A Melancholy Post

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I believe I am a fount of undeveloped potential. I believe my books, if read by the right person, might be scintillating enough to be published, and perhaps even made into films. But, so far, nothing has happened.

Enough about me. What about you? I hope you are having a wonderful time in life, I really do. I’m not one of those people who are bitter and upset if other people’s lives are going well—as one of God’s children, I rarely feel any jealousy when others are happy, and I am not. I hope you are in good health, and doing what you love, and enjoying life to its fullest. I hope you have good family and friends, or spouses and children, and that they are well, too. And I sincerely hope you’re not an unemployed, depressed starving artist who is seriously starting to re-think her dreams of becoming a writer, because they look to be as likely to happen as her becoming an astronaut tomorrow.

I went and saw a movie today. The funny thing is, whenever I am in the middle of watching a movie, for a brief moment, my depression lifts, and I am transported somewhere else. The movie, in case you were wondering, was “Black Panther”, and it was a marvellous film, though not exactly the kind of thing I would usually watch. There was far too much violence in it for me, though I did like the fact that the cast was nearly all African-American, which is unusual. If only they’d make more movies with other minority groups, like Asian-Americans (I am Asian myself, in case you were wondering.)

What else is there to talk about? Lots of things. Money is tight. Extremely tight. Tight enough that I am quite stressed, and biting my nails at night a little bit about it. I’m always afraid to eat out, and worried I spent too much—since I went out with a friend today, and watched a film, I spent around $20, which is over the daily limit that I get from Centrelink each week. I am searching for a job—in fact, right this very moment, I am about to start work experience for my Certificate III in Age Care. I will be working with the elderly, tending to their showering and other daily needs. While it is not the most glamorous job, at the very least it will pay some of the bills. And the hourly rate is around $20, so if I work full-time, which I do not plan on doing so, because of my mental illness, and part-time instead, I could easily earn $300 a week, and help my mother out with the bills.

Shattered dreams. Shattered hopes. It feels as though I’m some kind of grey sludge, crawling from one day to the next, leaving a trail of misery behind me like a big, fat snail. I want to be a writer so badly, it hurts; I want my books shown to the world so badly, when I think about it, I can’t breathe. It’s more than just a passion, or hobby, or a calling: writing, for me, is something that is intertwined with my soul, and the thought of never being successful at it, sometimes, is more than I can bear.

Moments at night, or when you are alone, are the worst. Have you ever been miserable about something, for an extended period of time, and then woken up in the middle of the night, alone in that darkness? Is it not the worst feeling it is possible for a human to experience, almost? Alone, in a galaxy. In the middle of the ocean. That’s what it feels like. As if everyone else is happily going on with their lives, having calm and blissful dreams, while you suffer, and suffer, alone in the dark depths.

I don’t know how I get through the day, and if you are going through something terrible, I don’t know how you get through the day, either. Every single second of existence feels painful, like it’s being dragged across my skin. Change your dreams. Give it up. Forget about becoming a writer. My mother tells me these things, but I don’t listen. I can’t. Writing is something I fell in love with at first sight, and, just like falling in love with a person, it’s impossible for me to stop now. I was fated and doomed the moment I picked up a book, and then picked up a pen to write my own stories. Isn’t that how things usually start? With a look, a glance—and then, you are gone.

Excuse-me for writing such a melancholy post. I’m sure your life is doing much better, and you do not need this little bit of melancholia in your life. Still, I am going to post it, because it is an accurate representation of how the world seems to me at the moment: dark, and depressing. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to find a way out of it. Success is sweet, they say, but failure isn’t bitter, it’s downright poisonous.

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On Peasants and Princesses

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It is hard to live in a world filled the princes and princesses, when half the time you feel like the most ugliest, poorest peasant that has ever existed.

I don’t know quite how to put it into words, but in this world, to me, there seems to be a line dividing people: those who sparkle, with hidden talents, which are revealed to the world, and those who don’t, and who live quiet, ordinary lives.

Most people, the ones who do not sparkle, are quite satisfied with their quiet, ordinary lives. They go to work, they go out with friends. They have fun, they go on holidays. Everything, in their lives, apart from the small setback here and there, is relatively smooth and predictable, and they are, if not happy, at least quite content.

