Saturday, 20 December 2014

“True solitude is found in the wild places, where one is without human obligation. 
One’s inner voices become audible… In consequence, one responds more clearly to other lives.”
(Wendell Berry)

Friday, 5 December 2014

And In a Heartbeat, I Knew You.

Sometimes I look at the analytics of my blog and am astounded by diversity. There are people reading this from each end of the world. Reading my words, reading my thoughts. This. Here. Now. You’re sitting beneath the same sky but in a whole other continent. We’re separated by oceans but connected by words. This continues to bewilder me.

I want to learn more about you and your lives. I want to know what you do and who you aspire to be. This space should be interactive. Let us be united.

I came across this idea on another blog and thought it was wonderful. I have posted some questions which you can answer about yourself in the comments section. You can be as vague or as detailed as you like and you don’t have to answer them all.

Tell me who you are:
- What is your name?
- How old are you?
- Where do you live?
- What is your job?

What have you done this year that has made you proud?

Tell me what you dream about:
- What do you want to learn?
- What do you hope to achieve?
- Where do you want to go in life?

What is your definition of success?

Tell me what you think of this blog:
- How long have you been reading?
- What do you like and dislike?
- What do you want more or less of?
- Is there anything you want to ask?

What is one book everyone should read?

I look forward to reading and learning more about you.

Friday, 28 November 2014

10 Signs That You Are in a Toxic Relationship.

I recently watched a video about toxic relationships and how we are generally unaware that we are in one. I found my memories beginning to realign themselves with the points of this video which encouraged me to create a resource that could potentially help others.

Acceptance is always stated as the first step of dealing with problems. If any of these points resonate with you, it may be time to re-evaluate your relationships with the people in your lives.

If someone is:

1. Demanding all of your time. You should never be in a situation where you have to account for all of your time. If this person becomes angry because you have not replied to a text or responded to their phone call immediately, and you find yourself having to justify where you have been, there is a problem. You should also not be required to spend all of your conscious time with them.

2. Not allowing you to be your own person. Our hobbies and interests are what make us who we are. They cultivate us and eventually become a means of endurance. When these are taken away, we lose the entirety of who we are. If someone in your life is only allowing you to spend time doing things that they like, but preventing you from taking part in your own activities, something is wrong. Independence is what makes us stronger; having our own interests is what allows us to learn and grow as people. Giving up these things strip away layers of our flesh.

3. Constantly picking at things they don’t like about you. If someone is constantly pointing out things that they don’t like about you or telling you to change aspects of who you are, this is slowly going to seep into your head and mess with who you are. Think of it like your mind instructing your blood to stop circulating your body. Your blood will continue circulating because it is aware that this has only ever been its purpose, but it will eventually recognise the message from the mind and stop. Your body will slowly shut down and you won’t know who you are anymore. Remember that with persistence comes defeat. Relationships should be all about breeding positivity and whilst it is perfectly acceptable to joke about things, you should never be made to feel that you should change who you are. This is what destroys self-confidence.

4. Comparing you to others. If you are constantly being likened to others and told about the qualities that you are lacking, this is slowly going to make you feel worthless and eat away at your flesh. You are an individual with your own special qualities. A good person will always focus on your positive traits. They will never justify their actions by informing you that they just want you to be better, or that they are saying these things to help you, because malicious negativity is never permissible in any form.

5. Controlling who you speak to. If this person is preventing you from talking to people that they don’t like or forcing you to keep secrets from people, alarm bells should be going off inside your head. They should not be controlling who you can speak to or what you can tell people. If you are feeling restricted in any form, always question it. Always.

6. Requiring you to ask for permission to do things. If you feel like you must ask for permission before doing something, or even be told that you must ask, something is wrong. Remember that there is a difference between checking with a partner before making plans, and feeling like you can’t go out until you seek their permission. 

7. Being possessive. This one is probably the most common and whilst it is acceptable in smaller dosages, it should never feel suffocating. If someone believes that you belong to them, that all of your time and effort should be dedicated to them, this is unhealthy. They should not be requesting that you devote your entire life to them, they are not a deity.

Not allowing you to say or do things. If they are applying certain restrictions to your way of living, for example by preventing you from watching a television show or from eating something, you should be concerned. If you are afraid of saying certain things in fear of angering them, or because you have been told that you should not, again it is not a good sign. Any form of feeling controlled should be a warning. 

Stopping you from dressing the way you want. On the subject of control, they should not make you feel as if you cannot wear something. There is a difference in commenting about your skirt being short and informing you that they don’t want you to wear something. You as a woman should feel entitled to wear what you want. You shouldn't have to change your entire wardrobe for someone.

10. Making you feel guilty to get you to do something. This is one of the strongest forms of emotional blackmail; it preys on human vulnerability. We genuinely want other people to be happy, so when we do something wrong, we recognise that it has upset them and make an attempt to stop. Manipulative people use this to get what they want; they will guilt-trip you to achieve their goals, and you will play into their hands because you want to please them.

Humans like comfortable and familiar situations, sometimes long enough for them to become trapped in their own predicament. It's easy to stay in these relationships, to live in denial, but it's important that you recognise the unhealthy aspects and never validate other people’s actions as a means of acceptance. 

When you are in a relationship or friendship, you feel as if you owe the other person something. As if it’s your duty to stay and withstand the struggles. But it’s not. They are not your responsibility and whilst they will try everything they can to emotionally blackmail you into staying, you need to get yourself out for the sake of your own sanity and being.

Remember that all friendships and relationships in your life should encourage you to be better.

I will briefly share some of my experiences in my next post, so please let me know if you liked this and want to read similar posts. I’m also considering writing more informative pieces so if there is something that you’d like to read about, comment below.

