Tag Archives: creative writing

Raw

In the heat of the night at 1:40 in the morning, she lay defeated on top of her crinkled covers. It was autumn for other people, but where she lived it was always summer, and a sticky one at that. It was so God damn hot she could practically feel her vessels vasodilating underneath her skin. As she thought that to herself, she scoffed- the only time Year 10 Biology came in handy. Go figure. The night was darker than most, quieter. The trees outside her window were still, and if she hadn’t known for sure they were real she would’ve thought they were figures in an old oil painting. She couldn’t even hear the sound of crickets  like she usually could. With her unhelpfully heat emitting laptop resting on her sweaty thighs, she glared at a blank page and felt as empty as the screen she was looking at. Her eyes were starting to close. She had woken up early that morning but she wasn’t ready to go to sleep. Her racing mind kept her up; she thought of many things yet none of them were helping her create or write anything of use.

She sighed and thought of what her friends were probably doing. They were probably crammed in some crowded sticky club, grinding on guys and drinking shot after shot of vodka. She was glad she wasn’t there, yet she still felt the unmistakable thud in her stomach that was jealousy, loneliness. It wasn’t the type of jealousy that made her want to be with them, but she wished she was out there somewhere in the world. Anywhere but laying in her bed,beads of sweat forming on her back. She wanted to be making connections with people,  to have conversations at midnight over red and white checked tablecloths and mediocre diner food like in one of those teen fiction books. As these thoughts crept into her mind, she caught hold of herself. Don’t be stupid. Real life isn’t highlighted chapters of a novel, yet something inside her still held onto the hope that one day every desire her heart pondered upon would materialize.

She thought of when she had felt most alive, and she was an introvert but her most memorable moments sure as hell weren’t spent by herself. She longed to feel the wind in her hair and the salt in her face as she perched on a rope tyre, feeling as if she were in a snow globe and somehow being able to see the world curve at its corners like she did two years ago. She remembered her best friend swinging her, laughing, and automatically felt the same sad feeling nudge her. She was mundane, in a rut, wishing she had more to her than just the same old daily routines. Everyday she was blanketed with ambivalence; I want to stay at home, but I should go out with my friends. But who were her friends? She didn’t seem to have very many lately. So she stayed at home, lying on the sofa, her bed, the floor. She would blast her favourite songs from her speaker and get up to cut herself some fruit or down a glass of water, and she would feel happy. It was just times like this, when everyone was out living their lives and she was stuck here, that she wanted to scream and tear her hair out.

She constantly preached positivity, so why did she feel so low? She knew not to look too far in the future but at the moment that’s the only thing she clung onto like a little girl clutching the string of balloon, hoping that one day she would finally be able to stop existing and start living, like she knew she was supposed to. She didn’t know what she wanted in life, she just knew it wasn’t this.


Sorry about this depressing post guys! May delete it in the near future but I think it’d be good to look back on and kind of be able to understand how I felt and how things have changed. Thanks for reading.

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Young again

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Something I wrote at 7 pm, after a day at home doing nothing but studying. My thoughts on childhood:

Sometimes memories from my childhood trickle from my preconscious to the front of my mind, waving at me as if to say, “hey remember me?”

and I do, for my mind may be as large as the universe but I will never forget how I’ve always liked the smell of morning dew on freshly cut grass ever since I was a little girl, and how I opened the balcony door in my parents room on a Monday morning  just so I could smell it. I was too young to worry about what time it was, whether I’d be late for school. There were no “hurry up, you’re going to be late!”‘s and I didn’t sit down in front of my mirror, concealer in one hand and eyebrow pencil in the other, rushing my make-up as quickly as I possibly could. Instead, I opened the door quietly, so to not wake my parents, and padded my small feet down the stairs. Some things you just remember, and I will always remember finding comfort in the red candle on the Buddhist shrine table my grandma always lit as soon as she awoke. The flickering of scarlet on the walls in the dining room beckoned me downstairs, and I greeted my grandma before opening the front door of my house.

