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The Last Song I'll Write For You.

Monday, 25 August 2014

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!

The Word in Colour.

Thursday, 14 August 2014

Verbalising my depression was never a viable option; I always feared that I would be treated differently. However I went ahead and did it and this process taught me two very valuable lessons. The first being that people are still insensitive regardless of being aware of the war inside your body and destructive nature of your organs, and secondly that the generosity of legitimate support does not exist.

I’ve always been in this alone, and it’s sad that we recognise and praise people for recovering from physical illnesses such as cancer, providing them with the greatest support systems, and yet we abandon those that are trapped inside the iron bars of their own skull. Pain is immeasurable and shouldn’t be categorised. I receive messages from people all over the world on a daily basis, detailing their struggles. It just makes me realise that we live in a society that is inconvenienced by one’s suicide, a population that becomes someone’s best friend only after they have passed away, a sort of fickle humanity that lives inside its own sordid pretence. 

Depression has been an embedded secret for too long; being able to sit here and openly write about it is another luxury. I completely shut down today, drowned by withdrawal symptoms and the inability to cope with inanity. I think I realised at that moment that my medication hasn’t just been masquerading sadness; it has been preserving anger, a lot of anger. I’m so sick of psychologists and medications and trying to be ‘fixed.’ I just want to be able to wake up tomorrow and not feel so broken. I want to stop having to fight my own mind. I just want the world to take a look at something other than its own shadow. I want to ask for help and actually gain it without feeling selfish.

And We Lived Inside Them.

Wednesday, 13 August 2014

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.

Thursday, 7 August 2014

I construct my sentences strategically because the misuse of even one word could prove to be detrimental to many aspects of my life, from work to my relationships with people. Although my posts may seem raw and honest, they are still a condensed and filtered version of what really goes on inside my head. If I was to truly share the exact thoughts and depth ricocheting against my skull, there would be a united sense of panic amongst you all. However, today, I’m going to write with pure diction and sovereignty because there is nothing left to lose.

I have no support system; I’m trapped at the pit of an abyss that I’ve been struggling to vacate for as long as I can physically remember. I have spent all of my time fighting through it, enduring the destruction, but today I lost all motivation and willingness to live. The only reason that I am still here is because I cannot bear to break the heart of the two people that raised me. I have no substance left; there is no hope. I’m existing, and that’s all my life is. A mirage of subsistence.

I am no longer taking medication, and I’m being reminded of just how hazardous this choice was. This past week has been a struggle, and my mood has been strongly affecting the people around me. It makes me feel sick to think of myself as a burden and yet I wonder how and why it is possible for me to feel bad about a level of suffering that I cannot control.

To anyone arguing that depression isn’t an illness, please try living inside my head for an hour and let me know how you survived that war. Take this moment to appreciate the fact that you can find enjoyment in activities, that you can feel something other than the catastrophe of your own body and that you don’t have to fight your mind on an hourly basis. 

Tonight, I feel more broken than ever and all my heart yearns for is for you to remember the weight of your actions and the way that they reverberate across the universe; we are living as a part of a chain.

Setting Fire to My Limbs.

Monday, 4 August 2014

I’ve been on medication for depression for 18 months. It’s a controversial topic, but as I’ve explained countless times, my depression is clinical. Not taking medication means that I spend my time wanting to kill myself and yes, that is the severity of the situation. I avoid discussing this sentiment, because alarm bells always seem to go off before I have had a chance to explain myself. I have enough willpower and sense to refrain from acting upon this feeling, in fact I was 15 the first time that I considered it, and 9 years later, I’m still alive; a testament to my self-control.

Sadly, depression doesn’t work like other illnesses where you take medication and everything is better. Although the pills help to take away the melancholy, they end up replacing it with a sense of deadness. The only way that I can illustrate this is to say that it leaves one feeling flat. There is no substance, character or life; just an outline of where your soul is supposed to be. You lose the ability to feel. The medication extracts every fibre of personality, leaving behind the lonely silhouette of where your corpse used to be. You cannot feel enjoyment; in fact excitement itself is lost. The worst thing is the inability to cry, no matter how painful a situation is. You just don’t feel anything, and that can be quite detrimental.  