Sunday, 23 November 2014

Magic, Madness, Heaven, Sin.

Most of my memories are repressed inside my veins; sometimes they come to the surface, affecting the functionality of my organs, coercing the mind to remember.

I think of cats strolling along hospital corridors in Pakistan, being terrified each time the doctor opened the door. I remember injections, the permanent headache, riding on the back of a motorbike at midnight through dim-lit streets and the calls of elderly gentlemen alone in the dark.

I remember climbing up steep steps, over stone walls into the seat of a hair stylist. I looked through her glass cabinet, the necklace from the Titanic sat inside a silver box. I remembered Leonardo, whether Rose could have saved him.

I remember the beaches, submersion into water until I forgot about existence. Thinking of Cat Stevens and his story of reasoning with God whilst being dragged by the current. It always made me go back, just in case.
I remember being sat under a tree eating pizza from cardboard boxes and making plans for the glorious summer. Smiles of strangers in the library, the familiarity of humour, Fantasmas.

I remember the green apple tree, being told not to eat the berries (suspected poison). The ginger cat in glasses, librarian losing her spectacles. The fox with no teeth, the large wooden gate shielding me from it all.

I remember the attic, the scent of books, holding the green bear (the safety, the home). I remember the bushes, the nettles. I can still feel my skin stinging, flesh against nature, burned, grazed. The lines against my tissue; patterns, drawing out veins.

I remember the rules, god so many rules.

I remember the barber shop, watching my grandfather cut the hair of gentlemen with smiles and ardour. His friend, the man that gave me a pound each time he visited. His piercing green eyes. Is he in heaven? (I hope so).

I remember the Wendy house, drawing floral curtains, the sound of the door bell, and the crack in the window looking out into the washing line.

I remember taking bites out of the sponge headboard, tongue against my grandmother’s velvet curtains. A half-eaten headboard later. Hospital. Doctors.

I remember the pond, the dead goldfish. Throwing it back into the canal as a means of resuscitation.

I remember driving cars with our fingers, lines in carpets as roads. Bunk beds, hanging blankets from the top, our own little world.

The marble slope in the hospital; I slipped. Awaking, hearing the stories of unnamed babies belonging to organs inside glass jars. The whispers of Pakistani doctors in corridors.

Hearing pour que tu m'aimes encore each time we travelled, Celine Dion singing me back into my childhood.

Sometimes I stop and the memories amalgamate into one. The unity of dreams and reality. (
I don’t know what’s real). 

Thursday, 20 November 2014

Blank Space.

(Source: here

I’ve mentioned this before but I have this thing about keyboards, some are allies of my fingertips making me feel like I can give my life to them. Others become contenders, starting a war with my fingertips. It’s been months since my laptop died, but I’m still distraught over not being able to use the keyboard. There was something about the keys that made each word easier to write, each sentiment heightened and magnified. I’m currently using a laptop with a stiff keyboard, it doesn’t really feel like I'm tapping the keys at all. My fingers are struggling to adjust to it, to build a relationship of trust.

I wanted to write for the sake of writing.

I’m currently working for the university where I completed my Bachelor of Arts degree, and it has been a surreal experience. Upon graduating in 2011, I took away bad memories and left behind a space that I no longer wanted to return to. I was always too afraid to go back, in fear of having to confront memories that I had confined to that space. I’m here again and almost 4 years have passed since the curation of those memories.

I recently bumped into a few of my old lecturers and speaking to them about my progress made me realise just how far I’ve come. I now work alongside the photographer that once took my picture for the creative writing magazine I contributed to when I attended the university.  Today, I dressed up in a graduation gown and he took my picture again. It was odd, dreamlike. It amazes me how providence bought me back to a place that I promised never to return to. The best part so far has been seeing my favourite lecturer. I’ve mentioned her in the past, but my old creative writing lecturer encouraged me to write, to share my work and I’m sitting here writing because she always believed in me.

I’m currently listening to Taylor Swift’s new album and it’s motivating me to keep writing. Sometimes I rely on music to write; finding the right rhythm to tap the keys extracts soul onto screen. Sometimes I listen to a song that just makes me feel something; it realigns my organs, making me feel connected to myself again. Sometimes there’s just music that sounds like you’ve heard it before in a dream. Something that stirs your thoughts; creates meaning.

This post has no coherence and I think that’s okay. I need to stop editing, I need to write and let the words take their route, live their lives. I need to keep going.

I came to a realisation about myself earlier this week. When I make a decision to dedicate myself to something, I’m an ‘all or nothing’ person. I don’t believe in taking small steps and I think that’s where I’ve been going wrong all of my life. I immerse myself in things entirely instead of slowly changing things. It's too intense, and it fails.

I’ve been dyeing my hair again recently. I feel like each hair colour makes me a different person, but it's almost an act of desperation to remind me of who I am. This week alone I’ve gone from blonde, to purple, to orange. Tomorrow I will go back to red, because it will make me feel like myself again.

I don't know what else to write. I'm always afraid of my readership and whether my words will get me into trouble.

Friday, 14 November 2014


       We stood, 

                 shoulder to shoulder, 

  regurgitating oxygen, 

                                   and then the whistles blew. 

     Replicas from the First World War,
       ‘The final sound they heard’

     And when the whistles blew, 
               the           wind              swept       over        us, 
  in fear,                                                     in recognition. 
     And we stood in silence, on the 
                                                       of our soles 

Saturday, 8 November 2014

Transcendence of Self.

We’re always growing, changing, learning, moving forward. In fact, if you think about the information that you intake on a daily basis, the things that you witness; you’re never truly the same as you were the day before. Your mind is always taking in its surroundings, adjusting, analysing, observing, realigning.

