dear diary,

I’m s a s h a and I’m 8 1/2.

i used to cry all the time about death and

what would happen if I died

- I am still scared of it.

i had so much homework today.

why am i crying? i am so

so-so-so lucky.

people have it

so-so-so

much worse.

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I was friends with her
and no one liked her.

I was sad when she left.

I ignored her.

it was fun playing footie with her.
I helped her.

everyone’s got good inside them

you’ve just got to find it.

i love you

so-so-so

much.

my life would not be the same

without you.

i know you think that i’m always with her,

that we are

‘best friends’

i know you think

i don’t know.

you think

that I don’t know

you think that.

i have grown fond of her.

you listening?!

i know you can’t listen.

my sister never plays games with me

anymore.

i love her though -

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in spring the bunnies come
their's those small gnome's

in summer it's really hot
drying a lot

in autumn the leaves fall
the same colour as my orange hall

in winter there's snow
the temperatures fall low

news notes:

a person threw acid.
he was 25.
22 people were hurt.

2 boys got shot
in a famous hotel.

a man killed his wife
and 7 children.

he leaped in the water

and Jesus saved him

and Jesus ended up on the cross

and came back to life?

-I am still scared of it.

dear diary,

Today it’s 20th December 2017.

i want to give my money to the hopsital -

i’m a songwriter and I love books.

mo farah got gold again.

we danced in front of the restaurant.

i’m going to make lots of friends on holiday

- I know it.

also on january

i got braces.

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recommended listening while reading

the sugar structures stretch out from your shoulder blades, crystalline translucence that always looks like it’s on the brink of shattering. the wind warping them like cling film used to, feet dangling like clothes on a washing line. the dull roar of your wings, monotonous now. like the subtle buzz of your microwave or the shiver of a fan.

smears of colour cloud your vision as you manoeuvre through the stagnant air.

no motion.

nothing except the shuffle of that contorting fabric wall - it’s just the breeze.

but, where is the breeze coming from?

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hovering near that black hole the crusting blues bore into your vision.

minty?

they remind you of the yellow clumps on jittering legs in the swarm.

why didn’t you just stay with the swarm?

and, why isn’t that long silver stalk swaying in the breeze?

and, where was that breeze coming from?

the drip

drip

drip from the silver stalk reminds you of water pooling on green. now it doesn’t pool, it trudges down to that black

hole.

as you grasp at the smooth reflection, you see someone.

finally someone amongst the smooth. blackening marbles placed on their face burn into your mind like a hot slide in summertime. antennae slightly crooked, seeming almost inquisitive.

the breeze makes you shiver - they shiver too. the same? oh,

it’s just you.

and you notice for the first time - your face is slightly misshapen compared to the others, hair a duller yellow than the others, shinier than the others, dimpled, dented.

and slowly but surely, you forget about finding the others.

about leaving this slippery place, where tiles encase you rather than warm sticky walls.

you don’t even know how long it’s been, if anyone even misses you amongst the

seething swarm.

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peeling away, air prickles at your legs. you feel something like the heave of a titanium crane. the floor beneath you reverberates.

motion.

you were always told to just -

fly,

stay with the swarm.

you can feel the breeze,

breeze -

breeze.

you hurtle towards the light

the delicate mouldings on your back vibrating.

as the light blinds you - confusion wiggles through your brain.

it’s solid.

scraping your legs, you rub against the light.

all you want is to hear

that

aching roar

of wings once more.

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photography by me

the notches and caves of the white weapons sit puncturing the simple pink. pinching the contorting flow of muscle, sitting silent in the valley of your mouth. painted red encasing them in a thin line, like thread weaved through skin. imprinting their shape like the pools of pink left by your glasses. i imagine the thin line curving, parting, that bead of brown by your nose deforming. a straight line of them peeking through like gravestones in a cemetery, white stone shining in the morning sun. names long eroded away.

tear.

rapture.

grind.

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flesh transforming into stripes of rosy pinks and red. like the stripes you used to wear on your socks. i used to love those socks. the white soldiers rupturing my skin - spears pricking at my freckles. ripples of red seeping into the pale like ink on wet paper. piercing the thin film and peeling it back like you used to do when we ordered a takeaway. mushroom gnocchi - your favourite.

red congeals in the notches and caves, painting the heads of the white soldiers. the red dancing across the fabric that wraps their arms, legs, shoulders. their thin uniform protects them - but only just. red snuggles beneath their fingernails. as they sit in the gaping trenches of pink, breathless with anticipation.

the pulsating muscle strides through the air like a bird of prey. locking onto its next victim with precision. a thin film of shimmering saliva encompassing it. your breath shivers, jaw tight.

I search for your mouth like one grapples around in the dark of this world for meaning.

my hand resting on your warm vibrating chest, irrevocable. shivering like suspended dust. my hand rests on your fig tattoo, just beneath your collarbone, fruit on the brink of splitting.

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i want to be your favourite victim. i want you to revel in the taste - i want to battle with your white soldiers. i want to sit in your cemetery forever.

to press against your weapons and feel them splinter beneath my weight.

a thin line of black embedding within the shiny enamel, as thin as the eyelash that rests on your flushed cheek. that weapon sits puncturing the simple pink. seemingly strong yet always about to fracture.

seemingly strong yet the notches i trace with my tongue disintegrate into white dust, shimmering like the glitter on your eyelids. suspended like your breath in my mouth.

white dust dissolving on my tongue;

eroding, crumbling.

the incessant pulse of blue striding into the caves of your mouth. grinding the hidden notches smooth.

as i lick your gravestones like the sun does,

i feel the dust disintegrating on my tongue.

weapons softening under my breath,

the crack deepening - splitting.

your mouth opens again

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my thoughts are trapped in a teabag, the fragile skin of the fabric encasing them in a neat little package as they seep away into steaming water. containment, briefly convincing - a droplet climbing down the side, settling into a perfect circle painting the table, a thought which escaped. the smell wafting - slowly contaminating the unsuspecting air. wrapped and rewrapped around the arm of the moulded mug, the thin white string drags them back when they drift.