There are many side effects to this medication, and I have trialled several different variations. However, I have finally reached a point where the side effects have become so unbearable that I have decided to stop taking the medication altogether. It has been a difficult decision to make, because it’s almost as if I lose either way. Living with wanting to die, or living and feeling nothing at all.

Now just to depict the extremity of not feeling, I’m going to briefly describe something that made me realise the extent of the impact that this medication was having:

I stood in front of a corpse. Her eyes were closed; frozen. She had been a part of my life since my birth, but I stood over the body and couldn’t feel. The cold was filling the room, and as I moved closer, it reminded me of the freezers at the supermarket. She was my family, my blood. I closed up the coffin, the weight of the carved wood on my fingertips. I stared, wondering where my emotions were, where my insides were, and whether she could sense the heartbreak that I wanted my bones to feel.

Imagine that. Being in a situation that should have broken you, but feeling absolutely nothing in your limbs. I didn’t cry at all during that entire period, in fact I can’t remember the last time I did cry. Depression is like paralysis; even the medication doesn’t change things. It interferes with every aspect of life, and sometimes causes more problems than the depression itself. I have not been able to sleep properly for the past 8 months, I cannot think, I cannot focus. The doctor recently increased my dosage, but I finally decided that nothing good was coming from it.

Ceasing to take the medication has had a significant impact on my body. The withdrawal symptoms can become severe, and although it’s only been 5 days, I have been experiencing nausea and migraines. The medication had stopped me feeling anxious, but I can slowly feel it seeping back into my body along with the dejection. In a few days, I will most likely become a hazard to my own mind, but I also know and understand now that my own subconscious will not allow me to succumb.

It’s going to be difficult, in fact everything is already a blur and I can’t remember what I did today. It’s going to take up to 4 weeks for my body to go back to ‘normal’ but I need to do this. I’d rather feel sadness than nothing at all.

It always feels like my emotions have been trapped inside my body and this is the only way to release them. I wanted to write this to document reassurance. I can’t cry, I can’t talk about how I feel, this is the only way. I don’t feel ashamed, I don’t feel the need to hide it, and yes this may be personal, but the amount of people that have been able to relate to my writing and learn from it, still bewilders me.
I still advocate that pain should not be hidden, otherwise the weight of the burden itself increases. We’re only human; we’re just here to live.

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.

24.

Sunday, 27 July 2014


Like Fuel To Fire.

Sunday, 20 July 2014

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 depression 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).

How To Identify a Good Person.

Thursday, 17 July 2014


'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.

The Unbearable Curse of Being.

Monday, 14 July 2014

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.

When They Leave Us.

Sunday, 13 July 2014

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.

Watch Me Smile; Watch It Fall.

Tuesday, 8 July 2014

It’s been about a month since I began to openly discuss my depression, and since then, my emotions towards my decision ricochet between regret and liberation. I did make the right choice and the transitory regret that I experience is followed by the notion that I have the opportunity to generate awareness and force people to comprehend the severity of depression. I can inexplicably describe the intricacy of the experiences and allow others to recognise just how destructive they can be. It’s important that depression is illustrated with accuracy, because it helps to affirm the brutality of the suffering and the exigency for a source of aid.

I’ve spoken about this before but it is important to emphasise and ensure that you are able to distinguish between the two types of depression. I’ll begin with the transient depression that most people suffer with during a short period of their life. It is generally caused by a life event, like heartbreak or loss. There is always a causal factor. Although this kind of depression can vary in terms of extremity; victims inevitably become a product of their own entrapment. They are inhabitants of their own darkness, guarding themselves with iron bars. This situation is temporary and they do eventually manage to extract their own strength and recur from the situation. This type of depression can be cured; sufferers can be healed, because it is all inside their own head. They have a quandary that they need to deal with and accept in order to move forward, and although it is a dark period, it is eventually used as a reference point, because it is recognised and appreciated as a valuable experience. This kind of depression is strongly affected and influenced by environmental factors and is often cured by cognitive behavioural therapy because they are subjected by their own mind.