My garden was just a garden to the ordinary eye- grass and gravel and pebbles and stones- but to me it was a jungle. I remember running up and down through the trees and canopies. My dogs were lions and tigers and I was a brave adventurer, foraging for food and shelter, and when it finally got too hot and I got too sweaty, I would wave goodbye to the forest and make it back to the safety and comfort of my big home.

When I  was little I would spend hours reading, sprawled out on the sofa of my living room. I remember stealing my sister’s books about teenage romances and A-list celebrities that were much too mature for me, folding them so no one could see the cover. I’m going to die if anybody catches me reading this. When I got hungry or thirsty I would go to the kitchen, pile too much peanut butter messily on two pieces of white bread and smash it together so it was completely flat and there were imprints on the two slices. I found joy in licking the leftovers on the knife. I would scoop hot chocolate into a big white mug and fill it to the brim and balance my meal on the way back to the couch where I would get lost in the pages of my book once again.

My childhood mind was innocent- who’s wasn’t? I was gullible and impressionable, and when my auntie told me that the specks of glitter on my hand were messages from my guardian angels I believed it. To this day I will never know why every time I looked down at my tiny palms I saw silver and gold, but maybe one day I’ll find out. Even so, I painted girls with golden hair and halos above their heads, their wings widespread- an oath to my sparkle covered fingers.

This may be strange but I remember the first time I was allowed to shower on my own. I had just gotten back from a swimming lesson, my fingers wrinkly, hair drenched, school uniform sticking to the skin of my wet back. I don’t think I have felt excitement like I did that day, climbing clumsily into my parents bathtub and feeling the warm water on me, slathering shampoo into my scalp and floral scented soap onto my body. When I was out I blow-dried my hair for so long I’m surprised the strands didn’t burn off.

When I was three years old I cried in the middle of a shopping mall parking lot because my parents referred to me as a little girl, but I wasn’t, I wasn’t. I was a big girl, old enough to camp in the study room of my house with my cousin, just the two of us, to feast on noodles and steamed buns and chocolate milk. When we finally settled down to go to sleep in the dark of that rainy night, our imaginations betrayed us and we ran back up to our parents, shaking and afraid. We never tried it again. On Christmas we made up a dance to an old Hilary Duff cover of Last Christmas and performed it to our whole family, laughing the whole way.

I remember waking up in hotel rooms on family holidays and seeing the window still condensed from the rain the night before and sitting cross legged on the carpet, eating pancakes with butter but no maple syrup because I was a picky kid. I remember cuddling up in old bread and breakfasts, feeling the warmth of a nearby fire, watching Narnia on the old television and wanting so badly to try Turkish Delight that I could almost taste it on my tongue. I remember clutching a green toy dinosaur in my arms so I would never lose it.

When you’re little you want to grow up. You think of becoming an adult, cool and mature. I don’t think  I’ve ever met a little girl who’s never cried”I’m not a baby anymore!”. I’m seventeen now, nowhere near grown up, nowhere near independent. Yet I still know I’m in no rush to grow up. Time goes by too quickly and often I find myself clutching onto memories of the past, wishing I could relive them, wishing each second lasted longer. Because childhood was imagination, dreams, colorful crayons. Childhood was Mary Kate and Ashley movies at midnight and reruns of America’s next top model. Now I think of sluggish days spent at home and car rides to school, due dates and assignments. I think of girls and pettiness, boys with minds constantly in the gutter, university applications and swimming in the ever-flowing river of responsibilities, and can’t help but wish that I was young again.

 

 

Wednesday Mornings

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Wednesday mornings are missing your alarm and waking up in the living room, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. They’re soft blankets and mattresses, getting up with the strands of your hair escaping your braids. Going to the kitchen, you sleepily grab frozen bananas out of the freezer and toss them messily into the blender, then brace yourself for the whir of the blade. You glug down three white ceramic mugs of water, stomach growling. When the blender finally stops, you notice the sound of the rain hitting the streets right outside your kitchen door. With all the noise, you didn’t realize it was pouring. No wonder the skies are as dark as night at seven a.m. The streetlights shine down on the pavement, twinkling yellow against the navy sky. They illuminate the morning dew on the lush green leaves, the red bricks of the houses surrounding you.