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softly contained, gentle, comforting.

pierce that film of paper. tear, rip, until a cascade of tea leaves scatters around.

only valued once they are gathered up into sweet bunches - much like hair tumbling down soft backs. strands bouncing in unison. but once they become loose, they are messy. they curve and stride through the air in coils. a nuisance.

thoughts only palatable when stitched into squares, scatters swept away.

we call this movement freedom.

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to be a wisp of hair dragged back and forth, back and forth. drifting through the seemingly still air, dancing on the edge of desire yet never quite crossing that line.

suspended by the still. never floating to rest on a well trodden wet floor or a mousy brown table.

but perching on an eyelash aching to be blinked away, settled on a nostril wavering with every breath, in and out and in and out, or between two pink lips covered in a thin film of moisture desperate to be plucked away by fiddling fingers.

i don’t want to be tethered to a tender skull, hanging on but only just. combed by rough fingers, sharp bristles, tamed - controlled. fraying under the pressure. splitting.

i don’t want to be slathered in pink, purple, blue. dressed up like the others, growing duller by the day.

i want to be pinched. whirled around as pinpricks of red bloom about the scalp.

some stay confined to the curve of that tender head forever, growing longer and older - to never writhe in the wind uncontrollably like a worm, pulsating with discomfort.

we call this movement freedom.

some remain suspended in the air hanging like a chrysalis of a caterpillar - a butterfly never stretching its wings.

some writhe and contort. then straighten, settling neatly on a different harder head or a jumper - resting there, forgotten.

we often mistake control for kindness.

the absence of light is the strangest of things always moving like the hair, painting the walls, the floors, half the world. it creeps, it stretches like time.

i feel a permanent shiver settling on my skin, like the scrape of a dull knife, the patter of a ladybug’s footsteps or the pinpricks of razors. not enough to cut - only enough to tell you where the edge is.

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to have never felt -

love.

the pulsing of warm sweet lips - curving and contorting to the shape of your name. words staining the air, like the bloom of white leaking out of your mouth on a cold day. the arch of their nose resting beneath your jaw. you are deeply encompassed with the indescribable scent of them. a mixture of sweet vanilla, jasmine, passion. a wisp of their hair suspended in the still air, their tiresome fingers twiddling it. round and round. an eyelash resting on their cheek. the faint imprint of their glasses.

you can tell someone exactly what you believe love is.

the quiet moments. deep intimacy of thought. the slow, aching desire.

and yet, you have never been loved in that way.

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your thoughts are not your own - merely an interpretation.

you can’t tell me what it’s like to love, you can only tell me how others have.

to know nothing and yet, everything about it. to know the intensely painted intricacies, those violently tender whisks of paint illustrating everything about it, interpreted by the many. understood by few. to have studied each iteration of that painting. aching to feel the raised bumps and smooth curves of the hardened paint. the texture comforting my youthful fingertips.

the overwhelming smell of oil paint - familiar - enveloping your lungs as you create your own iteration. the smooth bristles passing over your cracked skin, the paint seeping in. colour gathering beneath your nails.

to know love, not know of love. to understand.

you only want to understand. you’ve always wanted to understand.

you just never have.

never felt the heavy comfort of interlocking fingers. swaying. hands sweating, clammy. sharp nails softly digging into the undersides of your knuckles.

never seen the complexity of their beautiful mind, illustrated through words. like glimmering sunlight hitting water droplets on a flower.

never known someone like that. to know the constant flow and movement of their thoughts like you trace the movement of their mouth. constantly curving.

never felt the soft taste of desire.

never got close enough.

never let anyone in.

never -

never,

never.

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and you’ve started believing you never will.

begun to believe those thoughts.

those thoughts. that prick at the intricacies of your mind. tentatively at first. sharp. then harder, faster, all at once.

the warm light flickers.

you crave it like deep smoke settling into your lungs.

you ache to be known.

and yet,

you can’t let them.

you don’t know why you are the way you are.

a flicker of connection. slashed. you look away. at the ceiling, the floor, the window. anywhere but their open expectant face. your chest tightening, up and down, up and down. you inhale. the silence pulsing between you - thick, unbearable, shimmering. a blink, fluttering of eyelashes. your hand trembles. words crawling on to your raw tongue. clambering. desperate to leak out into the open air. they dissolve like cotton candy in a puddle. your tongue burns. the shiny metal of your necklace, caught by the light as you tug and pull. whirling round. you don’t know where to put your hands. anywhere to stop them reaching out.

knuckles brush, cheeks flushed. you can already feel yourself walking away. slipping.

boots echoing on the vinyl, hands clenched in pockets. don’t look back. you choke on what could have been, salty tears pooling. the world blurring into a series of colours, all brighter than the last.

a strange contradiction.

to ache for something you’ve never known.

to have known nothing - and yet felt everything.