You’re not who you’ll be tomorrow. And for that reason, our memories of people are unreliable. Our eyes are not a valid resource. We are not trustworthy narrators of our own past. Everything evolves. Our experiences are suspended upon the moment of occurrence.

Memories do not transcend space and time; they aren’t tangible. Don’t fall into the trap.

You’re not who you were. 

Sunday, 2 November 2014

Your Pixelated Footprint.

Like a person that is ever-growing, my writing is always deficient.

I constantly find myself going back, re-writing sections, heightening or subduing aspects of meaning, eliminating or adding; there is always something left to give. The consequence of perfection is that the most authentic portrait becomes lost. The unrefined account morphs into someone else. Sometimes the magnitude of changes masks the original and what’s left are words too seamless to reside beside one another.

But I often go back and wish that I had retained those most painful pieces, the unedited ramblings and raw frustration; the unfeigned loss and beauty, because they were real. They were the pieces that created wounds; piercing the organs into refuge. They were the words that split my soul.

Teaching is about sharing one’s unmasked truth; making the raw emotions known.

Sunday, 12 October 2014

When The Warning Bells Ring.

 Hindsight is the greatest of resources, it is a means of learning, growing and recreating yourself. It is the friend that taps you on the shoulder in the midst of the night, reminding you of the promises that you made to yourself; your own shadow scaring you with its presence when you can no longer draw its silhouette.

I believe that we should draw on our own intuitions and listen to the whispers of our organs. Your body is intuitive, it will send you warning signs before you are even able to realise what they are.

When in a relationship, there should never be a tally system. You should not compare and keep count of each other’s generosities. Doing so can breed animosity, which is the driving force to resentment. When doing something for others, it must occur out of love and appreciation for the other person. Give for the sake of giving because your intention speaks louder than the act itself.

It says a lot about a person when they keep track of the things that they have done for you, especially if they are later used as ammunition in their own war. Relationships are not competitions; there is no need to contend. They are a union, and by seeking your own benefits above another’s, you are detracting unity. Generosity is everything, giving because you have the means to and not because you must.

This for me, is the greatest deal breaker.

Monday, 6 October 2014

The Disadvantage of Intelligence.

From an early age, we are taught to learn, to study and absorb knowledge to secure its presence in the trace of our fingerprints. We are told to push ourselves, to strive; but in the midst of that, nobody teaches us about how to manage success, how to cope with achievement, about how to acquire and appreciate stillness. Nobody speaks about the misfortune that accompanies intelligence.

It can be controversial to claim intelligence; to label oneself as being ‘smart.’ But is aptitude not present in several forms? The word intelligence has the capacity to encompass everybody with its countless facets that will inevitably materialise in us all. Some fall under ‘educational intelligence,’ ‘emotional intelligence,’ ‘business intelligence,’ although intelligence itself is subjective.

But what happens when we finally achieve the things that we have been working towards? We fixate ourselves on the next dream, because we reside in a perpetual cycle of seeking. All that our bodies know is how to move, to acquire, to change, to grow, to progress, to always be more. Whilst this appears to be beneficial, it can act as the driving force to displeasure. Like a billionaire that is ruled by his own currency, we are stuck in a vortex of infinite capacity. We’re consumers of our own flesh, our own minds, our own needs, our own wants.

The most successful people are generally the ones that are trapped within the abyss, that are afflicted with mental illness and tragedy. We are never taught just how to appreciate stillness, to connect with our beings and satisfy ourselves on a more spiritual level. Our mind and bodies become disconnected, disorientated and when that happens, the only way to realign them is through the healing that follows calamity.

Intelligence is not glamorous; it is not everything that your mother taught you. When you finally grasp it within the palms of your hand, the weight of it seeps into your blood and lives inside your veins, pressuring you into the ground. Be successful, but do not allow your organs to forget their own existence. We were not bred to be satisfied; our flesh will turn on us eventually, but a moment of appreciation changes it all.

Sunday, 28 September 2014

Realigning My Own Reality.

 As you can see, ‘Like Cherry Pie’ has undergone another transformation.

After a very draining few months, I’m finally starting to feel temporary fragments of my creativity seeping back into my body. It’s a nice feeling, something that I’ve certainly missed. I want to change this blog, to eradicate any negativity and place all of my focus and energy into channeling my creativity back into this space.

I’ll hopefully be writing regularly, but I want to change the things that I share. Having gone through my older posts, I was reminded of how much you and I both enjoyed the insights into my life, the pictures and experiences, and the motivational and informative pieces that I produced. I want to go back to using this blog as a platform of interaction, a reciprocal means of sharing experience once again.

So, I will begin with sharing some pictures that will realign everything. If you have been around from the start of this blog, you will remember these images well. They are now 5 years old, which ages this space further.

Comment below and let me know what kinds of posts you would like to see, and let us begin to look forward.

Tuesday, 2 September 2014

I Want To Be Lorelai Gilmore.

We are continually reminded of the simulation embracing our television screens.  The fictional characters, idealistic storylines and heightened emotions, all of which are vacant from our own world. However, our human instincts connect and locate meaning through the sentiments of these shows; we inevitably find that characters influence our lives, our personalities and who we are as people. We learn from their mistakes, their strengths, and we find something within them to hold on to.

My greatest inspiration has been Lorelai Gilmore, and I continue to advocate that every woman should be a product of her reverberation. I watched the Gilmore Girls religiously throughout my teenage years, and it is still one of the only things that is able to withdraw me from a bad mood.