The second type of depression is clinical depression, and whilst it may overlap with the former, it has its own board of characteristics. Clinical depression is caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain and is a recognisable illness. The low levels of different chemicals such as Serotonin and higher levels of Cortisol contribute to clinical depression, and this is something that the sufferer has no control over. It requires medical attention, just like any other type of illness would. Clinical depression can consist of extreme episodes of suicidal behaviour and other brutalities. Medication for clinical depression is absolutely vital, and the consequences are life-threatening without it. Although there can be contributing factors that can worsen their depression, the underlying cause is medical and beyond the control of the sufferer themselves. One lives in an overwhelming sensation of melancholy and is stuck between the numbness of medication and the longingness to feel.

Coping with clinical depression is a lot more difficult, because the only two options are medication or therapy, both of which are transitory. Clinical depression often involves a war within the body, to cope with daily life and the struggles of living. The only constant is dejection, everything else is temporary. Medication extracts any sense of feeling, and sometimes that's even worse than the sadness itself. Finding something to hold onto is the greatest coping mechanism. It gives you something to be excited about, so you grasp it with dear life. That sensation, of experiencing a sentiment other than sadness is the only time you ever feel alive, and these are the moments that are evoked in the midst of your own cessation.

If you know me at all, you know that I suffer from clinical depression. This isn’t caused by a negative attitude or distance from God. It is an illness, and I try my utmost best to live a normal life and cope with it. Most days are demoralising but every now and then, there are moments that can help you forget and provide you with substance. For a second, beauty is magnified and glory, heightened. 

Today, I stood in the kitchen at work with a box full of grapes. I carefully pulled each grape off the stem and placed them into a bowl, one by one. It gave me something to focus on, it provided me with a purpose, and it extracted all of the emotions running through my veins until I felt whole. This, itself, demonstrates our anguish and willingness to find anything to grasp. A task that was so mediocre was able to soothe me because of the intensity of the ache. Depression isn’t a product of my own thinking, and I’d like sanity and peace in my life more than anything else. A human does not just inflict this kind of pain upon themselves, so it is crucial for you to truly comprehend a situation before forming any sort of judgement. I’m great at pretending, I’ve been doing it all my life. Watch me smile, and then watch it fall. That’s where the truth is, in between that moment. 

The Other Version of Ourselves.

Sunday, 6 July 2014

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.

The Devil's Love Song.

Friday, 4 July 2014

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. 

A Spell To Break The Soul.

Wednesday, 25 June 2014

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.

Call My Name; Save Me From The Dark.

Monday, 9 June 2014

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.

A Place For My Head.

Sunday, 8 June 2014

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. 

Heaven Is a Board Game.

Thursday, 5 June 2014

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.

The Lost Children.

Sunday, 1 June 2014

Today, I met up with an old friend and we discussed how it can be extremely difficult to talk about our emotions with people due to their reactions. He urged me to be open about my feelings because it would be liberating, not just through my writing but with the people around me. I am a very private person, I’m also not very trusting, and these are transpirations from experiences where people haven’t reacted so well to my suffering.

It was easy to wear a fa├žade and exist without evoking questions, but by doing so, I spent years internalising how I felt. Sometimes I would write here and use this space as a coping mechanism, but then people that I knew began to find this blog. I became restricted, but now I want to write here openly and honestly. I don’t want to be worried about what people might think, what they could say, or how they will treat me. None of that matters anymore. I’m not ashamed of how I feel and by hiding it, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. I’m not afraid anymore.

I suffer from Clinical Depression and I have done since childhood. There are two types of depression, one that is temporarily caused by a problem in one’s life like bereavement, and the other is Clinical Depression which is caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain. I suffer from the latter and there are no factors in my life that have contributed to this. I have not lost anyone or had my heart broken, I am not lonely or distant from God.