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i would be so appreciative if anyone could buy me a coffee! to support my writing as a student would be so helpful x

buy me a coffee!

from pinterest

to be blissfully ignorant or to be forced to face the truth.

to swallow or to choke.

to breathe or to suffocate.

to remain in the grey haze,

like a thick mist settling over your consciousness, never lifting. a deep embrace enveloping your body - comforting at first, then smothering. encasing your face in white. compressing against your flickering eyelids. the weight of the air soothing you. a dark dampness clings, beads of dew forming on your lips. a strange suffocation. metal floods your mouth. you barely see your fingers stretched out in front of you. you can hardly see that figure coming towards you. a figure. there was a man. you think. there must have been. there was. you saw it. you heard them breathing. in and out. gasping. or you thought you did. you think you did. you think -

you saw them.

or maybe it was simply an echo of something you saw before - disguising itself as truth. just because you feel it - doesn’t mean it’s there.

it’s not there.

from that dark place, the mind grasps.

your thoughts bend like beams of light curving in clear water.

the compulsive itch to capture that thought. overcomes you.

but you can’t. you can’t.

your mind only wandering as far as the rough leather that encapsulates it. it tightens around. and around. your head pulses. thoughts flicker.

every thought passing momentarily. drifting, never captured. or moulded, scrutinized. like bleeding fingertips scratching. slipping. on cold hard ice. swipes of crimson red freezing.

hoarse whispers haunt your ears. words coming from all directions. grazing you. thin beads of shining blood running down like teardrops. congealing at your temples.

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your tongue contorts in agony. curving and pulsing. aching with desire. it throbs. your saliva drying against the roof of your mouth. gasps of breath push air into your raw lungs. each inhale drags rough grit against your teeth. your sore lips mouthing the words, yet no sound ever leaves. you don’t even know what you want to say. you don’t know anything.

you open your eyes. they swim with water. the black dots sway. merge.

you can’t. you can’t see.

why can’t you see?

to see is to suffer.

that’s what they say.

but what about the other kind?

the suffocation, the entrapment, the helplessness of it all.

the not-knowing.

the air sinks lower.

you think you choose to breathe.

as your mouth tightens into a line. you grasp at your nose. pinching. your chest straining. mild panic dictating the movement of your thoughts. manoeuvring the flow. your legs vibrating like the wings of a bee. twitching on the pavement.

your eyes flutter shut.

an overwhelming darkness.

you breathe again. shallow breaths. hardly puncturing the silence. raw. ragged.

and then, they become deep, purposeful. almost as if it never happened at all.

you thought you chose to stop that air rushing in.

you thought you chose to stop.

and yet, you breathe again.

something else made that choice for you.

from pinterest

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every decision you have ever made has been yours. hasn’t it?

every idea contorted by your mind. as you wrestle and fight against that question. those hanging words. those same words have been posed by someone else.

is every thought simply an iteration of those before us?

are we truly free? we think we are free, of course we do. we have the control. every whisking path meticulously chosen. to choose. to wrestle with two sides of a coin. to feel the cool underside resting on our palm. teased by our fingers. back and forth, back and forth. deliriously deliberating. but is it really a coin? that two dimensional disc - cold metal, uncontrollably rotating in the air. landing perfectly, one side gleaming up at the sky. a curve of light catches the edge. is it a sphere? a slippery smooth surface, never stopping, always rolling. the silence pierced only by the sound of metal.

and are we the one rolling that sphere?

why is it always rolling?

who pushed it?

you can’t see them.

you were never meant to see.

is blindness a condition of truth itself?

it’s all you ever known. and it’s all you ever will know.

accepting your reality as the reality.

is your truth the truth?

is it ?

or just the fog pretending to be the light?

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i would appreciate it so much if anyone could buy me a coffee and support my work as a student writer x (anything would be so amazing)

buy me a coffee!

by Seung-Hwan OH

a daisy wilting crushed underfoot. splayed about the green. seemingly destroyed.

the petals of a rose wilting under the grasp of time. curling.

the drooping of a daffodil.

the browning of a crisp autumn leaf. once green.

shifting slowly, like the seasons.

always changing.

change slips in quietly. not like the change of your music. not like the change of your favourite cereal. not like the change in your interests, not the gentle drift of one fascination to the next.

but the change of your thoughts, your mind. the change of who you are.

you don’t even notice it happening.

something you once loved, someone you once where.

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the curve of the hair that frames your eyes degrading to a wispy white. frazzling underneath the years of anxiously twirling it around your finger. twirling and untwirling. deep wrinkles etched into soft skin. charred by the emotions of the past. staining the air like warm breath on a cold day. they really never do leave.

even though your mouth no longer forms the shape of their name. even though their eyes no longer brighten with passion. even though your ears ache for the echoing sound of their voice.

you have changed. you are no longer who you once were.

now, you are an iteration of thousands of words uttered late at night. of quick laughter. of deep gasps of breath. of love. and the silence that follows.

forever changed. constantly changing.

when did bright wellington boots turn into sharp heels? then into simple soft slippers? you didn’t even notice it happening. you didn’t even notice when the patter of small feet on wet concrete stopped. when those heels went unworn, waiting. when your feet began to ache, blue from the strain. cold tile soothing them.

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it wasn’t just the sound of your steps that changed.

you are always changing.

from the way that curl of hair frames your face. the soft curve of your earlobe soon punctured with gold. tugging at the skin underneath the weight of those ridiculous hoops. now left undecorated - only a fading mark. highlighting what once was.

lips painted with soft pink, harsh red, then nothing but vaseline. curving into a kiss, a laugh and a sincere smile.

sharp bubbles of coca cola drifting down your throat. hungrily gulped down away from the sight of your mum. bitter warm coffee sliding down your throat, a large mug comforting your small hands. soon a tea. quiet, gentle. before your bedtime at nine.