Then there are the other kind. The kind who dream of sparkling, of shining as bright as their sun—or at least having their talent or work do so—but feel as though it is always out of reach, this ability to shine and glimmer. It is rather like the misery of a peasant, who yearns to be a prince or princess, but knows they can never be one.

I feel that way, sometimes. Perhaps it’s greedy of me, to want my books to be read by many people, for them to be published and adored; but it’s the truth, I do want that. I don’t want any fame for myself—just my books, my stories. But I think I’m going to be that princess that stays locked up in her tower, whose prince never comes. I’m sure that princess, if she ever exists, eventually, as she grows older, and wrinkled, becomes bitter, and revengeful, and twists her own fairytale into something dark and menacing.

I hope that never happens to me. I hope I never become sour and bitter, because my dreams never came true. Because my vision, of being a princess, instead of a peasant, never came to fruition. I would never want to be that kind of person. Never. The truth is, apart from getting my books published, I have hardly ever thought about what else I have wanted from life: money, maybe, or holidays, or anything else that other people yearn for, fame and fortune, a bedazzled life. None of those things have held any lustre for me. Only books, and writing, and getting my words out there, into the world. And now, I am afraid I shall have to be resigned to be a peasant, just like the millions all over the world whose dreams never came true.

Nobody ever told me this, that things would happen this way; all books and Disney films ever taught me was that, with enough hard work and determination, one can achieve whatever one wants. They should’ve told little boys and girls the harsh reality and truth: that sometimes dreams do not come true, the prince never comes, there is no rags and riches story, and, after a princess bites the poisoned apple, she dies, and is buried, underneath the ground, never to be heard from again.

A Teardrop of A Dreamer’s Sadness

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I’ve always had the feeling that I should—I don’t know, assert my significance in some way. Not in some egotistical, or grandiose fashion: I’ve just always thought, well, one day, I’ll be a writer, because I am good at it, and have plenty of creative ideas, and, sooner or later, I will get published.

Things haven’t happened like that. Not really. I know I am only twenty years old, but it feels as though I have already lived half my lifetime, with nothing to show for it. And now, as I send out another book, for the third time, to publishers, with little hope, even though I am very proud of the novel and would certainly read the children’s book—and heck, even buy it—myself, I don’t know if anyone, out there, in the world, will find it to be any good.

As a child, I didn’t ever dream of anything except becoming a writer, and now, older, and more grown-up, I’m starting to realise how difficult it really is to get into the industry. And as the days pass by, and I get no email, saying they (meaning the publishers) are interested in my book, and, knowing that I am already halfway to forty, towards a lifetime spent unpublished and unknown, makes me sink, slowly, into the depths of depression.

It is not fame or money that I am after, but literary recognition. I want someone to read my book, and love it—and not just one person, but lots of people. I want lots of people to see my imagination, splashed across the pages of a short, sweet novel. As a writer, I predominantly dabble in children’s books—and, if there’s an industry that’s hard to get into, it’s that one.

I can’t say I’m not a little depressed, as I send another message in a bottle out to the sea, and nothing comes back, no answer, no reply. I am left stranded on my island, alone, with only the seashells and the splash of the waves for company. I don’t think, in this lifetime, I could ever be properly happy without publishing something, by an actual publisher, no matter how small, or insignificant. Even if only one thousand people read it, I would be fine: as long as it’s a book, and it’s out there, I don’t think I’d have anything to complain about. It’s not about the fame, or the money—it’s about the little girl inside of me, with a head full of dreams and fantasies, yearning for them to be seen.

I hope you are having a better week than I am. I hope you are not lonely, that you are romantically involved with someone. It’s always nice to have something like that, someone by your side, a rock, a foundation. I also hope that you are making your way towards your dreams, or perhaps have achieved them already. In this rocky life, we each stand on our own islands, waiting for the messages in bottles we send out to come back to us. Some of us stand and wait for years, just for one reply—other islands are absolutely crowded with glass bottles, each with a missive tucked inside it. And others wait, alone on their islands, until the years grow low, and the sky goes dark, and there’s nothing left, except the sharks for company.

 

The Kind Of Man An INFP Wants

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I am interested in him.

No, not him. Not the tall, straight-backed, dashing one, with women flocking to him left-right-and-centre, who never needs to lift a finger to do or get anything in life. Not them, in suits, born with a silver spoon in their mouths.