Wednesday mornings are eating banana ice cream and frozen apple chunks in the back seat of your car, flipping through the pages of your Psychology book because you have a test in twenty minutes that you crammed for at the last minute. There’s traffic on a one way road and you’re late, you were supposed to be in the exam hall five minutes ago. Wednesday morning, and you’re repeating a prayer inside your head over and over again even though you aren’t religious, praying you can make it on time.

Wednesday mornings are slow, a middle-of-the-week ease. They’re steaming decaf Americanos because you’re trying not to get addicted to caffeine, two hour lunches with beautiful girls, superfood salads, ciabatta bread. They are moon pendants on a black string, rose quartz crystals in your bag. You keep in there all day, feeling it radiate love, compassion, happiness.

Nothing I write makes sense, this was literally just a description of my morning today, I don’t know why I decided to generalize it to all wednesday mornings. Literally no one else’s morning goes like this, hahahahaha

The World is Magic | Repost

10518054_640781076018576_2004304497_n1.jpgMagic is everywhere.

It’s in the postcards covering the walls of my room, with their blu-tacked corners and their torn edges and their faded pictures. It’s in the scrawled writing on the back and in all the swirled i’s and y’s. I’ve always wondered the journey of my postcards, how they got to me. They’ve seen more of the world than I have, even through dirty white envelopes with my name scrawled on the front that eventually found their way to the trash. It’s magic in the form of ink stains and smudged black pen and the masking tape attempting to hold it to the wall. Lots of love, you wonderful person.

Magic is in the polaroids stashed at the bottom of my memory box, the photos I only got one chance to take. It’s in the outstretched hands and the city lights behind me, captured perfectly in the 3 by 4 inch shiny piece of paper. I’ve written the date of when the picture was taken at the small white space at the bottom, but that is unnecessary. I’ll always remember the day I took them.

Magic is in the arena of a concert, sprinting to the front row and knowing all the words to every single song. It’s in the drums, the guitar, the bass, the microphones. It’s in dancing non-stop until my legs hurt and singing out of tune until my throat is raw and I’ve lost my voice completely. The moments before they appear on stage, magic flows through my blood, pumps through my heart, runs through my veins. Magic’s in my fingers and my palms as they hold my best friend’s. It’s even in the annoying people that push past me, desperate to get closer, the “we love you”signs that block my view. Magic is everyone’s heartbeats, the feeling of being alive. Magic is losing yourself in it all, not overthinking, not stressing, just living in the present moment.

Magic is in the smooth purple stone I won at a lucky draw when I was five in a secret fairy store with low ceilings and purple walls. The room smelt like jasmine and roses and lavender all at once, and I remember breathing it in as I reached inside the newspaper covered box. Magic was unwrapping the crinkly paper and seeing the indigo glimmering beneath it, it was in clasping the stone to my chest and placing it on the top shelf of my bedroom. I’ve lost the stone now but I’m sure the magic’s still in it, holding onto innocence and excitement and that cold winter day.

Magic’s in old photo albums and last-minute english essays and Enid Blyton books.  It’s in the water at the bottom of the pool that swirls around you, the rush you hear in your ears as you touch the swimming pool floor. It’s in your baby cousin’s tiny fingers as they grab onto yours. It’s in your favourite adventures and your worst memories. Magic is in everything, if you just allow yourself to see it.

What’s magic to you? Leave a comment, I’d love love love to read them❤ sorry for this being an extremely messy, not focused post. Its 2:38 in the morning, and I’m sleepy

The Bloggers Story Award

So I was nominated by one of my favourite new bloggers, themessylifestyleaus (I love her blog so so much. Everyone check it out to feel inspired and happy) to do this tag, so naturally I’m so excited to do it!!

The rules are:

  • Thank the person who nominated you.
  • Showcase the award photo.
  • Answer the questions.
  • Nominate 3+ bloggers.