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then one day, you were the one pouring the drink.

a child’s laugh bubbling over as you twirl them around. and around. and around. sweet eyes forming the same crinkles as your own. the moment slipping away as you cling on to it.

when did that leaf brown? you didn’t even notice. you didn’t even notice the curling of the edges. limp on the stem. aching to drift down to the floor. a soft surrender.

when did one more candle get pushed into the sweet soft of cake? you didn’t even notice. you noticed those long days, but not the short years.

when did those familiar faces drift into the mist? those smiles that you still see, in every passing face.

the calloused but stable hands that you once grasped onto with nervousness. now reach out to you with that same feeling. wrinkled with the age.

everything we once held onto with such certainty, such ambition. melts away into something new.

flowers perched on the kitchen table. a faint scent of something still alive. a leaf grasping on. wilting, and yet.

the earth does not mourn the falling of the leaf.

a bulb of green erupting from the brown. pulsing with life. aching with promise.

nothing ever truly ends. it only changes. morphs.

the impermanence of human existence

is not a sad fact.

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your eyes glaze over. a vacant stare. a constant compression within your chest. your eyelashes flutter as a thin beam of daylight blinds you, tracing the intricate curves of your face. you turn away, burying your face in your hands.

an echoing alarm. shrill. vibrating around your skull. the hum of bright flickering lights. a spasm in your chest. you walk through the motions. automatic. a vacant stare burning into the mirror. that stare reflects back at you. you don’t seem to recognise those tired eyes. you blink. once. twice.

grasping at your mug. blind. the satisfying bitterness of coffee sliding down your throat, catching that yawn. that yawn that is constantly crawling up. you inhale that thick bitter smell, comforting you like a toy from your childhood.

a sharp desk digs at your sore skin. fingers calloused from where your pen lay. the pen leaves a faint metallic tang in your mouth. numbers swirl. sounds merge. transforming streams of words into simply the movement of someone’s mouth. curving and shaping into syllables. yet, you hear nothing. only a syrupy, slow silence. like dunking your head into cool water. the water churning around you as your hair splays out helplessly. bubbles rising from your nose furiously. as though suspended in the cool blue.

immense silence. only the crash and flow of water puncturing it. and then, a murmuring of sound in the distance. a deep whisper.

a whisper of discontent. a whisper of unease. a whisper of disquiet.

those whispers work their way into your head.

just do this, they seem to say. and this. and this. and this. and this.

why is there always something to do?

somewhere to go? work to finish?

a shock of anxiety permanently dancing on the edges of your consciousness.

there’s never enough time. why is there never enough time?

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it isn’t just you. it’s everyone.

‘i’m so tired.’ they say,

‘i’m so done.’ they say,

‘why have I got so much to do?’ they say,

that ceaseless script of complaints accompanying the everyday.

you all sigh in perfect unison. that same sigh. that same slump of your shoulders. that same discontent etched on your faces. unified by this seemingly terrible time. a collective exhaustion permanently overwhelming everyone.

heads drooping in unison on the bus. bent over. slackened jaws. half open eyes. a stale smell of exhaustion. everyone is just so, so tired.

that feeling of aching bones, a soreness in your chest, a yawn even 8 hours of sleep won’t repress.

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like a thick heavy mist settling over your consciousness. obscuring your view. constricting your breath. blurring the edges of reality into a dazed haze. of things to do. of time folding in on itself like a blackening piece of paper. an orange glow enveloping it whole. licking at the disintegrating edges.

that thick mist seems to envelop you. falsely comforting. like a cold stiff hug. frigid rough hands gripping at you. tearing at you. relentlessly.

a ray of sunlight penetrates the thick mist. blinding you. a soft warm glow. you almost forget the frigid cold.

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you look up.

to see where the glow is coming from. an echoing bright laugh. the mist seems to rise. you breathe in the air like it is a crisp winter’s day. the white decorating your familiar world. dressing it with temporary beauty. fragile. fingertips blue. housed in soft warm gloves.

numb but beautifully alive. electric with the thrill of the white world that surrounds you.

as you look around, you see the icicles start to drip.

drip. drip. drip.

it always melts.

that white cold fades. the world becomes undressed. vulnerable. naked. grey asphalt no longer sparking. your footprints no longer painting the ground.

the mist settles once more, like it always does. and you are tired again.

a yawn crawls up your throat. clawing. overwhelming you. you can breathe, but only just.

it’s all just so tiring.

everything.

everything aches.

even the book on your nightstand feels heavy. spine unbroken.

those ideas that used to light your mind up like a shock running through your fingertips now flicker dim.

that passion,

that desire,

that life within you, seems tiring.

and you are already so tired. so, so tired.

we blink again, desperately hoping the mist won’t return.

but it always does.