Lorelai Gilmore is quite possibly one of the closest things that I have had to a role model. In fact, I still use her as a means of drawing strength. As a teenager, she taught me how to build a solid wall of defence, whilst simultaneously retaining determination and perseverance. She stood for what she believed in, with grace and ardour that blew the world away. She was quirky, sarcastic and confident, she found the means to make everything work, and through this, I gained a deeper understanding of how to overcome my own struggles. Lorelai always found a way, and this is still something that is prevalent in my own life, sometimes when there are no more options left, you must create your own.

Rory, the daughter is an avid reader and mentions an array of books in each episode. People have even compiled a list of each book that has ever been mentioned on the show and I have slowly been working my way through them. She has introduced me to some great works of literature from Milan Kundera to Edgar Allan Poe. Rory is also a journalist, and her love of writing magnified my own desire. I pursued it because she showed me who and what I could be.

There is so much that I have subconsciously taken from this show, I have grown alongside it, sought nourishment through its dialogue and found a whole new way of living. It provided an entire community, an education, a biblical premise on how one should exist. Everything from my sarcasm to my caffeine addiction stems from Lorelai Gilmore. This series has taught me strength.

To conclude, I wanted to share one of my favourite clips from the show:

Monday, 1 September 2014

10 Titles To Change Your Life.

I was nominated to list 10 books that have had an impact on me. It took me a while to narrow it down, but when I finally settled on some titles, I decided that I would also post the list here. So let’s commence:

1. Teaching My Mother How To Give Birth by Warsan Shire - (Mentioned in blog post This Week's Books).
2. The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath - (Mentioned in blog post The Voice of a Poet). 
3. Man’s Search For Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl - (Mentioned in blog post Man's Search For Meaning).
4. Isla Negra (The Bilingual Edition) by Pablo Neruda - (Mentioned in blog post The Voice of a Poet). 
5. And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos by John Berger - (Mentioned in blog post This Week's Books).
6. The Reader by Bernhard Schlink.
7. On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan - (Mentioned in blog post 4 Books You Should Read).
8. My Life as a Traitor by Zarah Ghahramani - (Mentioned in blog post 4 Books You Should Read).
9. The Journals of Sylvia Plath.
10. The Hours by Michael Cunningham.

I have written about a majority of these titles in previous posts, so I will include links where necessary. Let me know what your top 10 titles are, it’s a great way to discover new books!

Saturday, 30 August 2014

20 Facts.

I participated in a 20 fact tag on Instagram, however due to the word limit, the facts were not as descriptive as I would have liked. I thought that I would post them here:

1. I have a worryingly good memory, and yet I have a birth mark on the back of my shoulder and I frequently forget whether it is on my right or left.
2. When I was younger, my mother told me that thunderstorms signified that God was angry. This appeared to instil fear within me and I still shiver every time I hear thunder.

3. I suffer from Elurophobia (a fear of cats), and coherently the cat population in the
UK appears to be increasing.
4. When I took the Myers-Briggs personality test, my result was an INFJ and this changed my life.

5. I try my utmost best not to waste water; it makes me feel extremely guilty, more so than anything else in life.

6. Most social gatherings bore me; I’m so much more content in my own space.

7. I try to do most things myself; I’ve always viewed help as a luxury.

8. The only colours that I haven’t dyed my hair are grey and white; I suppose I’ll get there naturally someday.

9. I truly believe that I was born in the wrong era and into the wrong culture.

10. I keep my pills in a hollowed out book because it makes me feel like a junkie.

11. I regularly shop in the men’s section; androgyny is the look I go for most days.

12. My typing speed is approximately 103 words per minute.

13. I find that I get on better with people that are older than me. I don’t have many friends that are my own age.

14. I have been using computers since I was 8 years old and I got my first email address at 10. It was
15. I currently own 4 domains and it makes me feel important. I plan to dominate the internet one day.

16. Apart from cats and thunderstorms, I can’t think of anything else that makes me nervous.

17. Most of my wardrobe is not “Muslim-appropriate,” dressing for family events can be a complicated process. Having said that, this time last year, I wore the hijab (headscarf) and was a completely different person.

18. I have size 6-7 feet which are entirely unproportionate to the rest of my body. I look like I have clown feet.

19. I try to avoid wearing make up for at least a few days a week, I always fear that I will become dependent on it.

20. I’m so much more likely to trust you if you have dimples (they add a sense of innocence). 

Monday, 25 August 2014

The Last Song I'll Write For You.

People are reluctant to reach out to others due to the fear of not knowing them well enough and not feeling worthy of having a voice. But even without being able to truly comprehend a situation, support is something that we can never have enough of.

The reaching out, that’s what makes us human; it connects us. It is innate; lives inside our veins. We bond over pain and understanding; think of the sadness we experience over the misfortune of a stranger. There is unity left, there is.

Sometimes all it takes is a message, a smile, an acknowledgment. Sometimes the words ‘I’m here’ are the most beneficial. We’re just fighting to live, to survive, but there's always something left for you to give.

Question Time.

I was nominated by Laila to answer these questions, it made me reminiscent of MySpace Questionnaires, so without further ado, I shall commence.

What were your expectations before getting into the blogging community?
I first began posting over on MySpace, so when I migrated over to here, blogging itself was still a relatively new concept. Blogs were online diaries, people recorded their daily recollections and experiences; but it was all very individual, there wasn’t much of a community. For me, blogging was the first real experience I had of sharing my writing with others. I didn’t think that it would ever be a means of meeting and connecting with other likeminded individuals. I guess I didn’t have any expectations; I just wanted a voice.