 

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1) What is your blog name and why did you choose that name?

My blog name is “anunwoundmind”. I was sitting there with so much want and need to write anything and everything I could think of that popped up in my mind. I tried to picture it as if my mind was literally spilling my thoughts and thought of an unwound cord of an old telephone. So after a few minutes wondering whether it was lame and sounded like a twelve year old named it, I decided not to care.

2) How long have you been blogging for?

Since November 2015. I went really hardcore, putting a post up every single day. Then, I lost interest and didn’t post for months and months. Recently, I’ve gotten back into the swing of things, posting when I have new ideas. So in reality, 9 months, but I only really count 1 or 2.

3) How many followers do you have?

Currently I have 27. Practically famous.

4) Who was your first follower?

I actually don’t remember! I wish I could though.

5) What got you into blogging?

Basically I had six months off of school and was practically rotting in my grave. I was at home every single day and felt so useless and uninspired. One day I randomly wrote a short narrative called “exhaustion”  but had nothing to do with it. It was just sitting on my microsoft word- so I started this blog, posted it and continued to write other short description type posts.

6) Whats your favourite part about blogging?

My favourite part about blogging, although I’m not an expert, is just being able to have an outlet to post whatever thoughts are in my mind. I also love that I get great feedback from different and wonderful people.

7) If you could change anything about WordPress, what would it be?

I wish it was easier to find things you were interested in. Like a more updated recommended page or an explore page like Instagram would be great!

8) Why do you continue to blog?

I need somewhere to be creative.

I nominate:

Monkeywisdomblog

Just a blank space

Sorry, I’ve just got for two for now. I also nominate anyone who wants to do it, it’s great getting to know all of you.

 

Sunrises and Sunsets

Wrote this in my journal in 5 minutes cuddled up on my sofa around two nights ago.

12:19 am

Sunrises are yellow, pinks and oranges. Sunrises are lying on the couch with a blanket, looking out at the window at the world waking up, rubbing its eyes. Sunrises are stunned, still silences and sluggish movements and everything in slow motion. They’re all nighters and tired eyes, flipping to the last page of a book you started at 8pm. Or maybe its the first page of a book- new and shiny, unwrinkled, untouched. Sunrises are deep breaths and unshaken dreams- the smooth side of a crystal.

Sunsets are purples, blues and reds. They’re the ocean crashing into the shore, wishes on eyelashes. They are burnt candles, dancing as you place the lid on top of them, the last waft of smoke that drifts up above you. They’re late night plans and phone calls. Sunsets are the flicker of street lamps turning on, cars rolling into their houses, tails of dogs wagging. They are bright lights in the city, flashing goodnight.


Yeah, doesn’t really make much sense but that’s the outcome of 12 am writing!

 

Why I Started this Blog.

Untitled designI haven’t been taking part in the ultimate blogging challenge, but I decided to do day 3 of it, hope that is okay.

So day 3 is why you started your blog.

I started mine in November 2015. I had six months off of school, had just gotten “fired” from my first job ever and was so bored with my life. I felt like I had no purpose, I felt that I wasn’t putting my creativity anywhere and everything was just kind of stagnant. Day in day out would be spent on youtube, twitter, instagram, mindlessly scrolling and clicking on literally any youtube video that would keep me from becoming so bored that I could tear my hair out. I’ve always loved writing and I had stumbled across a tumblr account which wrote beautiful pieces. I decided that it was time to put MY free time into something that wasn’t completely meaningless. So I started this blog. I haven’t come very far- I don’t write this blog for the views or for the reads, just for myself. When I feel inspired I write something and put it on here. That may be often or very occasionally.

I remember how it felt to be completely stuck in what felt like an endless rut, in fact recently I’ve fallen back into the rut. So my first post on my blog was a short “story” about how I felt about the time whilst I was in school and kind of how I felt at the moment. It was before I had found veganism and I felt disgusting and tired and sluggish. Sometimes when I feel stuck, I read through this blog and manage to inspire myself again.

Here is an extract, and other pieces of my favourite parts in my first post.