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I would appreciate it so much if anyone could buy me a coffee and support a student writer (any amount would be amazing) x

buy me a coffee!

the intricacies of the purple and red veins of a simple brown leaf spider outwards. as if painted by the most precise of hands. incomprehensibly beautiful in the simplest of art forms. a complex pattern crafted. inconceivable.

and yet, once our tired eyes have locked onto the glittering hues of orange and red at sunset. once they have been blinded by the beauty of the shining snow, crunching underfoot. once they have been blessed by smiles etched onto familiar faces, laughter bubbling underneath their skin. the comforting brown of the leaf fades into the category of mundane. normal.

nothing in particular, nothing at all.

crumbling under calloused fingers. crushed like a bug under foot. glistening colourful armour fractured. fragments scattered about the grey ground.

the veins grasp out, as though looking for something beyond themselves - just as we do. mirroring the human hunger for knowledge. that same hunger compels those small soft hands to reach up and ask ‘why?’ for them to listen intently as if you are spilling the secrets of the world. then they proceed to ask ‘why?’ again through sticky jam covered mouths.

where did that ‘why’ go?

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first, that why wears thin beneath the sighs of your weary mother. then it frays underneath the weight of a teacher’s dismissal - not on the test. slowly slipping from conversation. crumbling. until, it becomes a word quietly filed away. reserved for the childish and naïve.

where did it disappear to?

perhaps it buries itself into the rituals of adulthood. into most ordinary of things. the swirling of milk in strong black coffee. for a fleeting second, you notice that swirling pattern. replicating the spinning constellations within a porcelain cup. mirroring the extraordinary in our ordinary.

as the drip of bitter coffee coats your tongue, you blink away that pattern as nothing but milk.

and yet, that pattern begs you to question.

to ask ‘why?’

to wonder. to dance after the sweet taste of knowledge like a drug. to look at that brown leaf in awe. to let your mind wander through fields of the unknown desperately searching for a pop of red. a familiar fruit. a sharp sweet taste of success.

to frantically grapple for the answer to that why like a hyperactive toddler. to compress the words of the people before you into the pink soft of your brain. wishing. waiting. for it to click - like electricity running through your fingertips.

obsessively itching to know. compelled by the force of youthful curiosity.

that itching is often treated by soft words and calm voices, urging you. urging you to dull the mindless wave of questions constantly pulling you under with the desperation to know. a ceaseless narration.

ebbing and flowing. ebbing and flowing.

and often the urging forces the hiss of that ocean to calm. thoughts flowing instead of crashing. the current no longer pulling you under, rather pushing you along peacefully. perfectly tranquil. like a tidepool, shallow enough to stand in.

ordinary envelopes you once more. routine dictating the smallest of habits. your mind wandering only as far as the border that contains it.

just as constellations hide in coffee - wonder hides in the road signs we ignore. dirt encrusted on the sides. the familiar fluorescence encasing the text, that ordinary shine that accompanies our drives. speaking the same language of light that guides scorpions on the dry desert floor. that language translated into something we call ordinary. wonder lies in the everyday - simply waiting for us to look for it.

parts of our world unimaginable to the human mind present themselves everywhere. you just glimpse. you glance thoughtless. preoccupied. always preoccupied.

the crack of the pavement. the hum of the fridge resembling distant thunder.

the graceful patter of rain on the pavement.

a tumbling pile of books - becomes a question.

the groan and pull of the train - becomes a question.

who are they, those strangers?

what makes them snicker? why those shoes? what makes them feel alive?

even passing faces offering mysteries.

yet, society teaches us to repress this part of us. that childish wonder. that ceaseless questioning. that untamed curiosity.

the more you look at the leaf, the more you see. as the veins spider outwards. as the coffee swirls.

confronting ordinary aspects of life which are commensurate to our capacity for wonder.

so when your foot hovers over that crumbling brown leaf - pause. when you pour your coffee, or glance at a street sign - pause.

and wonder, just wonder.

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collage by me

artificially enthusiastic voices echo as they spout carefully organised words - polished to perfection. you pace maniacally. the voices stalking you, tormenting you. they reek of synthetic perfume. meaningless chatter gushes out of your mouth. anything, anything to smother those falsely warm voices. ‘i’m just going to the loo’ you mutter. you find yourself walking the long way, constantly busying yourself with things that simply don’t need doing. and yet, when you apprehensively tiptoe back into the living room, the artificially enthusiastic voices still echo.

a sigh catches in your throat, clogging it like a mouthful of dust. choking you, slowly. deliberately. ungraciously, you fumble around for the remote. determined to know your fate.

the awaited number pops up: 1 minute, 31 seconds. you glimpse at the screen quickly, unable to lock your eyes onto the glittering swarm of colours.

the voices blend into a syrupy disquiet. they drip down your throat, coating it with an artificial cherry flavour. clinging long after you swallow. the voices stretch every syllable as if taunting you. mocking your helplessness. 1 minute 11 seconds left. through short catchy slogans, bright colours and shock, the sound claws for your crumbling attention. products fixing a problem no one even knew existed. through bright red and ‘SALE’ plastered on every inch of the screen. through codes and discounts. lulling you into the contentment of saving money. you feel utterly numb to their constant cry.

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when will it end?

their curated words pinch and stretch at different parts of your brain. like it’s play doh. kneaded by a multitude of fingers. all perfectly manicured. no chips, no breaks or a hangnail. always the latest trend.

0:55. the seconds drip like treacle. slow and sticky. 0:50. the numbers writh about the screen, as if tortured.

you turn down the volume. their animated gestures surpass sound. incinerating your retinas.

your eyes wander to the window. even the lamps wear adverts like costumes. they leer at you, faces stitched together from pixels and promises.

the glittering array of colours blends into the same glittering glow of you phone. the same perfectly polished words. except, the voices are slightly less enthusiastic. softer, less artificial sounding. almost like you. and so, you listen.

‘double denim is so out.’

‘polka dots are so in.’