No, it’s not him. Why, do you even know me? A party animal, someone dashingly handsome, who loves to get drunk and paw at women’s’ bodies, with such an alluring smile it is impossible not to fall under his spell? No. Even the party animals have an expiration date.

And why, on earth, do you think it would be him? The popular, yet geeky one? Clever, and well-liked, with good mannerisms. The kind of man mothers and fathers would be proud to see their daughter bring home. No, not him.

Not the artist, either. Not the indie type, on the road, doing drugs and smoking cigarettes, getting high on ideas and substances, with little more than five dollars in his pocket.

Not the ordinary work-a-day guy, the 9-5 clocker, with pleasingly good looks, and a routine, interspersed by holidays, that runs like clockwork.

And, for the love of all that is good, why on Earth do you think I would like him? He’s just—well, he’s lovely, darling, but he’s just so ordinary. Ordinary thoughts, inside an ordinary brain. Just listen to him laugh and talk. He makes me fall asleep.

No: what I am looking for, in a man, is a daydreamer.

Someone who is quiet and unassuming. Someone no-one else notices, except me.

Someone who writes. Someone who dreams. Someone who sketches. Someone who sings.

A man that sits by himself on a bench, lonely and lost, with a sketchpad in hand, smelling the flowers and glorying in the beauty of nature, secretly and alone.

A man who yearns for someone who is quirky and strange, who sees fairies wherever flowers are, and dreams of tasting stardust.

A man who wakes up in the middle of the night, lonely, lost and afraid, the future stretching before him like a great, big fathomless nothing, which, hopefully, I can bring a little light to.

A man who reads books, and watches films—but only the strange kinds, like Miyazaki’s movies, or Amelie, or Roald Dahl’s books. Surrealist fiction, surrealist art.

A man, really, who isn’t very romantic, strange, or special at all. He is special, and beautiful, and wondrous, because he feels so very out of place, all the time. He is not an ideal man, not at all; he doesn’t walk upon Parisian rooftops before dawn, to watch the pigeons fly off into the sunrise, or spend his days playing music on the streets and earning pennies. No, nothing so romantic as that.

He might be unemployed. He might be very depressed. He might very well be unconventionally good-looking, if you know what I mean: soft features, or strange ones, not ones people would quite call handsome.

But there is something special inside of him.

Something only I can see.

And that is the man I want.

Things That Make INFPs Gloomy

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A gloomy INFP is never a good thing. We sit around, in silence, our thoughts coloured by darkness, and nothing or no-one can drag us out of it. Frankly, it usually lasts for a minute or so, because the world is still full of marvellous and wonderful things, like books and films. For the sake of this list, I will exclude things like world disasters and animal cruelty, big things which are impossible to fix at the moment, and are unlikely to discontinue, simply because they are too obvious, and instead concentrate on everyday matters that are likely to, well, make an INFP rather glum.

1. Unimaginative people.
If you utter the words “Imagine if” and get someone who replies, “But that’s impossible,” then, my friends, you have met an unimaginative person, and there is no-one better to put a damper on an INFP’s day.

2. Bad food.
INFPs are very, very sensitive people, not just psychologically, but also physically, and if we are asked to eat something that doesn’t taste nice to us, it will make us very miserable, and most likely throw up (for instance, I don’t like celery, and nor do I like eating “old food”, like leftovers that are still edible but have gotten all soft and mixed together).

3. People who do not like cats, or find dogs are better.
Because they are wrong, and because cats are wonderful. Is there anything left to say?

4. Sunny weather.
This might seem strange to some people, but INFPs love everything grand and mysterious: which means rainy or cloudy weather is ideal. Since we are sensitive, sunny weather, especially if it is hot, is more likely to give us a headache than anything else.

5. Busy places. Including roads.
Busy streets, busy shopping centres, busy roads, busy festivals: INFPs do NOT like these sorts of places, and, unless they really need to go to them (and sometimes, you do; there is no choice), then we must grit our teeth and bear it, hoping perhaps the merchandise on display or the company we have will make up for it. Busy places just make us feel overwhelmed; we’d much rather stay at home, with a good book.