I wanted to write this to say that you shouldn’t be ashamed of what and how you feel. Depression is real; I can remember sitting in my grandfather’s window sill, staring out at the cars and feeling sad as I watched people outside. I must have been 3 years old, but I remember that feeling clearly because it’s the way I feel now. I’m stuck on the other side of the glass, watching myself and the world from a far. There’s a piece of glass in between, keeping me from feeling, from touching, from living, existing. I’m watching from behind the glass, but this only means that I see everything in more detail. It gives me a better perspective; I see people for who they are, I have wisdom. Depression allows me to truly find truth and meaning in the smaller moments of life. It allows my happiness to reach its peak when a child laughs or stranger smiles.

Depression itself is a taboo, people don’t like to acknowledge it or recognise it as a problem. Most will deem it as a temporary thing like a cold, expecting one to merely get over it. Depression is an illness, it is a disease. Having no physical wounds does not exempt it from illness. Headaches or aches don’t have any visible signs, yet we recognise how painful they can be. Depression is the same thing, but the magnitude is a million times more unbearable. We see paralysis as one of the worst things that can happen to an individual, somebody loses the feeling of their body and can no longer move. Depression is also a paralysis of the mind; you can’t control, you’re stuck inside yourself, you cannot feel.

You won’t understand the extent of depression unless you have been through it yourself. Each day is a battle of the mind and self, and most days you can’t even trust your own head. Waking up with an excruciating sadness each morning can become very unbearable, but you fight through it, and that makes you so much stronger. You have to find the will to live, and that in itself is strength. Depression is humanizing and destructive all at the same time. It breaks you, but it’s not something to hide or be afraid of, and I don’t want to pretend anymore. Being able to talk about this openly takes courage, and I hope that you’ll read this and develop a better understanding of what some of us go through. I hope that you are more aware, and most importantly, if somebody approaches you and discusses how they feel, I hope that you will listen.

We Live In Words.

Sunday, 25 May 2014

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.

Our Home of Truth.

Saturday, 24 May 2014

It’s the lies that bind us together; they create the foundations of our relationships. We are afraid of the truth; honesty is detrimental. It unravels the ropes, pulling us apart.

Liberation lives in truth; we're insistent on holding on. Honesty is sustenance in meaningful relationships; legitimacy is the only means of moving forward.

Our lies eventually live in our blood; dishonesty within our veins. We don’t trust our own thoughts or tongue. We lose our own grasp of actuality and meaning.

There’s nothing frightening about honesty; swallow morality and let it guide you to the truth. That’s where you’ll find yourself.

We Are The People.

These are some of my favourite articles:

15 Daily Routines Most People Don’t Realize Are Actually Ruts: 

30 Realities You Will Learn To Accept In Your Mid-20s:

12 Things People Don’t Understand About Eating Disorders:

21 Signs You’re Suffering From A Book Hangover:

The Difference Between Being Alone And Being Lonely:

3 Reasons Why You Should Get Rid of Snapchat Right Now:

What It Feels Like To Get Lost In A Book:

The Inside of Emptiness.

Sunday, 18 May 2014

There is a vacancy in your body, almost like an aching state of hunger in your gut. The ache extends to your limbs and drains your veins of its blood. There is nothing left to give, but barren organs and a fickle skeleton on a pedestal.

Emptiness is someone spinning into a blur until you forget what they look like; you don’t know what thoughts are anymore. Satisfaction and fulfilment are depleted, moments are bare and sterile.

Existence feels far away and you can’t quite reach your own soul. It feels like there is an organ missing, a piece that God forgot to include. Sometimes you don’t quite recognise your own palms.

The reflection in the mirror doesn’t belong to you; the eyes follow movements until your fingertips touch the glass. Your shadow is the devil; the light belongs to the angels. A perpetual battle of morality.

There is a stillness between each breath; you lose yourself to survive. Life itself is a daydream, a fight for consciousness and an attempt of satiation.

Emptiness is when you look at a photograph and fail to recognise yourself; the numbness of passing by strangers in the dark. A void, a loss, a sad song in the night. It’s when you cry into the wings of a dove and feel nothing. 

