Tag Archives: inspiration

The Story of Us

1:40 am

You were only slightly more than a stranger to me- someone I occasionally glanced at in the hallways, a smile on the way to my next class. Although you had never formally introduced yourself, I only knew of you by name. I had heard it in passing, nothing more than empty gossip- what had you done this time? You broke it off with her after she had given you the only thing you were after her for? The longest amount of time I had spent with you was with a large group of friends at a dodgy bar near school, but we hadn’t talked. All I remember about you that day was the wisps of smoke surrounding us, and the lack of enthusiasm in your voice when I asked you if you did it often.

I still liked to smile at you. Your smile was sunshine to me. You know those clichés you hear in every pathetic romance novel? That was how I felt when I saw you smile. It was like sinking into a hot tub on a cold day- the feeling of being enveloped with warmth, a cacoon of comfort and safety. I liked the way your cheeks would turn slightly red when you smiled at me. You looked like a flushed little boy who had been out in the sun for too long. Soon, I realized that I looked forward to seeing that smile every day.

I remember what I was wearing the first time you talked to me, how I did my hair- black and white, a skirt speckled with hearts, hair tossed messily over one shoulder. I was studying on the table to the right, slightly behind the rest. I usually studied here alone. I remember seeing you approaching, and I smiled at you. I waited for the smile back, the rays of sun, the gold-infused warmth to flood over me. Instead, you slid into the chair on my right. I had always preferred being on the right of other people, but I didn’t tell you to move. Perhaps that moment, although it sounds stupid, should’ve told me that you were not made for me. I remember our conversation flowing as effortlessly as the waves in the deep sea. Okay, there were some awkward pauses, scattered eye contact, self-conscious giggles- but even waves tumble over one another sometimes. I remember putting lip gloss on the toilet after our first conversation. “That was weird,” I had said to my best friend. “I just talked to him for an hour.”

I could tell from that very first conversation that I was in trouble.

Our first conversation was the start of many. The table to the right, slightly behind the rest, was no longer was my study table, but ours. Every day we pretended to be surprised every time we saw each other, but I made sure I sat in that same spot every damn day, and you took the long way on the way to the bathroom just so you could feign a casual ‘bump’ into me. We messaged each other twenty four seven. I couldn’t listen to the bing of my phone without thinking of you. I stayed up typing to you, head under the covers, my thumbs tapping at speed time on the surface of my screen until the lazy sun peeking through the window told me that dawn was upon me. You continued to be my ocean, and I rode out the wave beneath me every time you talked to me, the wind roaring in my ears and brushing against my skin. I guess what I didn’t realize was that waves all have to crash at some point.

The first time I held your hand was a week before my finals. I was scribbling something about Sigmund Freud on a piece of paper when I felt your arm snake around me, carefully, slowly, like a viper within long grass approaching its prey. My heart was pounding against my chest and I hoped you couldn’t hear it. It was so innocent. I had never let a boy so close to me before. Your hand gently nudged my shoulder, pulled me closer towards you. Like a timid rabbit,  I made no eye-contact as I reached up ever-so-slightly to interlace my fingers with yours. Just like that, you had caught me.

I knew “are you still up for watching that movie?” was an invitation for me to kiss you, yet I could have never been fully prepared for that moment. I had always been afraid of the cold, and damn, was it cold- but I’m very certain that the goosebumps rising up on my skin wasn’t purely from the air-conditioning in the cinema. I was so scared. I had never done it before, and I didn’t know how to. It took me almost one hour to pep talk myself into it.  You started off rubbing your thumb against mine, then it moved to my shoulder. Every touch had electricity surging through my body. The moment your thumb moved to my lip was the moment I decided to do it. Come on. What’s there to lose? So I lifted my head from your shoulder, turned it to the left. 10 degrees. That was it, and I was kissing you, and it was twenty seconds of too much tongue and teeth crashing and our noses bumping. I pulled away. No more for you that night.

Once I had learnt how to do it, you kissed me everywhere- on the escalators in busy shopping malls, standing one step below me. You kissed me on the railing of the closed playground, mumbling that you didn’t care that there was a security guard watching us. You kissed me in multiple cinema seats, even in the scariest most climatic part of the movies. You kissed me in stairways, the pavement outside my house, the backseat of your car. The backseat of your car was your favourite. You would play your favourite playlist, then pull me into you. Then, after five minutes, when cuddling got too boring for you, you would slowly tilt my head towards yours. One time we hung up your sweaty football kit in front of your windows so no one could see inside, and kissed for so long your playlist had started to repeat. You pulled me on top of you and kissed my neck. Your hands were all over me that night.