Has blogging changed you in any way?
It has been the derivation of my growth; my stethoscope, allowing me to hear my own heartbeat and depth of my pulse. I have been able to comprehend truth and the deepest realisations; it is my platform of reason and honesty. It was the catalyst of my diagnosis, the therapy for my pain, the support when there was nobody left, the sustenance when I wanted to give up everything. So yes, it has changed everything.

What are you passionate about?
Words. My life revolves around them, through them, with them, inside them. Each word carries weight, place them on the scales and identify how much of a burden they can be. Say the wrong one and watch the destruction in the city streets.

What do you think about overcoming fears?
It is the only way to move forward. We all have fears living inside of us that won’t unearth themselves until the crucial moment. Whenever a new fear comes to light, I go out of my way to overcome it. Fear dictates how we live, it bears weight, it resides in our roots until we obliterate it, until we purge them. This notion is my strength, and I am the greatest advocate of not giving in.

What do you think about expressing yourself through fashion?
Fashion is a great medium of expression. It is a beautiful opportunity to show the world who you are without having to move your tongue. My own style varies in accordance to my mood, sometimes I wear men’s shirts and other times I wear floral prints. There are no rules.

In less than five words, what defines you?
The footnotes in poetry.

Summer or Winter?
Summer. Everything is mellow, pleasant, vibrant, magnified, heightened.

What is your dream travel destination?
Poland. I want to visit Auschwitz more than anything. I have read a lot about the Holocaust, accounts of the concentration camps, and the war itself. I want to visit, to experience even a single depth of the magnitude of emotion. However for a more pleasant option, I would love to travel to Italy, purely for the beauty and history. I’m not really an exotic beach holiday kind of person; I would become bored and immediately look for something to do. I need history, depth, meaning, truth. Substance.

Name one thing you want to do before you die.
I’d like to have a book published, just so people could see, read and have words to live by. I’d like to illustrate my thoughts; preserve them until we’re over.

Could you live without internet connection for a week?
Well considering that I work in SEO, it would make my job quite difficult. However, in my personal life, this would definitely be possible. Although I love the internet and believe that it has many beneficial uses, it can also reach a point where we become dependent on it, too fixated with it. I have periods of not using the internet at all, just to prevent this.

Name an experience you had and would like to repeat once again.
Volunteering at the charity shop was quite possibly one of the best experiences I’ve ever had. It was a place filled with comfort, stories and meaning; the owner still feels like family. It allowed me to meet some great people and I genuinely cannot think of anything that surpasses this. 

I love answering questions and doing these type of questionnaires, so if you have anything that you would like to ask me, go right ahead!

Wednesday, 13 August 2014

And We Lived Inside Them.

The road disappeared into itself as the bus continued to move. A black car waited patiently, seating a little girl with braided hair and butterfly eyes. She made eye contact and moved forward to get a better look. I waved, puzzling her until her pupils followed the bus and then moved back to mine. Moments later, she reciprocated and her face lit up into an expression that could sustain the entire universe. The bus drove off, but I waved and watched her until our eyes lost each other forever.

She will always associate buses with people that wave, with humans that smile, with those of courage and kindness. These childhood experiences form the basis of our associations and memory; we use them as our foundations to remember, to evoke things later on. She will look for me each time she passes a bus; it will always be something positive for her to draw on. A smile from a stranger; a hopeful expression.

Saturday, 2 August 2014

If I died tonight, I would have one regret; that people would never know the thoughts inside my head.

I want to write everything down; immortalise it so my memory lives on. It’s important for me to have an impact on people, something that reverberates into the future, even when all traces of my fibre have been lost.

What is experience if not taught? What are thoughts if not provided with a voice? What is knowledge if not shared?

There is so much in our minds, aid that we can grant to the universe.

Sunday, 20 July 2014

Like Fuel To Fire.

I turn 24 this week and there has been a voice inside my head telling me that I haven’t done enough. Whilst in the shower, I seemed to have an epiphany and realised some things that I needed to preserve. These words will be my saviour in the dark.

I have so much willingness and drive, even when the pain forces it into waves. I’ve spent a very long time not wanting to be alive, but I’m currently breathing and I can still feel my fingertips. This pain is a strange gift; it both aids and destroys me.

Most of my posts are about pain and truth, but within the subtext of that, there is always gratitude. I’ve been unbelievably lucky in my life and I do not ever allow myself to forget this. I become overwhelmed sometimes and social media is my chosen platform of expression. Sentiments are lost in translation, but the intrinsic gratitude is ever present. In person, I try my utmost best to be positive. When we’re broken, we don't need to bring the rest of the world down with us.

Yesterday, a guy at the bank told me that I came across as a strong person. The strange thing was that several people have reiterated this, and I think I truly just realised the extent of those words. Strength itself is when you keep moving forward, even when your own mind turns against you. Strength is recognising the darkness within you and giving it a name. Strength is acknowledgement of weakness and acceptance of pain. Strength is that voice in your head reminding you that it will be over soon. Strength is knowing what you want and pushing yourself to get there. Strength is the determination to overcome.

I’m here now. I’ll do great things some day.
It is much, much worse to receive bad news through the written word than by somebody simply telling you, and I’m sure you understand why. When somebody simply tells you bad news, you hear it once, and that’s the end of it. But when bad news is written down, whether in a letter or a newspaper or on your arm in felt tip pen, each time you read it, you feel as if you are receiving the bad news again and again.
(A Series of Unfortunate Events: The Miserable Mill, Lemony Snicket).

Thursday, 17 July 2014

How To Identify a Good Person.

'Be nice to the strangers,' they said.

If you have been consistently reading my blog, you will know that I am the greatest advocate of being considerate towards other people, especially strangers.