‘butter yellow is the colour.’

‘no one is wearing that anymore’

the voices stalk you. torment you.

although, they sound similiar to your own.

the trends that used decorate your body like medals are instantly discarded. left to rot with the others. piles build up.

the urge to consume eradicates those piles. overtakes any other feeling.

consume.

consume.

consume.

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by Barbara Kruger

you put your phone down.

0:02 seconds left. blissful silence. relief floods.

your stiff shoulders sink into the sofa. liberated at last.

but still, you find yourself muttering the memorised script of that same ad. the words crawl onto your sore tongue, leaking out into the empty room. spilling. uncontrollable. as though that script was carved into the tender pink flesh hiding beneath your skull.

it feels as if the words are enveloping your tongue in a thick coating of sugar. sickly sweet.

these words cycle around your mind like a hyperactive child on a bike.

chaotically circling.

ceaseless.

like being stuck on a childish merry-go-round,

hands fastened around that sticky shiny pole,

thighs tightly gripped around that colourful horse.

children’s’ laughter ringing through the hollow grounds.

you feel dazed.

disorientated.

the world whisking by in a series of bright colours

you look around

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and there sits, in the concession stands

a man. in a black suit.

he smiles sickeningly, the foggy window blurring his face.

his piercing eyes

scrutinize your entranced body as you go round

and round

and round.

his broad thumb presses firmly down on a shining button,

the peeling horse beneath your legs jolts, shudders.

the carousel surges into action as another cycle begins. a tinny jingle erupting from the decrepit speaker.

that tinny jingle is the same ad that was etched onto your tongue not too long ago.

his skin takes on the same glossy shine that packaging does. plasticky. gleaming in the fluorescent lighting.

his shoulders involuntary move to the sound of the jingle. as if it’s a part of him.

you look closer. he looks oddly familiar.

the groove of the nose, slightly recognisable. the way his eyes flutter closed irregularly.

you peel your hand off the sticky poll.

grappling at your face. you feel the familiar groove of your nose, the curves of your cheeks, the rise of your forehead.

‘it can’t be’ you think to yourself. the nose seems like yours, yes. but sharper, sleeker. the smile, thinner.

but soon you realise,

you are the same.

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desperately you plug white gauze into their opened wounds. pulsating under your frenzied fingers. a twinge spasming through your heaving chest. the floor seems to thaw beneath your blistered feet. the metallic smell floods into your nostrils. borrowed tears staining your scarlet face. they climb down your throat. bitter and sour. bright red seeps through the thin gauze. their hand lays limp in your frantic grip. their skin is soft but cold. numb. that’s how you feel. utterly numb. utterly alone. despite the vacant eyes you gaze into.

they don’t see you. they never will.

they ferociously tear that same carefully placed fabric from their raw wounds. an act of defiance. hysterical. you are useless. they are desperate to feel the icy wind against their skin. the burning whip of the air. their warm breath stains the clear sky. you cradle them like a piece of cracked pottery. always about to break.

they prod at your cuts. smiling. laughter harshly breaks the silence. shoving your already bruised shoulders. inflicting the agony they endured. they carelessly cut you. at least they see you.

you stand still.

your world spinning madly around them.

precariously balancing on one laugh, one smile, one word. tenderly outlining your body on the stark white sheets. instantly enlightening your soul. a blinding joy. their smile catches like sunlight on glass. laughter. the air grasps at the sound. trying to keep it alive. easing the pain briefly. it’s never enough. you ache for more. you glance at your tender shoulders. your bruises bloom like flowers on a summers day. the scars they etched onto your arms, map your soul. like when sunlight highlights the intricacies of a carefully created spiders web. fragile. frail. shattered with a swipe of a finger.

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you crave to feel as they do. to understand the emotion etched on that familiar face. that craving claws at your head. like dangerously sharp fingernails scratching at the fragile pink protected by your skull. you dream of the walls that hold them imprisoned. your ragged breath knots, synchronised with theirs. every time you reach out, an unknown sharpness fills you. the hunger pain envelops you, infects you. you ache to slip into that smoky room they constantly retreat to. where voices distort. they can’t penetrate you there.

their mind slips from the fabric of reality, as they do anything within their power to obscure their view of the world. to blur the edges of that streetlamp. to live in that haze. you grasp at their eyes. long for the haze. anguished in your search to see. to see how they see. their bitterness contaminates you.

you try and communicate something incommunicable to the faceless people who surround you. no one hears you.

someone murmurs ‘i don’t know why you bother’ in your deafened ears. every time that murmur weasels its way into that pink soft. memories come back. soft small clean hands. flashes of blinding bright colours. instant friendship. sticky fingers begging to be held. you were both just kids.

you had so much to live for, so much to give.

you wish for the games which ended in laughter and teatime. rather then a longing and too crisp reality. you mourn what once was. a past which burned and blackened before you even held it in your hand.

the times when you hungrily wished to blow out those candles.

before you had this, this hunger.

a hunger to help. a hunger to help someone who refuses to be helped.

acid fills your throat.

your breath fogs. a car gently hums.

you stitched at them until your hands were raw, but you cannot stitch yourself.

you finally realise in the stark bright light of the streetlamp overhead.

you don’t know whose red blood is crusting around your fingernails.

embedded in cracks which will never wash clean.

the person you are overwhelmingly compelled to save.

would simply never think to save you.