Emptiness is the vacancy of your bloodstream; your own soul in your broken hands.

How To Get Over Heartbreak.

Saturday, 10 May 2014

This is something that everyone struggles with at some point in their lives, regardless of age or gender. I am often asked about heartbreak and the ways in which one can overcome it. I thought that it may be useful to compile some ideas for a post that can be referred to whenever the need arises. Here are 10 ways to get over heartbreak:

1. Cut off any contact with the other person.
This is absolutely crucial and forms the basis of you moving forward. When you are attached to someone, it is almost as if this person becomes a part of you; there is no way to get them out of your system if you are constantly in their presence. Think of it like a drug that is being injected into your veins; if you want to get rid of the drug in your bloodstream, you will have to stop injecting yourself. You need to be away from them for the sake of your emotional well being. It may be painful, but nurturing that attachment with them is only going to intensify the hurt later on. They may have been a huge part of your life, but it's time to focus on yourself.

2. Delete all of their contact details.
You may think that this is unnecessary, but it is very easy to get back in touch with someone during a moment of weakness, causing disruption to the whole process of you moving on. Get rid of any way of contacting them to prevent temptation. This includes email addresses, phone numbers, deleting them from your Facebook, whatever it takes; cut off all ties. There should be no means of getting in touch, because that’s the only way you will ever let go.

3. Get rid of anything that reminds you of the person.
This begins the process of eradicating the person from your system. Looking at things that remind you of them is a form of masochism. Everything can act as a trigger. Donate things like gifts and clothes to charity so they don't go to waste. It is important to destroy those associations that you have formed, because they'll come back to haunt you in the darkest hours of the night. Also avoid going anywhere that you may have gone together; these triggers are the culprits of pain.

4. Don’t sit alone.
It is when we are alone that our minds whisper to us and our own thoughts drive us to insanity. Spend time with your family and friends, this will not only keep you occupied but will demonstrate that you have many people in your life that love and care for you. This can make the world of a difference and give you hope that everything will and is going to get better. Whatever you do, don't sit in the dark with your memories.

5. Take up a new hobby to fill your time.
You will find that you have a lot more time on your hands and no idea how to use it. Exert your energy into doing something new, whether this is volunteering or joining a gym. Use this pain as a means of creativity. Having something to focus on will serve as a great distraction. Keeping yourself busy at this stage is very important, because it is when you are idle that your mind wanders. If you're too busy living your life, you won't notice your heartache.

6. Avoid intensifying your sadness.
Stay away from anything within the romance genre (movies, books etc.), as this may just leave you feeling worse. Avoid things that are going to remind you of your heartbreak, for example a television show where the girl has gone through a breakup. These things are only going to make you sad, because you are able to relate to them. Your thoughts will always find their way back to heartbreak, so you have to do everything in your power to avoid it. Don't make yourself sad on purpose.

7. Remain positive.
Listen to happy, upbeat music, smile at other people. Go outside and sit in a park. Exercise. But whatever you do, don't sulk or feel sorry for yourself, because these will only cause you to descend. Focus on positive feelings and energy, these are the means of greatness. 

8. Go shopping.
Buying new clothes always seems to give you a whole new outlook on life. It sounds quite superficial, but it can change everything, if even for a few hours. Find something that makes you feel great and wear it, this will help to restore your confidence. It is important that you work on your self-esteem, because this will be the driving force to recovery.

9. Set some goals.
Focus on your ambitions and the things that you want to achieve in your life. Begin to make a list and you'll see just how much there is that you want to do. Seeing these things in front of you will remind you of your aspirations, and you'll realise that this heartbreak is a blessing, driving you to better things. You'll realise that you have more time to work on bringing your dreams to life, you'll have more focus and determination than ever. 

10. Begin achieving.
Start working on your goals because the sense of satisfaction is going to be the most rewarding thing. This is going to contribute to heightening your self-esteem and you will come to the realisation that you have the strength to progress. As soon as you begin to start accomplishing your goals, the levels of motivation in your bloodstream will soar.

