on her goal. This could be her opportunity to call for help and get out of this mess once and for all. If he was busy with his latest dame he wouldn’t be paying attention to his phone and she could make her phone call undetected.

She listened a little longer but heard nothing more. Perhaps she hadn’t heard them enter the bedroom. She couldn’t be sure.

Only when she heard the bed creak did she dare turn on her phone. Within seconds her story was done. The police were on their way.

She turned off her phone and let out a sigh. All was not lost. She enjoyed the silence for a moment, eagerly anticipating the moment suprème.

Except it was too silent. The creaking had stopped.

The rattling startled her. She couldn’t help be mesmerised, watching in terror as the door knob turned.

Welcome to my world – a brief introduction

Today I started reading Goethe’s Faust on a whim and I must say it’s affecting me quite a bit. There is a section in which Wagner asks Faust about his oratory abilities to which Faust replies something along the lines of needing to be genuine and speaking your truth, which greatly impacted me.

I find it really hard to write about my own experiences and feelings. Somehow my poetry gets bad when it’s about me and I think it’s at least partially due to my inability to understand myself. It’s easier to guess how others may be feeling and to anticipate their responses than it is to know how I feel or predict how I’m going to react to something. Every time I think I know I surprise myself.

I can distinguish between bad and good feelings pretty easily but pinpointing more accurately what I am feeling is hard. It doesn’t help that I tend to overthink things so I end up completely lost.

So what is my truth?

I’d like to think my creative output is still genuine. Even if they’re not about my own experiences and feelings, my poems and stories are a part of me. These characters are me, all of them, and even my time away from writing – due to whatever – impacts my output. I am in each of my works, in every sentence, every little nuance.

Because these are my thoughts I don’t really proofread them and I don’t spend much time thinking about the best way to phrase things but when I’m writing fiction I think about every word in every sentence. I’m a really slow writer because I like to do the first round of editing in my head.

Even when I speedwrite a poem I’d like to think it’s coming from a place in my brain that’s processed my thoughts and experiences over a lengthy period of time. I don’t know much about biology in general and human anatomy and physiology in particular but philosophically it makes sense that this writing wouldn’t appear out of nowhere (as something cannot come from nothing, though that fucks me up when I think about the universe because my human brain cannot comprehend the concept of eternity either so I get stuck a lot).

Honestly, a lot of my knowledge is based on philosophy. I never paid much attention to science in high school (which I now regret) and I am pretty awful with religions – they just don’t make sense to me – so in most cases I can rely neither on facts/evidence (because I’m ignorant) nor on belief alone (I question everything) and have to resort to finding the answer with logic/philosophy. It’s not infallible because not everything in the world makes logical sense and because my logic does not always follow others’ logic.

I don’t know why but I can look at the same problem as some of my fellow students and come up with the opposite conclusion. Sometimes they end up right, other times I do. As a result, I am often misunderstood or considered stupid. I don’t really mind but it can get a little annoying when I need people to listen to me. They tend to be hard-headed and I don’t like to push things so occasionally it’ll happen that they realise I was right all along, except it’s now hours/days/weeks/months later and they are too proud to admit it.

Can’t say I don’t understand where they’re coming from; it’s not easy to listen to advice without rebelling against it. Still, it would be nice to be heard sometimes. It’s why I love those people who are extra attentive when everyone else talks over you, who listen to the end of your story. I just tend to fuck up before I finish my story because I’m not used to the attention and panic but it’s nice and once I gain some more confidence I’m sure I’ll be able to appreciate them more.

I’ve already regained a lot of the confidence I lost these past two years but I wasn’t that confident to begin with so I still have a long way to go. Still, I think I’ll be okay in the long run, unless I do something more embarrassing than anything I’ve ever done before. But let’s not count on that.

So even though there was no creative writing in this post, I hope it’s well-received because this is my truth.

Reflected

Poem/song lyrics at the bottom of the post, as usual.

We’re about a month into my summer holiday and I’ve managed to read 4 books out of the 23-book goal I set myself. I’m not sure whether to be disappointed that I’m only on 4, considering I read so much as a kid and teen, or to be proud of myself for managing to finish 4 after not having read for pleasure all year, and having struggled to read for pleasure for the past five or so. Whatever the case, I’m happily whittling away at the stack piled on my desk.

My writing goals are being neglected slightly more than my reading goals yet I’ve managed to write some song lyrics the other day so even though my progress is sloooooooooow I’m not wholly unproductive so I’m not going to be hard on myself for it.

In fact, now is one of the first moments in years where I feel perfectly at ease. My conscience is clear, even though I’m in the middle of a fight with a close friend; my health is not great but I’m making a real effort to change it; money will always be an issue but if I continue working the way I do without overspending then I should be fine; I’m looking forward to the end of August, where a week of partying with other students awaits, even though I’m not much of a party animal; the weather is wonderful, between 25 and 32 degrees Celsius, so I’m enjoying feeling warm; and I’m overall just doing well. I’m happy.