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this post was partly inspired by ‘Teal by Wunderhorse’ so give that a listen if you want

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your colourful soul peacefully hangs up on a barren white wall. the dripping blue paint highlighting the intricacies of your thoughts and experiences. that smudge. the curves of your warm fingertip forever imprinted on that canvas. now cold. that unfinished corner you tirelessly wrestled with in your mind, but left in the end.

your colourful soul sitting in those words you carefully organised into a beautiful sequence. immortal through print. creating a blurred and dusky window into your bustling thoughts. they drift as gracefully as a vibrant dragonfly. every anxiety, joy and experience subtly illustrated on to those pages.

your colourful soul brought to life again by the joyous overlapping of chords and notes. your passion whispering in the listeners ear. echoing through the bass and the deep husky low notes. every sound and note fretted over. those notes stand still in time, never to be altered again. eternally comforting those who listen.

your colourful soul sprinkling the joy you instilled in the chubby blushed cheeks of your children.

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what will you be remembered for?

if you are even remembered at all.

will your name easily crawl into ordinary conversation in between the clatter of knifes and forks and raucous laughter at a dinner table. or will it silently wait for a fleeting mention of what once was? a passing anecdote. soft reflection. no raucous laughter. a dark oppressive silence choking the room.

although they see your colourful soul splashed onto canvas. they do not see that same paint splattering like blood. not blue but red. staining. they do not see glinting blade pressed hard against your back, gouging blood onto that piece of paper.

will the words you murmured bubble up in a strangers mouth one day? the same words you feel are deeply etched into your rough skin. your hands blistered and raw. the same words that once tore you apart?

they will hear your symphony of sound with joy and laughter. a flow of bodies screaming your name in joy. not knowing that those same chords were once discordant. jagged. each out of place note a bruise on your skin. a melody echoing around your empty skull. your deafened ears always filled with a shrill banging noise.

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your soul no longer colourful. your red eyes mindlessly staring at the perfection created by suffering.

those chubby cheeked children forever sit waiting for you at the dinner table.

they will remember your laugh, yes, but they will mostly remember those last shaky gasps of air. the last words uttered from your now dust covered mouth. they will long for a you that no longer exists. a hunger for you permanently overwhelming them.

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your desperation to be remembered presses against you, like a fist you can’t unclench. to be known. to be talked about at that dinner table.

but at that dinner table, they will not truly remember you. they will sand down the edges of your pain. your thoughts manipulated. they will shape you into who they need you to be. rather than who you were. a version that fits neatly in between the mashed potatoes and wine glasses. your name merely floats briefly into conversation. soon everyone moves on. the dinner table roars on, knives and forks clattering, consuming your name whole.

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they will know your name. but not what you chased. not what consumed your being.

your anguished search for perfection.

you brush shoulders with perfection. catch their glistening eye across the room. you start looking for them. at first subtly. playfully even. but soon you scour every crowd desperately seeking them. every glance dissected. then. a wisp of hair. an eyelash. an ear. you see whispers of their presence. a flicker of them. enough to drive anyone insane. you seem to project those eyes onto everyone. and when you tear the illusion away. you tremble and leave.

you are already searching again, red stained hands hidden in your pockets. your lungs seizing as you sprint. your bones splintering underneath the weight of chasing that flicker. you feel perfection’s breath lingering on your back. their overwhelming perfume suffocating you. oppressing you.

will it matter to any of these faceless chatting people what it took? will they care about your bleeding fingers? your red eyes? the longing? the shrill banging?

the price of your success.

you may be talked about yes, but was it really worth it?

the pages flicker closed, untouched.

the final note fades.

silence.

all that’s left of you is the quiet.

your colourful soul once hung on that barren white wall. the wall is bare again. and no one remembers what was there.

no one seems to remember you at all.

this piece was inspired by my favourite movie of all time Whiplash

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eyes practically grazing their sockets from rolling so aggressively. groans and grumbles. lights flash. a few naïve eyes desperately glance at the board. ‘are we nearly there yet?’ a child squeaks, prompting a couple more groans and whispers from staring faces. a coin slot shaped wrinkle is starting to form between that large man’s eyebrows. a piercing screech erupts. the grating noise seems to be taking all the oxygen from that small baby’s lungs. more grumbles. the air is thick, reeking with resentment. an aggressive whisper of ‘shut up’. surprisingly, the baby takes no notice.

somehow, you also find yourself groaning and grumbling. noiselessly finding ways to show your contempt. you tap your foot on the shiny floor. scroll through the same photos. pick at your bleeding nails. pick. pick. pick.

anything to feel like you are doing something.

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you desperately grasp at the time which is slipping through your fingers like water. slippery. you try to scoop it up, but the more you try, the more it slips. the seconds those same itching fingers happily scrolled away just a couple of hours ago.

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hours that floated away.

and now those same hours feel like sharp fingernails clawing at your aching eyes.

you wish and wish. wish you had crossed off something from that endless to do list. vast empty boxes, begging for the lick of a pen.

regret - suffocating and bitter - tenses in your chest.

now you can’t do anything.

another thing for tomorrow.

is it any wonder we are like this?

conditioned to crave comfort.

devices upon devices. merely for convenience. efficiency. ‘saves you time!’ screams a marketing campaign blasted on the multitude of screens which seem to now accompany a walk down the road. ‘cut your morning routine in half!’ howls a product selling the time saved in glossy packaging. as if every moment is to be avoided. as if boredom is a sin.

‘you cannot live without this’ preaches an influencer practically begging you not to scroll. for those greedy little fingers to pause. type in a code. then swipe at that smooth screen. frictionless. effortless. like silk gliding over a blade. the soft blue light seduces you.