There is so much going on within the human mind, that if our skulls were transparent, our tongues would not even move. The world is filled to the brim with injustice and cruelty, so why are we breeding hatred and allowing it to satiate our own beings? Our hearts are all we have left, our souls, our character, our mannerisms. When there’s nothing to hold on to, the memories that we leave behind will become our voices. Imagine passing away and only being remembered for the destruction you caused.

I try my best to be as nice as possible to the people that serve me in the shops, the strangers I see on the streets, anyone I come across. We are always unaware about the battles that others fight, and sometimes after smiling at people, I watch their faces light up. This makes me stop and wonder what that person was going through, what they were fighting for and why it made them so happy. You can often look at people and tell that they are suffering, that they are searching for strength. I consider the magnitude of my own pain and how it is nothing in comparison.

When we are born, our mothers wrap us in cloth as a form of protection. As we grow older, we clothe ourselves, because this is what we know. But we’re too wrapped up inside our own beings to acknowledge the surroundings. To comprehend what lives inside the other cloths.

Sometimes I am in a bad mood and I snap at people, that’s just human nature and I find myself apologising shortly afterwards. I have a conscience, and I always think about how I would feel if the same thing had happened to me. That’s the important thing; I am forever considering how my actions affect others and this is something that our nation lacks. We’re selfish and ungrateful. We don't think about how many people we passed today and how many of them cry in the dark.

Be nice to people; their souls could be dead and you have the ability to give them something to hold. We are so powerful, our belief and faith in others can do so much. If only we could start building on that, utilising it to be better. It frustrates me greatly, because some people suffer in silence and your words are intensifying their bleeding wounds.

Wednesday, 16 July 2014

It’s 5am and I’m sitting here typing this because I need to exhaust my mind somehow. I need to sleep, but I can’t.

I am turning 24 next week. As a child, I always thought that I would have my life sorted out by 24. I would have a steady job, self-confidence, direction and a purpose. As I’m growing closer to this age, it is beginning to feel like I am disappointing my childhood self, and running out of time to achieve the things that I've wanted. I’ve lost my drive and ambition, there’s nothing left. I’m not who I wanted to be, and I’m not becoming anyone close to it.

Some days, nothing makes sense to me. I don’t know why I exist or why God inflicts me with misery. I’m so tired, irritable and depressed, and although sleep is not the cure, it would surely improve things.

I’m so fed up of life. Everything is supposed to get better, that’s what people are constantly telling me. But I’ve been reiterating that to myself for years and I’m still stuck here in this abyss. God, I’m so tired.

Monday, 14 July 2014

The Unbearable Curse of Being.

I swallowed the sunset, the aftertaste of the rays was bitter against my tongue.

I drank as much water as my body could take; until I could feel the ripple against my throat, until it replaced the hollows of my veins.

Sunshine was great, they told me. But what if it was trapped inside the body? Like a bell in a jar, ringing and ringing until the sound became a silenced fragment of the mind.

I felt the rays some days, trying to get out; illuminating the skin like the moon amongst the landscape trying to be set free.

I just wanted sovereignty; of the light, of the curse.

Sunday, 13 July 2014

When They Leave Us.

My workplace is directly opposite an old people’s home. I can see the building from my desk and I often watch the elderly going about their daily business.

Age is intertwined with illness, so there is an ambulance parked there every other week. A few days ago, I noticed that an ambulance had been parked outside for longer than usual. I heard people talking; there was a police car. The paramedics were back in the ambulance. I watched for a few minutes, somebody had died. They drove away and a private ambulance arrived. It was a black van; I sat down because I knew what they had come for. I heard the body being taken away. I thought about the person inside, who they were, what their dreams were, and how they had lived their life.

I had to refrain, I knew that my body would begin to ache. It reminded me of when you continue to pour water into a cup, even when you can see that it is overflowing. I cannot watch the news because it physically upsets me. I feel pain as if it is my own. Watching suffering is self-destructive; I can't cope with more pain, I can't hear about the brutalities that go on. They make me want to die because I can't cope with the injustice. I think about them for months afterwards and it physically hurts to be aware of them. 

It made me sad, and it still hurts, but in a strange way, it’s nice that mankind can experience grief for a stranger that they did not know. There’s a little bit of unity left; there is.

Split Your Soul In Two.

They take your soul with their frozen fingertips, check if it’s raw; beaten. The taste of derision in their palms, contempt, solace; the disdain of your own sin.

They split your soul in two, then four, until they assign each morsel to a master, thirsty for his own flesh.

The Presence of Nothing.

I don’t ask for much in life; I’m easily pleased. I just need one thing to be excited about and I’ll hold onto that for as long as possible. It takes something as small as a smile from a cashier or the sound of the birds at dawn. These temporary exchanges construct what is left of my existence.

The only thing I ever ask is to not be inside my own head, to breathe and not consciously hear the command from my brain to my lungs. I want to feel my own tears against the surface of my skin, my soul back inside my body. I want to feel present.

Sunday, 6 July 2014

The Other Version of Ourselves.

I was thinking about the way that people strategically craft their online presence to appear more beautiful, more intellectual, to be someone else. We form impressions of people based on what we perceive through the internet, we make interpretations and we construct our own reality of them in our minds. Social media is a portal into our lives, but how fragmented is it and much are we to blame for our own understanding of who people are?

I share my pain to show others that there is nothing wrong with displaying weakness; I depict my suffering to make you aware that we are all fighting battles. I upload unflattering pictures of myself to show you that I am human. The internet can be used as a means of exposure or as a veil. It provides us with the control to mould ourselves into whoever we want to be, a platform of exhibition and vicariously living.

Our persona is open for interpretation; people exert their efforts into imagining the lines of our palm. The internet sustains and cultivates relationships, but when the aesthetics enter our mind, they are infused with own ideology. They become something else entirely. Interpretation is not reality; it is just the medium through which we view it.