I remember when you gradually started talking to me less. I was confused- you showed all the right signs of wanting me when I was with you- thumb always stroking my hip, arm always around me- you were physically close, yet you were so, so far. What used to be “I miss you” and “I wish I could hold you” and “I like you so, so much” turned into half-assed messages at midnight, “sorry, I was with my friends”. I started to attach myself to you. I knew I was I was suffocating you but sometimes being in the ocean made it hard for me to breathe. The more I clung on, the more I felt you slipping through my fingers.

I remember the first time you made me cry. The tears had slipped from my eyes to my white pillowcase, forming a small, circular patch of grey that gradually grew bigger and bigger. I remember thinking to myself that I had never cried over a guy before.

I remember the first time you didn’t speak to me for a day. I waited and waited for the bing! of my phone, one I had heard so many times before. One I had smiled at so many times before. It didn’t come. I went to sleep for the first time without a goodnight message from you.

I remember when you told me the reason why you were so distant was because you had some problems of your own. You felt useless, like you didn’t deserve to live. I had cried over you plenty of times by then, and as you told me this the familiar feeling of a tear slipping down my face repeated itself once again. I knew I couldn’t fix you, no matter how hard I tried. Everything will be okay. I’m always here for you.

“Do you think it would be better if we were friends for the moment?”

“Yeah, I think it would. I’m sorry, things are just really busy right now.”

“It’s okay, I’m always here for you.”

“Me too. Whenever you need me.”

I remember crying myself to sleep every night for three weeks on end. I remember watching you slowly fade away. I remember feeling like I was the only one who cared.

“So, why aren’t you two together anymore?”

“I just couldn’t deal with her anymore.”

How painful it was, to hear that. How mortifying it was to have defended you to everyone, thinking you were different. .

“Are you over me?”

“Yeah, I am.”

Humiliation. Absolute humiliation.

I remember how you made me feel. Ambivalence- happiness and sadness all at once. We were both waves but we just never rolled in at the same time. I tell myself I don’t need you, and that I don’t miss you. But I do, every single day.  I remember how you feel against me, how you smell, even how you drive with only one hand on the wheel. remember it all. I just hope that one day I am able to say that I remember the day I got over you.

3:22 am.

 

 

 

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!

 

Journal Entry: Things I’ve learned about myself.

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Recently I started a journal and I read a journal prompt online that said: What have you learned about yourself today? The past month? Year? I decided to do it, and just write without really thinking. So, this entry has no direction and it’s just a mess of thoughts and random things that came into my head. I’ve put in some pictures of my journal here so you can get an idea of what it was like.

18/08/16. 10pm

Journal Prompt: What have you learned about yourself today? The past month? Year?

I’ve learned that I am empathetic. Towards people, animals, all living beings. I am kind. I care about people’s feelings. I’ve learned that I love to compliment people, but that my compliments are very shallow and I need to dig deeper. I’ve learned that I am gullible and trust things too easily. I open up to people I barely know and have hardly any secrets. I’ve learned that I embody Patricia (my best friend) more than I’ve realized. I talk a lot or not at all. I get frustrated easily and argue when it isn’t necessary. I stress too much about tiny things. I’ve learned that I believe in energy in the universe and the law of attraction. I’ve realized that when something bad happens to me my brain automatically goes: “this is happening for a REASON”. I like that about myself. I’ve learned that I love being alone. I prefer being alone rather than with people I don’t click with. I’m shallow but deep at the same time. Trivial things matter to me too much. I enjoy exercise when it’s fun. I love taking body combat and body pump and sweating my heart out. I love to write. I am not good at conversation with people I hardly know. I complain too much and would love to change that about myself.

I love big T shirts tied in knots. I cringe at myself a lot. I don’t know what my idea of a good time is but it doesn’t match everyone else’s. I love reading Psychological thrillers. I am content being at home. I am sensitive to other people’s words and opinions on me. I take things personally. I like to prove people wrong. I am hardworking and I like to achieve. I love the sun and open the windows as much as at every opportunity I get. I like not having a phone sometimes. I want to grow. I live in cognitive dissonance a lot. I act more superficial than I feel. I’ve learned nothing makes me happier than being at a good concert. I hate gossiping about people. I hate talking ABOUT people in general. I don’t have many friends but that’s ok. I have yet to find my true passion. I am addicted to sweet potatoes. I hate waiting for people. I like hanging out with different people. I find it hard to be blunt. I hate spending money but I spend it all on genmaicha tea

And that’s where I stopped. I honestly could have gone on for PAGES and PAGES but I didn’t want to waste space in my journal. I hope you didn’t cringe at this journal entry as much as I did. I honestly don’t know why the hell I get so deep and dramatic when I start writing, if you saw me in person, this is not what you would expect from me. Anyway!! This was great and I enjoyed writing it so much. Tell me if you enjoy reading these posts or if they’re a little weird and personal and too much. I’d appreciate your honesty. Nevertheless, all of you should try this journal prompt (write it down though, as things come easier when you’re writing rather than when you’re typing). You’ll realize you’ve learned a lot more about yourself than you know:)

 

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