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consume. consume. consume.

then carry on scrolling.

corporations built on stealing our time.

like it’s a currency.

we have become the income. paying in hours, not coins.

they stand on the dead carcasses of those hours. lost.

a society built on progress. efficiency.

saving time.

and yet, it feels as if we waste more time than ever.

the lost time doesn’t screech in your ears, it murmurs.

you blink. 14 years gone. if you keep sliding your bleeding fingers along that smooth screen. so frictionless. effortless.

red blaring sirens echo in your empty skull. panic beats in your dull chest.

you simply will not live forever. and every hour lost, seduced away by that soft blue light. will not return.

we were simply never meant to go this fast.

in a world that shouts to rush, slow.

slow down.

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i know we all have things to do. i’m not saying start mindfully writing in your journal, creating a 10 step morning routine or even listening to the birdsong whilst your alarm shouts at you to leave for the 20th time. i’m not trying to sell you some vision of peace and contentment you saw in a 5 second self help reel.

i’m suggesting instead of gulping down cornflakes whilst watching a YouTube video. one hand scrolling. the tv blaring in the background.

turn it off. simply, quite easily just turn it off.

think.

just think. without all that background chatter that infiltrates your mind.

the gentle hum of your breath accompanying those thoughts.

sit.

long enough for time to stretch. instead of being bent, crunched, compressed.

you look around, the light looks different.

the soft blue light erased.

minutes pass.

the silence feels oppressive, strange. like a missing limb. but it softens.

and for the first time in a while, it feels as if you aren’t wasting any time.

and still, a child screeches

‘are we nearly there yet?’

no one answers. no groans or grumbles.

silence.

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as chubby flushed cheeks. blinding bright colours. small feet and instant friendships fade further into the distance. drifting in and out of focus like flickering candlelight on a summers evening. hovering just out of your frame of mind. the dull world which has crept into our lives rapidly feels suffocating. we seem to long for the lost years with ‘remember when…’ and ‘everything was better back then’. we seem to replicate the same words we groan at when an older relative gets the floor at a gathering.

even when we reflect on salty tears pouring down our younger faces, we often wish for these smaller more insufficient problems. something so troubling then. barely remembered or thought about now. raised voices. your glistening eyes boring into the floor. wiped away with the promise of friendship bracelets. or cake. or a fun new toy. seemingly erased.

if only the pain of those same tears could be wiped away so easily now. if only.

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you used to be carelessly happy. you used to be joyfully oblivious. the world seen through blurry droplets sprinting down the car window. our youthful minds deceived by the water. perfectly clear yet not. a distorted clear. that is how we view our childhood. the light of nostalgia blinding us to the shadows of that painting. obscuring our view. i often feel as if a suffocating air of nostalgia is gripped tightly over the past.

nostalgia. a reflection on cherished memories. happy recollection. deep longing for what once was. the word for nostalgia was formed from the greek word for homecoming ‘nostos’ and the word for pain ‘algos’. i think that sums the feeling up nicely.

people often say, ‘you are too young for nostalgia’ and yet i still ache for water fights on the road, barbeques in the garden, football in the playground. the times when slime and the newest craze captured our every thought. when not knowing your time tables was detrimental. i often face an overwhelming regret for every time i hungrily wished for another candle on my birthday cake. as now we face the silence of a looming exam hall, pressures upon pressures from every aspect of life, we face approaching adulthood, both terrified and confused. so we wish for those days. although it does nothing.

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nostalgia is incredibly powerful. it has an intoxicating way of clouding our judgement making us susceptible to the media and advertising. the journal of consumer research revealed that the feeling of nostalgia had the capacity to ‘weaken consumers’ grasp on their money’. the trick at play is an intense focus on the things we once consumed.

movies we watched. songs we listened to. books we read. toys we had.

why did it all seem brighter when we were younger?

the colours, experiences and life in general.

this is due to a phenomenon called rosy retrospection which is a cognitive bias where we tend to remember past experiences as more positive than they actually were. those salty tears not just wiped away by cake or fun toys. but also our memory. erasing these aspects of our past lives. in the human memory we prioritize ‘emotional peaks’ or key emotional events rather than the mundane day to day. rather than the bickering with siblings, long car rides and petty arguments with friends. we remember the joy of jumping in the lake, the pizza hitting our salty tongues and laughing with people we haven’t spoken to in forever. the emotional warmth of nostalgia activates dopamine and oxytocin reinforcing those positive memories.

as well of course the degrading of the lens in our eye, which becomes more yellowed with age creating duller colours which doesn’t help really does it ?

so really the question is :

was the past better, brighter and all things we think it is ?

no, and yes.

by Rene Wiley

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when you feel that air of nostalgia flowing over your face. i ask you this: would that innocent eyed little you be comforted by what you’ve achieved? would you’re younger self be proud of who you have become? would hopes of the life you live now be scribbled on letters to your future self?

that is what i urge you to ask yourself when you wake up bleary eyed in the morning. as well as bringing that childish joy you felt on christmas day into your everyday life.

you must remember, one day you will be feeling nostalgic and aching for this exact moment.

no matter whether you are a teenager, in your 20s or approaching your 40s. you will still long for a time when you could dance without aching knees, write a letter without being impacted by your developing arthritis, or simply keep up with all this technology. you might even wish to work as your impending retirement threatens never-ending boredom. or not.

this moment in time will soon become a memory.

so write an interesting story.

don’t let nostalgia be the death of you.

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