And I hope you’re all feeling good too. Whether you chose to go easy on yourself when you made that mistake or decided to enjoy a moment, even when the world was falling apart around you, I hope you have at least this moment of peace and happiness.

I guess my own happiness stems from confidence. Since I graduated, my confidence in myself has steadily returned. It’s now reached a peak that I haven’t seen before, as far as I can remember. It feels really good to have faith in myself and value myself the way I value others. I’m at ease because I know that not everything is my fault, because my time and peace of mind are as valuable as the next person’s, no matter what society wants me to think. And I feel hopeful for the future. We’re in a right mess but it’s not too late to make changes. I’m back to my optimistic self and it feels great.

So without further ado, enjoy the song lyrics I wrote. I don’t know whether you’ll automatically hear the melody I heard in my head while writing it, the melody I hear each time I recite this piece, out loud or in my head, but I hope you’ll enjoy it.

Reflected

I see stars
What’s in your eyes?
I see mine
Reflected

All these stars
Shining bright
They’re in your eyes
Reflect it

When you see me
When I’m not around
Look out

When you dream big
And you dare to
Take the dive

I see stars
What’s in your eyes?
I see mine
Reflected

Please be kind
Read my mind
And see stars
Reflected

There’s more to this than meets the eye, the eye with stars, the eye inside
There is more in this world right behind the stars, behind your eyes
There is more, open your eyes, and see the stars, reflect them

They’re reflected
In ways connected
We’re affected

I graduated!

I don’t think I’ve shared the news yet but I graduated! I finally did it. It took six attempts spread over three years but I can finally say I have a Bachelor in the Arts. Naturally I’ll be putting myself through more of this next year since I applied for a Master’s programme too. Let’s hope that one will go more smoothly.

More good news: since my schedule now cleared up (aside from work) I finally have time and energy to write again so hopefully there will be more regular updates, though I promise nothing.

Without further ado, the text (not a poem, though inspired by Dylan Thomas’ work):

Under the night sky

When she was little, her father promised her she would be happy as long as she could see the stars in the sky. It explained why she was a night owl now, at twenty-six. Daytime made her restless, jittery, the way coffee was supposed to but never quite could. She breathed in, then out. In, out. A steady rhythm meant to calm her frantic heart. It didn’t work; it never did. She wasn’t sure why she still tried. It was obviously pointless, yet the routinized exercise brought her a peace of mind otherwise lost. And that counted for something, right? Back when she was in high school she could only dream of achieving her current state, the way she was always with her head in the sky. It was safe in her fantasy world, away from the dangers of reality. Like Alice, she escaped the world for a few hours to recover from existing. It was too hard otherwise.

There wasn’t anything particularly challenging about her life. Her parents were alive and well somewhere in Utah, chasing their own dreams. She wasn’t ill, at least not physically, and usually felt pretty energised. Even her job was average, earning her the median income without too much effort. She had hobbies to occupy her and friends to be around, even when she felt most lonely. Life was good.

So why did she feel so trapped?

There was no escaping the routine, the boredom of a passionless life. There was no joy in working, no joy in gossiping about sex and love. There was no fulfilment when she filed piles of paperwork no one would ever look at again. She was stuck. Where was her escape?

First she turned to the bottle. The brown liquid called her name and begged to be consumed, yet when she did she felt utterly hopeless. Where was the relief she so craved? Where was the euphoria the ad promised?

Then she turned to men, and later women, because who cares anyway. The sound of bodies clashing together filled her with disgust, mixing with the white liquid released inside her. It felt icky and she hated it but what could she do? Where was the pleasure her friends had promised her? Fingers, nipples, tongues, each skilled in its own way yet unable to fill that void.

Drugs were the obvious next choice but after sniffing sugar as a kid she’d vowed never to snort cocaine in her life. If it was half as painful it’d be too much. Other drugs simply weren’t as appealing. Smoking a plant? Chewing up what looked like common home insulation? No thanks. So what was left?

She turned to the only place she could, her only comfort: the night sky. What she saw didn’t change her, nor did it enlighten her in any way. But she felt less lonely, and wasn’t that enough? As time chipped away at her body, her soul was expanding. Soon, she’d encompass the entire universe. When that happened, they’d all be free. Locked in her prison but unaware of their predicament, that was the life they were destined to lead. It was her choice, but they never knew. When they spit their words, sharpened their fists, they decided. They moulded and shaped, kneaded until she was her, finally. The sky would help her, she knew it.

That evening she returned to the top of the world in an effort to get closer to the stars. Thousands of lightyears apart yet so close to touch. She was small, and they were too. Finally, it was time. She reached, hoping she’d graze the surface. When her knees hit the pavement she was already dead. The leaves stirred and twirled around her, landing on her pale form. They say death is ugly, dehumanising, but she was beautiful. Her death was art and we were onlookers, there to push her over the edge and jump with her. My hand on her throat enough to soothe my sorrows. Her pleading eyes, averted. She was the sky and we killed it. Atlas shrugged and it all crumbled. Our indifference, her passion. We were free but locked inside her prison. But at least we decided. Where was her choice?