Tag Archives: teen writing

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

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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.

 

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

 

 

JARRED MEMORIES

Untitled designIf you could bottle up one memory into a jar so you could keep it forever, what would it be?

Some people might store an extravagant memory into a beautiful, stained glass jar- but only to look at and never to touch because it’s that precious. Maybe it’s their wedding day or their child’s first birthday or the first time they met the love of their life. They’d never open the jar, but if they did it would smell like rose perfume, chocolate cake , a crowded party. It’d sound like church bells, a birthday song, blaring music. Sometimes they’d wish they could open it but they know if they did, it would never be as special as the first time they lived it. Even so, they might long to feel the silk dress flowing down their body again, the smiles on their faces as their daughter blew out her candles, the vibrating of the floor beneath their feet. They’d store it in a place only they could see. Maybe on the bedside table? In their closet? They’d barely see the it throughout the day but if the light was right, they’d see the glint of the gleaming paint. They’d smile and remember and be grateful for this special, personal memory, only for themselves.

Or perhaps the jar would be wooden, rough on the edges. Not as polished as the first jar, but definitely more homely. Inside would be memories that are often overlooked-maybe not a monumental day but a special one no less. Walking home from a Christmas party with their friends, themselves at three years old, climbing a tree with their dad. Sitting on a rooftop building on new years eve that time they were sixteen. The jar’s opaque, so they can’t see what’s inside, but if they peered through the tiny hole near the bottom of it, they’d see snowflakes fluttering, their dads arms outstretched, red fireworks shooting across the sky. They’d remember laughing and spinning in circles, gloved hands entwined with another. They’d feel the trembling of their legs as they climbed that last branch, and the grip of their tiny fingers around bark. They’d remember looking out at the glittering city below and thinking how similar it looked to the sparks flying above them, and maybe they weren’t quite on top of the world but it sure felt like it. Sometimes they would twist the lid of the jar open slightly, just to get a better look. But they’d always make sure to screw it back on tight, so the memory could never escape.

 

#POSITIVITEA | #2

#POSITIVITEA

“You are the books you read, the films you watch, the music you listen to, the people you meet, the dreams you have, the conversations you engage in. You are what you take from these.

You are the sound of the ocean, the breath of fresh air, the brightest light and the darkest corner. You are a collective of every experience you have had in your life. You are every single second of every single day. So drown yourself in a sea of knowledge and existence. Let the words run through your veins and let the colours fill your mind until there is nothing left to do but explode. There are no wrong answers. Inspiration is everything. So sit back, relax, and take it all in. Now, go and create something.”

Jac Vanek

#POSITIVITEA | #1

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” Wake up everyday as if you’ve just nearly missed death. As if you literally almost had your life taken away from you right. this. second. You left the site of a bomb 5 seconds before it exploded or you jumped right out of the way right when a terrorist shot at you. Feel your heart exploding in your ears, your blood charging through your veins. Your head light as a speck of dust with dizziness. You are alive. You are alive. You are alive. And this is how you should embrace life.”

A friend

 

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EXHAUSTION

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|EXHAUSTION|

It’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. All you can think about lying on your couch is how sore your muscles feel from walking too much, or talking too much, saying too much. How your face can finally relax after hours upon hours of speaking, laughing and smiling all day.

“I’m tired” you think- and you are. Maybe that’s why all you want to do is fall into a slumber that lasts all winter. What are you tired of? Perhaps you’re tired of finally having the courage to raise your hand in class, only to have the teacher shut you down while the girl slouching at the back of the classroom snickers at your answer. Tired of trying in PE, because you know your feet stick out when you run and you’re breathless after 10 meters, let alone a kilometer and a half, and no matter how many times someone tells you, you never drop the bat after hitting the ball in T-ball. You’re sick of your friends mocking you and you telling them to stop but laughing at your insecurities is a drug and every time they take a hit laughter escapes their mouths like demons in a pit of fire.

Or maybe you’re tired because you haven’t slept in three days. Maybe the tiredness has just now hit you because you sat at your desk for hours last night. You found out that trying to breathe in information from your textbook like steam will never work because none of it sticks in your head, it just stays hazy in your brain like a layer of fog on a cold night. 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.