November 16, 2015.

Exhaustion

t’s 4pm, and the weight of the world has knocked you off your feet and onto the plushy comfort of your living room couch. The drive back is a blur. All you remember is “school was fine” and nibbling half-heartedly on a meatball sub, the sandwich wrapping crinkling beneath your fingers. Lying down on the back seat of the car, head on one side, feet on the other. Toes resting on the window. All you remember is the feeling of the road beneath you, the gentle vibrations the car made as it turned bends and twisted around roundabouts. The feeling of your eyes, as laden as the responsibilities sitting on your shoulders. Shoulders, so heavy. So heavy you’re almost certain there’s someone, something sitting on them, pressing down on you so hard it hurts.

…..

The tiredness has not only hit you now but yesterday, when you felt dizzy in class and your eyes were wandering and your mind was drifting and your teacher made you stay back for not paying attention. The tiredness was there then, and it was there when you sat under fluorescent lights at 8 in the morning, head in the palms of your hands. Sweater wrapped around you like a blanket. Tiredness was there then.

It’s here now.

So you lie on the couch, brain fuzzy, and dread the moment you have to get up and get back to the reality of all nighters and 6ams, cold pizza for lunch and pencil lead tainting your hands.

Since I’ve started my blog I’ve gotten through half a year of school, discovered veganism and other things about myself. I’ve also applied for a major in creative writing in University. I hope all goes well, and I hope everything is well with you. Thank you so much for reading and hope you enjoyed this post.

 

TRAVELLING

DAPPER ESSENTIALS

I want to travel.

Not just for the new places but for the act of it all, because nothing is more exciting than stepping on a plane and knowing in a few hours I’ll be somewhere new. Because watching the sunset from above is probably where I’ll get the best view, and someone far below is looking up and watching it too, looking at the silouhette of a plane fly by.

Because sitting shotgun in the front seat of a car with the windows open blasting my favorite songs and singing along at the top of my lungs will never get old, and I’ll do this until the sky turns hazy and the streetlamps flicker on. And the songs I’m singing? Well, I’ll listen to them in twenty years and think of the wind in my hair and my shirt fluttering in the evening breeze.

I want to travel for the smell of new air because no two places smell exactly the same.

I want to travel to learn a new language and say common words and phrases over and over again until I say it to a local who lives there who smiles and understands and thinks of what a tourist I am.

I want to go to new restaurants and watch people order “the usual, please” but its not the usual for me because it’s my first time there. I’ll order their usual anyway, because it must be good if they’re having it every day.

I want to visit the landmarks and take the same cheesy pictures everyone else is taking. I want to go to museums and look at the art and pretend to read the plaques on the way, just so I seem at least a little educational. I want to get lost and get annoyed with everyone around me, because that’s what I’ll remember when I’m old and someone says “remember when we had no idea where we were going?“

I want to travel for it all, for the road trips and the plane rides and the sights and smells and sounds. For every new experience, and every memory, good or bad, made along the way.

You are

 

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You are not your grades,

the bank notes you have stuffed in your wallet

You are not the length of your hair,

the size of your waist,

your height,

the colour of your skin,

even your reflection in the mirror

You are

the powdered sugar in the cake you last baked,

that dissolved on the tip of your tongue,

the seashell you found at the beach when you were a kid,

the one you pressed to your ear for days,

you are the sound of the ocean you heard within it,

the crashing of the waves against the shore,

you are the flutter of the wind in the trees,

in your hair,

on your cheeks,

you are the glitter that fell from the sky on New Years Eve,

you are iridescent

you are

the golden star you stuck on the top of your page in kindergarten,

your tongue sticking out in concentration as you got it

just

right,

perfectly straight, you are

the doodles of black ink you drew on your wrist when you were fourteen,

of stars, planets, the sun and moon,

on each and every finger until no skin was left, just orbits

you are the sun and moon,

the rays that hit your skin on the last days of summer,

the glow that you gaze up at in the hours of midnight,

wondering how you got here,

how anything is real,

you are

the song that you dance to in your room when nobody’s watching,

the smile in your voice at your last concert,

the glimmer of glow sticks in the crowd,

or the saxophone in the background of your favourite disney song,

what you listen to when you’re happy, sad

or anything in between.