By this stage, it will begin to hurt just that little bit less, and everything will feel slightly more bearable. These things won’t get rid of your heartache, but they will help to reduce it and find ways to cope with it. They will guide you to the light at the end of the tunnel and will make you realise that you are going to be okay. They will help to restore your confidence and get your life back, and although it may feel like the end of the world, your life is honestly just beginning.

Heartbreak is a very humanising experience, because you’re broken to pieces and you have to find the means of pulling yourself back together. These can help, but it is important that you don’t sulk and romanticise your sadness, because heartbreak isn’t beautiful; it’s just pain.

99 Red Balloons.

Monday, 5 May 2014

The children ran around twisting red ribbons attached to balloons, entangling them with each other, swapping them and creating patterns as they watched them move.

Eventually, they let the balloons go, hesitantly, with their palms still attached to the ribbons.

Fear swept their faces, they reached the air to bring them back; it was too late, they were alone now.

They watched the heavens steal them, then found themselves with the remnants of ribbon as a bandage for their wounds.


This reminded me of how afraid we are, to let go of the balloons that we hold, to relieve the ribbons that attach them, to untie the binds and move forward.

We’re still bound to the balloons that we let go of, we’re still holding on for dear life.  We’re tied with ribbons, entwined with each other, tangling the memories of the past, present and future into one.

The balloon may have gone, but our hands become fists; the ribbon clenched. 

Breathing through Social Media.

Saturday, 3 May 2014

It’s strange. Social media was once a form of communication, interacting with people from our past and rekindling lost friendships. Now they have become networks to preserve and document our lives, to validate our existence to others. We have not only lost the essence of survival, but we are now reliant on social media as our source of advocacy and nourishment.

With check-ins and updates. Relationship statuses and photographs. We are creating a stalkers haven, attempting to authenticate our existence by detailing occasions.

Social media has become a form of bragging, a depiction of the perfect lives that we want to live. We document our good sides, whilst our darkness remains buried in the shadows. The outward exterior is all that matters, but are we not ridding our bodies of substance as we progress?

As technology evolves, we are becoming more distant from each other, breeding jealousy and malice into living. Humanity has discovered the art of portrayal, masquerading truth and blurring it into magnetic precision. 

We’re all just living as part of a lie, a conspiracy on a broken thread intertwined with our bones.

So Light Them Up.

Friday, 2 May 2014

It’s difficult to find the balance between selfishness and morality; doing the right thing or saving yourself. 

There are times when you have to make decisions that are good for you by breaking yourself in the process. These are the most complex of choices, throwing yourself into a ditch knowing that you will be responsible for it, having to find a way to dig yourself out and recover your fragmented soul.

We’re all just pieces of the puzzle, trying to fit in, trying to find our place. Sometimes we have to cut off our own limbs in order to survive. 

The things that break us are the ones that save us in the end.

What insomnia feels like.

In one of the beginning scenes of Fight Club, the protagonist says ‘when you have insomnia, you’re never really asleep and you’re never really awake. With insomnia, nothing’s real. Everything’s far away. Everything’s a copy of a copy of a copy.’ This is a perfect representation of what insomnia feels like, but I wanted to construct a more detailed image.

Insomnia feels like living on the inside of a dream. Sometimes you’re not too sure where you are, whether you’re awake or asleep, whether anything is real. In fact, you have to look around every so often to make sure that you’re still alive. It feels like you are floating, and you can sometimes feel your brain sliding around in an attempt to complete the tasks in front of you. The screen becomes a picture of words and you find yourself watching someone’s lips while they speak to you, trying to decipher their words. Sometimes your body feels so vacant that you don't know what comprehension means.

Sometimes everything is muted, and your eyes sink into your own head. Then all of a sudden, the sound comes back and your mind leaves your body. Everything moves in slow motion; you’re not sure if you’re visible. You’re watching everything from the outside, finding yourself trying to stretch your eyes wide open to identify whether you’re physically there. Your eyes always sink back to their natural habitats, deep into your sockets until you have to look around to grasp your surroundings.

