Tag Archives: writing

If it wasn’t love, what was it?

It wasn’t love.

I knew it wasnt love, because the silences between us should’ve flit the air as freely as the clear waters of a river heading downstream, comfortable even tumbling over rocks and rubble. Instead, they stood heavily amidst us like a house of bricks that never budged, no matter how hard we huffed and puffed.

I knew it wasn’t love, because shouldn’t we have always wished happiness upon each other?  Yet, you tied my heartstrings into knots, harsh and unforgiving, impossible to untangle. And every time you did, I found myself wishing more and more that the rope you had used would somehow lasso from my heart onto yours-so you could feel every single tug of pain exactly how I did.

I knew it wasn’t love, because although love is an endless game, I shouldn’t have constantly felt like the sore loser that desperately tried-and failed- to get to the top. Every wrong you imposed on me I would throw back at you as hard as I possibly could, wanting so badly to win just

for

once-

I knew that love wasn’t a competition of who could hurt each other more so why did I spend every moment of my time with you trying to scale my way up on the rankings?

I knew it wasn’t love. Every sign of affection you fed me I gobbled up like a starving coyote that finally caught a rabbit. I was a little girl, and your words were my favourite blanket- every compliment, every reassuring word that spilled out of your mouth I clung on to for dear life. I always hoped that these words would make up for the fact that you were not the one for me.

Love wasn’t supposed to be like this.

But if it wasn’t love, what was it?

If it wasn’t love, why does my heart still take flight at every mention of your name? Or maybe flight is the wrong word- it feels more like a plane getting hit by the turbulence of merciless winds. Surely having a tsunami within me, feeling the impact of tidal waves crash onto every single inch of my stomach isn’t normal?

If it wasn’t love, then why is every second of my day consumed with the thought of you? Washing the dishes- you. Eating breakfast- you, talking to my friends- you, sweepingthefloormakingcoffeeclosingmyeyestogotosleep-you, and waking up, my eyes still bleary from sleep and my brain just beginning to function properly-you.

If it wasn’t love, then why does every silver car that drives by make me think of the way that you sighed on the freeway as you took my hand and placed it in yours? Why do my insides become a twisting, turning roller coaster everytime the radio plays the stupid rap songs you listen to? Why does every single strand of hair on my skin rise when I think of your skin on mine?

If it wasn’t love, you moving on from me shouldn’t make my throat close up like there is something sitting inside it, blocking the airway and leaving me choking. The way you smile- shy and innocent, pure and harmless-should not hurt me the way it does now that I know that it is no longer me that you are smiling at.

It wasn’t love.

I know it wasn’t love.

But love was at a dead end

And I was on a one way street.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You

Sometimes I wonder what you’re doing,

how you’re doing

and if you ever think of me

and then I realize

you don’t care

you won’t care

you never cared

and I realize

the weight of the word “never”

in “I’d never do that to you”

was, to me,

a giant boulder

teetering on the edge of a rocky cliff

but as light as a feather to you

and it hurts

every part of me hurts

because I would’ve done anything,

said anything,

that would make you want me

as much as I wanted you

but you didn’t

you never did

and you never will.

 

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.

 

 

 

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.

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.

 

 

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:)