He tells me he loves me and I try and imagine that love. It’s unconditional like they say it is, and yet I convince myself of its conditions. He loves you because you’re broken. He loves you because you’ve trapped him. He loves you because he doesn’t know that if he wanted to, he could love someone else. I lay in the bed and await salvation. Sometimes it takes days, sometimes it takes weeks and sometimes I think it may never come.
He joins me on the throne of pity, falling beside my projection. He takes my hand from under the blue sheet and holds it in his own. I’ve never been able to fathom the softness of his skin. The texture of silk, the colour of sand, and the wear of a child. It brushes over my being and for just one moment, I am okay. The thing about moments though, is that they only last a moment. Continue Reading
Alcohol is a peculiar potion; a single glass of it containing hysteria. My sense of self becomes one that I can no longer control. It’s almost as if the prisoner within me, the prisoner that is me, is set free. My inhibitions become myths, a once upon a time fairytale. I listen to the music, the music in the speakers, the music in the air, and I am taken into the rhythm of all sound. My body begins to mimic the beat but then it becomes the beat, speaking only the language of dance and truth. I see those around me, not as reflections of my worth, but as reflections of life. I speak to them with an honest tongue, liberating their prisoners, placing crowns upon their heads. I do not know the science of this, I do not know how, but yesterday I wished for death and today I wish for a thousand years. All that I deemed impossible has proved me wrong, and now everything sits in the front of my mind demanding manifestation. I can do everything, I think. Actually, I can do everything, I know. However, what I don’t know is that when dawn comes, the shadows will too. I will be locked in darkness, once again dreaming of escape, and a man that is allegedly me, will pick up a gun and hold it to my head.
Statistically speaking, the majority of us will never be royals because only 1% of us can be the 1%. We all have dreams, we all have creative expression and we all have a genuine desire to be distinguished from our pairs. For most of us though, none of it will ever be reciprocated. How do we continue with our lives knowing that our dreams may remain dreams and that our lives may never be remembered? Continue Reading
About a month ago, a close friend of mine said something about my blog and I haven’t been able to rid my mind of it since; “The way you write on your blog is a lot different to how you are in person.” I laughed it off, not thinking about the implications of her comment, and continued on with my day. However, as the day went on, her words grew within me and became a challenge to my soul. Why is it that how I write and how I am are two different things? I wasn’t able to answer that question for quite a few weeks but I think I finally have an answer to share. Continue Reading
The strangest thing happened today I encountered myself. I have been walking the earth for twenty years but I have never been able to see whom is doing that walking. Today I saw. I attended a university class named ‘Creative Writing: Voices’ and was forced to look upon my soul in all of its glory, in all of its distain.
I consider the act of writing to be innate. It is more than part of my existence, it is the reason for my existence. Weaving words together is a thoughtless task, one that I would compare to breathing. You don’t calculate the way in which you breathe, you simply breathe and I don’t calculate the way in which I write, I simply write. That is how it has always been and the child within me thought that is how it would always be. That child was wrong. Continue Reading
Even with the most acclaimed of television shows, I am still able to keep my composure. Not even Game of Thrones was able to take my soul hostage until I finished each and every episode. I had control… I usually always have control. That was until ‘Please Like Me’. After subjecting myself to the ingenuity of the pilot episode, I subsequently finished all four seasons in a matter of days. Continue Reading
“You look like a giraffe”, “gay bald ginger”, “Damn your foreheads gigantic.”
That is a mere goody-bag of what is said about me on the internet. The reality is, people don’t like me. I am in a homosexual relationship, I have an abnormally large forehead, my voice is high, I have freckles and I openly share my opinions. Those attributes come together to create difference and even though we are living in a progressive era, those who are different are still crucified… I am crucified.
This article does not contain a cure. I am unsure of how to open the minds of the ignorant and fill them with the knowledge that we are all collectively human. I wish I could do that but the history of this world has taught me that no matter how hard you try, some people will always be left unconvinced. On that basis, I only want to share with you what I am sure of; myself. Continue Reading
I did it. Somehow I did it. I logged into my laptop, pulled up Microsoft Word and let my fingers bleed onto the keyboard. When I began writing, I had a story in mind but after the first sentence, the nature of that story changed. I think that’s the reality of writing a book. With each sentence comes new possibilities. The writing process is therefore indistinguishable from the moving stairs in Hogwarts because new paths are constantly being made and destroyed. How thrilling… right?
Yes and no. Yes in that your story comes to life and is given the ability to rewrite itself in ways that you never imagined. No in that it sometimes feels like you don’t have control, which is a very strange feeling considering you are the one writing the story. Continue Reading
I want to know. In fact, I need to know. How does one dedicate their entirety to writing a book? How do they sit their for hours and hours, consumed by the words that bleed from their pens? How do they sacrifice a significant period of time for a story that may not be good enough? These are the questions that have kept me from sleep. I just don’t understand. How do people do it?
I know that I am a writer. It is one of the very few things that I am sure of. I pick up a pen or rest my fingers against keyboard, and the pain within me finds refuge. It still very much exists but I begin to understand its existence and that is enough to keep me writing forever. Continue Reading
“I think of my life as a garden and in that garden I am trying to grow sunflowers. Day after day, I throw seeds at the soil and water it with all that I know. However, the seeds never manifest into my desires and instead I am left with weeds that show no mercy. Moral of the story, I am losing faith in sunflowers.”
I wrote that one week ago. I think it is safe to say that I was depressed and even now that the darkness has lifted its foot, I still feel a little grim. This is my reality though. Because of my experiences and the configuration of my mind, I will always be susceptible to sadness. Continue Reading