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I’m back…I think

Hi. How’s everyone. I’m back after the endless silence.

I won’t make any promises that I’m back for good. Because, really, I don’t know 🙂

After days of dried up ink flowing through my veins, I conjured up something. And my favourite band (Chase Atlantic) helped me out. They know the dark side of me better than I know it (And I really embrace my dark side), so that’s something. So, here’s the something, I’m talking about:


I can handle the world. I really can.

What I can’t handle is myself and every extremity of mine.

I can’t handle the fact that nothing scares me.  The fact that I’ve accepted that love is really not for me. I can’t handle the fact that I love so deeply. The fact that I can’t conform. The fact that I can’t do what I’m told to do. The fact that I glorify revolution because rebellion is the storm that rages in me. The fact that I don’t belong.  The fact that I accept but never move on.  I can’t handle the fact that…I’m human.

I think  that’s what I want in life. Something or someone that can handle me. The whole of me. No filters. So, I don’t have to edit my soul.

Just me at my highest. Because that is when I’m at my lowest. 

That is all I want out of life. And the universe will give it to me, life will give me something that can handle me. Just not how I want it. 

I’ll get doses, fleeting moments. 

Drugs that I won’t be able to overdose on like I want to. 

I’ll be living in the sky but then it’ll all  turn to black. Because all in one moment, I’ll be going to heaven and returning back. 

And that realisation is the story of when I’m feeling low.


See y’all when I can. Really missed this, writing in the spur of the moment 🙂

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Writer, a word I’m in love with

Hiya sweeties! I’ve been very busy, schoolwork, schoolwork and more schoolwork. (Read: SOMEBODY HELP! SOS)

Anyways, it took me forever to write this post, partly because I was so invested in reading this book called “Deep Work” by Cal Newport. I highly recommend it even though, I’m not done with it yet.

Today, I’d like to talk about something very dear to me: words. Since I can remember, I’ve always had this fascination with words. Words, words, words. They were my chemicals in a science lab. I could play around with them, not take myself seriously, take myself seriously, experiment with what works for me and what doesn’t and just generally hone the craft of writing.

Around last year, I finally got the courage to call myself an artist. A writer, a poet. It was a terrifying process, labelling myself. When you’re a writer, you see, you wish with every atom of your being to be called a writer and yet, you don’t actually call yourself one. Why? Because you’re not sure if your writing is even counted as valid or worthy enough for you to be called a writer. Fortunately, I got through that alive.

But today, suddenly a thought struck me: I call myself a writer but am I really living up to it?
I had become a hack who never wrote but fell in love with word : “WRITER.” I realized that writing only when I want to scribble all over the notebook is not ever going to make my writing take off where I really want it to go.

I really believed I was doing something. But I’m not. Writing, right now, is something that I play with over the weekend. I don’t want that.

Writing is one of the things that calls to me. I wanna write and write and write until I’m drowning in my words, submerged in them to the complete point of no return.

After the realisation that I wasn’t really accomplishing anything, I had this ache to write. It didn’t even had to be a good piece. I just had to write. So I did. I painted out 500 words of a scene that I had in my head. And, I thought, this is what I want to do. I want this. Everyday, I want this. Just one hour of uninterrupted writing while Jazz plays in the background.

After this connection with my emotions, I felt like this is something that needs to be shared. I found a profound connection when other people my age were still struggling to explore the world.

As a young writer, I take it as my duty to be as honest and as prolific as possible. I hope that I can finally live up to the name I’ve given myself, a writer.

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Hiding

Hello, lovely people of the internet.

I’m clueless. So, I’ll just write about…. “the horrifying ordeal of being known.”

I am opposed to this statement with every fibre of my being. Do you ever feel invisible? So positively unknown that you just want to collapse into yourself? Do you ever feel absolutely unseen and it startles you?

I don’t really know if anybody else feels it but I know I do. I feel like there is a version of me that I feel inside me and I believe to be “me” but it feels like nobody sees that version of me. And it feels like they’re interacting not with me but with a projection of their experience of me.

I believe people to be dimensional and multi-dimensional. Even those people, who speak their mind or wear their heart on their sleeve, have layers.

I feel like the innermost layer of me feels a lot and thinks a lot, craves love and attention, hopes that the idea of soulmates are possible, is a hopeless hopeless romantic, simultaneously looks at the world as an idealist and a cynic. But, I don’t really show that side to anyone. I feel like that part of me which is vulnerable is a soft, soft, soft side of me and I don’t want it to harden. And thus, I don’t show it. And thus, people don’t interact with the true, undiluted version of me. Ultimately, it’s my fault that people don’t interact with that part of me. Which is frustrating. Because I want people to know about the true me but I also don’t want that part of me to be diluted by the world.

Does that mean that I’m faking? To be completely honest, I don’t think I fake being me. I feel like I show my logical side all the time and emotional side rarely and thus, people think I’m a robot and I can’t feel.

So, according to me, I show a filtered version of the real “me”. Do you people go through the same? I’m truly curious. Tell me in the comments.

Whom am I reserving this special side for? I have no idea.

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-my way of dealing with you

The Universe is a poem…

“Why do you write so much, love?” he asked me.

Why do I write?

When I think about you, babe, my head goes crazy with the thoughts.

I wonder how to stop myself from going insane. The answer is I can’t. I can’t stop myself from going insane.

That’s why I write. I write so much because I can’t stop thoughts. I write and write and write because the only way I can live the next moment is by writing.

Not because I like to.

Not because I want to.

But because I need to.

I need to write to stop myself from getting killed.

I need to write to survive.

I need to write to breathe.

Breathe from the thoughts of you that might kill me.

“I like writing,” is my not – so – honest answer to him.

Gracias.

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