I’m searching for a way to avoid the censorship of my thoughts when it comes to the expressions of crucial emotions. It’s as if the distance between my fingertips and mind is dedicated towards the production of a film these words will project. As if this voice sitting above my head is waiting with a loose whip, ready to punish me from the terrible reviews you may release. Advertisements
I don’t know, it’s rough these days. My hand trembles with every sentence I write down, these unfulfilling thoughts pulling at my heart strings. I have so many emotions, so many messages I must send you, but they never make it past my fingertips.
A small round bump felt through the thin layer of my head, followed by the lines of hair falling from it. The tiny nerve regrowing, remembering the foreigner that decided to stay. The trail lost but found behind the cliffs of my ear, hidden gently into my skin. But if you press hard enough, you can make out the tiny map of a memory, a painful reminder of reasons. These small features of myself will always be a mixed bag of emotions; the beauty of sound, yet the cruelty of a flaw. I’ve had my Cochlear Implant for almost eight years now. In all that time, I had moments of appreciation, of happiness towards having a second chance at hearing. But there were also moments of pure hatred, of this overwhelming feeling of crushing it with whatever blunt object I can find. I never quiet this outright, but I hate that in order for me to hear, I had to invite
Maybe it’s the mind resting against the beat of the song, or your voice lulling through my memories, but I really like you. I feel like I under-appreciated the beauty I’m fortunate to have met and I would like to do something about that. You are an honest, heartwarming, and gorgeous person who has kept me amongst the living. I have approached you countless times, spilling issues after issues in my life and you have never failed to be there. You have taken on nonsensical rambles about the ideas screaming in my head. You have cracked jokes with me, instantly changing moments that are stressful and heart drenching to calmed down happiness. I would love for you to know that no matter what, I will always return this kindness. For every agonizing slice of pain, I will be an already offered pair of ears. Thank you for everything you have done for me!
I can no longer stare at these empty halls, these pressed down seats before a heart sinking moment with the doctor. I’m too tired of the weeks that turn into years between every approach, testing my patience over and over. This long list of flaws has become blurry by the numbness of over-analysing the question of “why bother?”. I’ve lived my life in denial of knowing the content of that list, so much that I can only offer strangers the simple answer of “half a heart”. When further asked, I mumble medical terms off the top of my head hoping to sound like I know myself. I tell myself every day that I’m okay with the idea of being gone, that every bullet point on that list will finally reach me. Maybe I’m not okay with that, maybe I deny the list because I’m terrified of what might be inevitable. Maybe in not knowing, I could somehow prevent the realism of life
You have become a ghost, an image of the past. The only power you have left in my life are the scarring memories you left behind me: The midnight Skype calls, the goodnight messages, the quirky rants, the dreams we shared. But they’re all just dents scratches that cannot be painted over. You gave me some of the best times of my life and I will always be grateful for that. I will always cherish the quietness we shared, the beautiful silences of realisation. You sparked the realisations of all the potentials in life. The potential of a happy life, filled with blissful escapes, exciting adventures, and moments of pure love. All these moments, these small aspects of my life were shaping up alongside you, alongside us. And for once in a long time, I was incredibly happy. I spent every day with a plan; I was productive, thinking it was all going to work out. Then when night came, I
“Why is my work worth reading?” This is a question I want to try nailing down for my audience. It’s not so much that I create content in the hopes to develop some form of income. I’m here because I believe in the passion I have towards creativity. I’ve spent a large proportion of my life exploring the various amounts of art, from realistic paintings to web-development, from graphic design to animation and game design, from architecture to woodwork, from playing the piano to creating song lyrics. I have discovered incredible amounts of passions for every single piece of work I’ve dedicated my energy to, but unfortunately, most of it never lasts. But recently I’ve been able to find my sense of whereabouts in the creative industry, and I believe it’s partially writing. The reason I say writing is that I also want to dedicate my energy towards the promotion and encouragement of artists from all forms of beauty. I plan
You know me well enough to find the combination of letters to shatter me. You know the precise few seconds it takes before my heart pauses with emptiness. You laugh at the broken soul in front of you as you lose yourself in your own mischief. You can’t help but feel good about the wounds you inflict upon me, covering up the reasons behind them as revenge. You know deep down that you’ve gone beyond your own lies because this is no longer interpreted as revenge. No, this is the petty nature you’ve moulded into, or maybe it’s just who you’ve always been. For the longest time, I blamed myself, I thought that every infliction was understandable. This pain you once took part in developed into my own growth. I grew up deteriorating every fibre of who I am supposed to be. I know this sounds like I am trying to lift this regret, this guilt of destroying my grades,
You were right, I spend my life waiting. I spend my life waiting for the right moment, the day the broken pieces pick themselves up. I’m just terrified, you know? What if that day comes, what if the broken pieces come together and all I find is emptiness. Think about it, every piece of me, every shatter came from the beauties in my life. What if I grow up and discover that the adventurous side of me is no longer there, or the fire I once had inside me is long gone. If you want me to be honest, I have no idea what’s supposed to happen. I’m split between many trails of thoughts. What if I spend too much of my time in the past, and not moving on and learning from mistakes? What if I spend too much of my time in the present, allowing for a difficult and unprepared for future? What if I spend too much of
I often spent my darkest times, searching for the slightest cracks in the walls in hopes to find some form of light. My most grateful trick I forged into my own personality was to look into the future, not in some grand, spectacular way where life becomes a paradise with all my troubles vanish. It was the simple idea of appreciating the small realistic outcomes in the future. For me, it was my very own little apartment, filled with furniture I picked out and paid for myself. It’s my very own couch that remembers me the second I collapse onto it, my cheap, but good enough, TV set up in front of me. It’s the colours of the walls, the layout of my kitchen, the placement of my plants, and the sheets on my bed that I chose myself, that in some way resembles a small part of me. This tiny aspect of my future creates a beautiful sense of individualism,