you are the fort you crawl under when you’re cold,

blanketed by white, protected,

warm,

you are waking up on a sunday morning,

the light that simmers through the curtains,

or the dust that floats in it,

you are the twinkles twirled around the Christmas tree,

the monkey bars you sat on top of with your best friend,

or the grip of her hand n yours,

the rope swing that stretched out over the sea,

the wind in the air when you swung,

Or maybe you’re

the disappointment in your mum’s voice when you come home too late, or

the lurch in your stomach when you’re speaking in public,

the stutter in your voice,

the weights on your eyelids

when you’ve gotten no sleep,

the feeling you get when you haven’t left the house in five days,

sluggish, slow, stagnant,

maybe you’re

everything at once,

everything you know,

everything you believe

everything you dream,

and all the magic that’s in it.

 

THIS DOESNT EVEN MaKE SENSE BUT I HAVE NEGLECTED THIS BLOG FOR SO LONG AND I WAS LISTENING TO OLD DISNEY SONGS AND I FELT SAD AND I FELT LIKE I WANTED TO WRITE THIS AND I WROTE IT IN TEN MINS SO HOPE YOU ENJOY ❤ MWAH

 

 

INNER BEAUTY

inn.PNGHave you ever met someone who is your definition of physically attractive? Tall, brown hair, tan, slender. Petite, Blonde, blue eyes. Not too tall, not too short, dark hair, dark skin. Smooth porcelain doll faces, curvy hourglass figures, button noses. Whatever you  think “attractive”is. I bet all of us have- and have instantly thought- “wow, I want to look like her”, “I wish I was her”, “why can’t I look like that”? Then have you ever spoken to the person and realized that her words, her morals, her dignity didn’t match her beauty at all?

The most physically beautiful person in the world can have a heart made of steel- or have no heart at all. Her hair may be the only thing about her that is shining and her face may be sweet, but that can hardly make up for the sourness that is her soul and the bitterness that is her mind.

It works the other way round too. Perhaps, some people aren’t the definition of “physically attractive” to you. Maybe they have spots where they aren’t supposed to, maybe their ears stick out or their eyes are always tired or their pants are too tight too loose too long too short. Maybe they don’t style their hair the way you prefer. But the moment they enter the room, everyone lights up one by one like the bulbs on a string of christmas lights. The way they speak, the way they carry themselves, can make even the harshest of people listen. You’ve seen them secretly drop 5 dollars in a homeless man’s plastic cup even when you know they refuse to spend 2 dollars on a drink for themselves. They pick up other people’s trash. They carry kindness, love, compassion, intelligence, confidence all in their tiny hands, so much so that you think it’s going to overflow and pour right onto the ground. Somehow, it never spills.  They wear their hearts on their sleeves and allow other people to touch it. They are always inspiring, always teaching, always learning, always growing. They are the truest versions of themselves, show no desperation to be anyone else, to follow anyone else. They are beautifully gregarious, sweet and loving- but if you were to ever tell them that they would get flustered and their cheeks would flush redder than a cherry and they would brush it off their shoulder as if there was a fruit fly with a “no, that’s not true”.

Now this person may not be the most physically beautiful person in the world. But no one views them otherwise, because they are shining stars, no, shooting stars- more special than just any old cluster of dust and ice. They are unique not because of the way they look but the way they are.

Physical beauty is NOT what is important. It is what comes from within. It is the person inside you that wants to do good, wants to help. The person that makes you strive harder, the person that has sympathy and empathy and knows when to speak and knows when it’s too much. It’s when you look at other girls you look up to and think “that’s great, that inspires me” instead of letting the jealousy get the best of you. It’s the part of you that glitters when you do something you love, that bubbles when you’re excited. Let this part of you show. Don’t hold it in. Because anyone can be physically attractive, but it takes a real person to be beautiful from the inside and out.