We are only accountable for our online presence, not the way that we are perceived. Our online persona can act as an extension of ourselves, or the person that we have always wanted to be. We owe nothing to the ones that construe it.

Children of the Grave.

I’ll write until my blood turns cold and my fingertips are frozen.

I’ll write until they swathe me in cloth and dirt covers my cadaver.

I’ll write until they give my soul to the angels and I can hear them whispering my story.

I’ll write until the darkness makes my retinas blind and steals my breath.

I’ll write until I can feel my organs decaying and the insects eating my flesh.

I’ll write until the weight of my sins set me on fire.

I’ll write until my limbs become ash and asphyxiation is a dream.

I’ll write until God crafts purgatory to set me free.

Friday, 4 July 2014

The Devil's Love Song.

The breadcrumbs were riddles and footprints; I could already hear the devil whispering love songs in my sleep.

A number tattooed onto the back of his neck, like a manufacturers stamp on a factory floor, preserving experience for when his mind would forget.

There was hope in the devils hands; I could feel it in the lines of my palm, a pulsation of resilience in the torrent of a seam.

Join me.’

A Photograph For A Stranger.

A few days ago, I downloaded a phone application with an interesting concept. It is called ‘Rando’ and if used correctly, could prove to be quite astounding.

You begin with taking a photograph using your phone and pressing send. This photo is then sent to a completely random person, who could be anywhere in the world. There is no way of knowing who will receive the image, or where it will end up. Upon receiving the picture, this stranger will then respond with their own photograph. That’s it, a momentary exchange between two strangers. There is no correspondence after this exchange, or any way to find out who the receiver is. The only information that is provided is a general location that has been pinpointed on a map. The app also doesn't have any options to like or favourite pictures, it is just you and this stranger; in each other’s worlds.

I have received images from places that I have never even heard of. Today, someone sent me a picture of their handwriting in Portuguese. Yesterday, I was able to view a German street. At this current moment in time, I have just received an image of someone’s puppy. Rando allows you to create and syndicate your own reality, and I think it is beautiful. You will see the world differently; it forces you to broaden your mind and open your eyes. 

This app allows people to photograph anything and send it to somebody in a different continent. Although social media has already made this possible, Rando does not give you control of where the image will end up. It is anonymous and real, and it gives you the opportunity to look through someone else’s eyes for a moment, to see what they are seeing. The image may be sent to someone beneath the same sky, but there are differences in your retinas and the way that you experience life. This app creates a temporary overlap and provides you with a portal to a different form of existence. 

You have control over the reality that you share, and this app forces you to be imaginative about how you express yourself. There is also no nudity, which is most people’s concern. It is currently only available for Android, but it is genuinely one of the best applications that I've used and I would highly recommend downloading it. 

Wednesday, 25 June 2014

A Spell To Break The Soul.

Sometimes you have to write for the sake of writing, almost like the intrinsic act of breathing.

I want to use this post to provide my thoughts with a voice, because they so often remain unheard. It is one of my deepest fears, to die without people knowing what was going on inside my head. I’m mentally exhausted. I feel like a piece of Play-Doh that has been stretched out in every possible direction; I have been turned into an emaciated morsel of what I used to be.

A few days ago, somebody told me that I should pick myself up which evoked a deep sense of frustration. I fight to survive on a daily basis, I deal with my own mind turning against me, and yet I make it through the day with determination. Some days even breathing is a challenge because my own organs work in opposition to each other, there is no trust in my body; it fights until oxygen is the enemy. 

Sometimes, moments are wars within myself, between my blood and my veins. But I’m still here, and whilst I may be broken, I’m trying. I have been suffering for as long as I can remember, but I continue to persist. I picked myself up a long time ago and it was very condescending to hear those words. 

Pain is immeasurable; you cannot sit and distinguish how somebody else feels.

Sharing my illness does not make me weak; it makes me stronger because I am not afraid to acknowledge the pain. Whilst I may not have everything figured out; I’m still alive and that is the truest testament to my strength.

I discuss how I feel on social media because it is my platform of expression; there is nowhere else to go. However, what you won’t see are the moments of glee that I fail to articulate; my life is not completely vacant of bliss. I only write about my pain, but there are always gaps in between.

Monday, 9 June 2014

Call My Name; Save Me From The Dark.

I need to get back into the habit of writing here each day; it is the only means of salvaging what is left of my sanity.

Today I noticed the spectrum of my emotions and the speed in which they evolve. I go from a state of elevation to falling into a deep state of depression within the space of a minute. There appears to be no logic to sustain this, and the only mode of explanation is the way that sound waves alter in accordance to one’s voice, and their movement with each spoken syllable.

I’ve realised that fear is vacant from my body; it’s as if I have nothing left to lose. I’ve noticed just how outspoken I’ve become; in fact I often surprise myself because I’ve almost lost my willingness to care. I find my tongue moving before my brain has had a chance to deliberate. I often hear a voice speaking and then realise that my own tongue is moving. I’m no longer in my own body, and I cannot distinguish whether medication changes this.

I think I know what death feels like now; the way the angels move around and watch us from above. I was thinking about how our bodies are like containers of pain, slowly filling to the brim. When there is no longer space, they pour themselves out into a flow of disarray. I wondered whether there was a way to stop them from becoming so full, from allowing ourselves to be free of pain, to relieve ourselves from it. I always thought that facing the pain and submitting to it would make it go away.

I’m here, I’m alive. I must write these words as a form of evidence to prove to myself that I still exist. I find myself reiterating that none of this is real, that I’m still dreaming; I haven’t woken up yet. I don’t feel present, it’s like I’m vacant from the moments that I exist in.