Your speech is slurred and you have to wait for your hand to move when your brain commands it to. You hear the seconds on the tip of your tongue and in the trace of your fingertips. The thoughts in your head ricochet across the skull but fail to reach your mouth. Everything is protracted; there is no concept of time.

You live with a permanent headache, trapped in the vicious cycle of your own deprivation. 

Sometimes The Angels Smoke.

Thursday, 1 May 2014

Mind you,
sometimes the angels smoke,
hiding it with their sleeves,
and when the archangel comes,
they throw the cigarettes away: that’s when you get shooting stars.

(Vladimir Nabokov)

Only Girl (In The World).

Tuesday, 29 April 2014

I met another writer this week and it was a refreshing experience that I wanted to document.

You’ll find that you’re a rare creature,’ he said. ‘Your mind is like a computer screen with thousands of tabs open, ideas filling your head at all times.’

You’ll have a great memory, remember the details, be observant, a great listener. You’ll notice things that others don’t.

I’ve spent my life searching for some sort of connection with other people and when I meet writers, we form the greatest of bonds in an instance. 

Happiness By The Kilowatt.

Monday, 28 April 2014

Some of you have said that you want to read more about my experiences and how I found the means for survival. This got me thinking about humanity and the travesties that we endure.

Bad things happen all of the time, but it’s after we become broken that we find our own strength. When the worst has happened, we have nothing to fear; we become invincible. That is when our strength arises; we believe that nothing matters anymore. We extract the strength from our own cells, through our skin into our souls.

We always find the means to survive; we are each living proof of this. Even if we are trapped in the melancholy of our sin, everything is transitory and the seconds become our means of transport into another dimension of subsistence.

When people say that life goes on, it does. We continue to breathe which is the only strength that we need to live. Everything else is within us.

Love Thy Neighbour.

Sunday, 27 April 2014

I am all for unity in humanity. We breathe the same air, we bear identical scars, we cry the same tears; nothing sets us apart. Life is difficult enough; we should not be pushing others just to get ahead.

The reason that I wore the headscarf was because people were telling me that it was the right thing to do. I didn’t once pick up the cloth myself, cover my hair and think that this was who I wanted to be. I did it because I was desperate to feel better, about myself, about life. It was the last resort whilst in a state of despondency. When I took off the headscarf, I realised that I had spent the whole period listening and acting the way that others told me I should. I felt trapped by ruling and restrictions that were formulated by others, not God.

Faith is personal. People cannot tell you what to believe, they cannot instil religion into your veins. Your relationship with God is your own. He may not communicate with us in words, but we each have a sense of morality, we know right from wrong. We feel a sense of guilt when we commit sin, and this is what we rely on to keep us from straying. My affiliation with God surpasses everything else in my life; there should never be a mediator.

I write on this blog to liberate my own thoughts, not for your validation or to prove myself and my commitment to God. My devotion runs through my bloodstream, through my actions, through my speech, through my mannerisms, through my character. These are a measure of my faith, not my outward appearance.

I believe that when death comes, God will be, and is the Almighty judge. There is no need for anybody else to stand and attack, they shouldn't be attempting to play God. 

Islam is about intentions, and any negative comments that I receive are a demonstration of your own disposition. A cloth is meaningless unless you have the mannerisms and character to sustain it. You have to look inside yourself and evaluate your actions before you can even take that step.  This was the mistake that I made; the headscarf itself was meaningless because I did not understand the reasoning behind it.

My actions were not about desires or wanting to look better. It was about my mental health, about survival and needing to feel alive again. I have not spoken to most people reading this in a number of years; this post is a testament to the reason why. I don’t tolerate cruelty, negativity or anything on that side of the spectrum. Religion and faith are very personal, and I don’t believe that you should commit to something until your limbs coincide. At the same time, Islam teaches kindness and humility, which is evidently something that a lot of you need to work on. It’s sad that people withdraw from religion, because others are standing with pitchforks, ready to strike.

Religion is about you and God; people have forgotten this and turned it into their own division of ruling. Your pessimism is not welcome here, your opinion is futile.
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Let me tell you a little secret. You can only save yourself.