I thought about explaining what depression feels like, but I don’t know how to separate or distinguish it from normality. I can’t remember ever feeling anything else, this is my reality and I can genuinely say that I cannot recall when depression was not present in my bloodstream.

I was thinking about my childhood and whether there was a starting point to all of this, whether I suffered from trauma that could provide a foundation of reason. It seems unfair for a child to be born into this world in a permanent state of sadness.

My parents tell me that a school teacher once asked if I was okay, because I was extremely quiet, and they were worried that I was upset. All I can remember is being inside my own head from an early age, hearing my mind as if the thoughts were magnified and projected, blurring my own vision. 

I was 11 when I began to seek what I thought would change everything. It took me a long time to learn that there was no means of healing myself, and I sometimes still forget this. There are ways to cope, to forget, to numb oneself, but sadness is rooted in my bloodstream, and even if I attempt to drain it of liquid, there is no escape.

All I ask for is sanity, to leave my own head, to stop the cycle of my mind. Sometimes it drives me crazy to think that I’m trapped inside my own self. I am a prisoner of my own existence. People can only do so much, and that’s when it becomes difficult. Knowing that nobody can save me, that I cannot be my own saviour.

My skin is a cage, and I can often feel myself shaking the bars, attempting to escape.

Sunday, 8 June 2014

A Place For My Head.

It’s nice to write this with pure diction and the absence of restraint. I was too buried in privacy to proclaim truth and instead I ended up submerged within the root of my own veins. I’ve come to find that honesty is the only means of dealing with my pain, so I will speak words of sincerity until there is nothing left to give.

I haven’t taken my medication in three days and I’ve found that my entire being has been restored with creative electricity. I have been feeling the urge to stop everything and write, to peruse literature and become lost in the fictitious mind of somebody else. The medication had quenched my imagination and creativity, turning me into a numb skeletal figure of diffidence. Creativity is the only means of sanity, but without medication, life itself stands still. Virtue always wins.

I’ve been reflecting about past experiences and the situations that I’ve fallen into. Regardless of my status with religion, I’ve always believed that mankind battles with sin and morality; the conscience as a guide. If tempted by the right desire, he becomes fickle, lured by the canopy of his own iris.

Sometimes it feels like I’ve lived a thousand lives before; I often watch distant memories finding their way back into the bloodstream. They say that you should regret sin, that you should deliberate why you did something. For me, they always gave me reason, and I still remember the sweet taste of the air that I breathed in. Sin itself was always a form of escapism. A medium of living; of feeling something other than sadness. Pleasure and satisfaction are temporary, but for that given moment, submerging myself in those emotions always felt as if it would reverberate into the future. I am forever longing for seconds where I can feel, anything. Sin was always an endurance to live; it cultivated hope.

I’m an impulsive person. This again derives from the root of depression. If ever I think of something that may excite me for a second, I will pursue it without any further consideration. My brain is always seeking something new, because if it finds itself becoming still, there is the threat of insanity overruling existence. My mind works overtime, constantly learning and doing, almost in coherence with an instilled body clock. I realised today that this drive stems from my depression, I can’t sit still otherwise my mind begins to converse with me. I keep busy at every given moment; almost like a race against the hands of the clock. I can’t give depression the chance to reach my fingertips. Sometimes, the minutes run out and the sadness freezes the entire universe.  

This post demonstrates the incoherence of my thoughts; there is no sense of organisation in which they are procured. It’s hope that binds it all together, but it’s strange that the thing that keeps us alive is as fickle as the leaves falling from the trees. It’s easy to catch them in the palm of your hands, and then tear them with your austerity.

I’m still alive; sometimes I don’t know how, but I’m here. 

Thursday, 5 June 2014

Heaven Is a Board Game.

I’m typing this and watching my fingers hit the keys, but it feels like I’m watching somebody else’s hands move across the letters. This isn’t real; my body is fighting against my own existence. Gravity itself is trying to swallow me into the ground, I’m holding on to the surface with dear life; the universe is conspiring against me.

There is no driving force in my veins; survival is intrinsic. I’m numb; like when your eyes are wide open and everything becomes a blur. I can’t see what’s in front of me. Substance becomes a myth, a morsel of my taste buds.

I’m no longer inside my own body, in fact I can still see the movement of my fingers when I urged them to stop. That command, from the brain to my fingertips, no longer exists. The brain stands alone; absent from my tongue or organs. They are no longer lovers, just inhabitants of the same living space.

I’ve turned into a small fragment of myself; a subsidiary version of life. It’s almost like that feeling when you’re trying to sleep, and then you suddenly wake up and realise that you were conscious the whole time. The mind tricks the body into a daydream; revelry is an allegory.

I’ve lost the ability to reflect. It’s either ‘do’ or ‘don’t.’ I’m accustomed to trapping myself inside the crux of anxiety; I’m immune. It’s all temporary; a board game. God is holding the dice, ripping out my flesh by the day.

I don’t know what game He’s playing.

Sunday, 25 May 2014

We Live In Words.

We want to preserve as much as we can, we want to leave behind a legacy; to be remembered. It’s why we carve our names into stone, write our names in the sand.

We’re afraid of being forgotten; we want to exist forever. When we write words, a little bit of our soul seeps into them. The ink dries and our souls live on in each letter. We become immortal; those words will forever belong to us.

Writing preserves us in ink; it gives us a means of living on even when we’re no longer present. Our words communicate with our loved ones; our own form of body and presence.

Writing is a form of immortality, we write ourselves onto the page as a means of existing for eternity.

Our souls are never lost.
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