6. Bad energy.
An angry commuter that pushes you aside; some racist person who yells an expletive as they step off the bus: these sorts of things, while uncommon in civilised society, do still happen, and when they do, the negativity energy that radiates off these people is enough to make an INFP ill. INFPs will need to go home, and recover for a very, very long time.

7. Loud, obnoxious friends.
Sooner or later, an INFP will attract one of these people: someone who is completely self-centred, and always wants to talk about themselves, be it their own problems, their own looks, their dating life, their career, their work. INFPs become a dumping ground for all their problems, and are too shy to speak up or break off the relationship. Meeting up with these friends, while we may be smiling on the outside, more often than not makes us gloomy on the inside.

8. Not indulging in our creative passions.
Most INFPs are creative, and like to read, write or draw, or sing, or dance, or anything which involves an ounce of creativity, and if we are kept away from these activities for too long, we become gloomy and depressed, and feel as if the light has gone out of us.

9. When life stops being silly, strange and wonderful.
INFPs like to live in a neverending wonderland, where perhaps, just around the corner, we will meet our Prince Charming or Damsel in Distress, or step into a world where flowers talk and chess pieces show us the way. If we ever encounter something sobering enough to snap us out of this fairytale land we inhabit, then we become very withdrawn, and bored. Very, very gloomy.

 

Well, that’s it from me, folks. Let me know in the comments if there are any more you would like to add, and I wish you all a very un-gloomy next week.

To My Future Boyfriend ( A Song by a Dreamer)

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A love letter to my future boyfriend
Hope you’re all good and handsome
And kind as daisy
Hope we’ll reach our old years
And be fine

But, oh my future boyfriend
Will you ever understand
The depth of my emotion
In the palm of my hand

For I am an endless sea
In which you shall drown
Better stay away than
Leave a smile for a frown

‘Cause oh my future boyfriend
Do you know what you’re getting into
Really…?

I’m a mad girl
I’m a bad girl
Yes I can be crazy
As hell
I will do things to you
Which will make you go blue…
…in the face.

Oh my future (hu—I nearly say husband here in the song!) boyfriend
I will be ever so soft
Kind as the clouds are
As they pass on by

And I’ll write you songs
I’ll write you books
I’ll make up words
And give you shy looks

Oh my future boyfriend
Do you really know me?
I’m not an ordinary girl
And very hard to please
Because…

I’m a mad girl
I’m a bad girl
Yes I can be crazy
As hell
I will do things to you
Which will make you go blue…
…in the face.

I’m a mad girl
I’m a bad girl
Yes I can be crazy
As hell
I will do things to you…
…but you know I love you too.

Click HERE to listen to it, or click the link below:

https://vocaroo.com/i/s0IPSNY7aFPL

This song was inspired by country songs, and is only loosely based on myself: I don’t believe I am that crazy or mad (to a certain extent, yes), but, generally, it’s about a girl who is afraid of what her future boyfriend will truly think of her—which, I guess, we all are, in the end.

Updates On This INFP’s Life

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Well, there’s good news, and there’s bad news.

The bad news is—nothing! (Well, apart from world-wide suffering, deforestation and animal cruelty, of course). I just—sorry, was that a bad joke? Sorry. It’s just that, in movies and films, they always have that line, “bad news” and “good news”, and it’s like, well, I thought I’d just try it out for a change.

The good news is, I recently finished another book. This one, I will be sending into a publisher next week Thursday. After a couple more edits—just skim-overs—it’ll be done, and then, off it goes, to its new fate: maybe it’ll get accepted, maybe it won’t. Either way, at least I gave it a go, as Australians like to say.

It’s a book…well, to be honest, I can’t actually say anything about it without ruining everything. Let’s just say, there’s a train in it, and lots of magic. A magical train. And that is as far as I’ll go. Sorry. If it ever gets published—I am really proud of this one, so it has, I don’t know, maybe a 1% chance of actually getting accepted—then you’ll all find out what it is about!

I’m also turning the book I have posted on this blog into a full-fledged book. I don’t know what to do about the copy I already have on this blog though, because if the new book gets published, and someone—say, from the publishers—stumbles across this blog, and finds a similar piece of work on it, I might get in trouble for copyright, for copying myself! Anyway. That’s all stuff in the offing; I haven’t even got a single reply from a publisher yet, in my entire life.

There is bad news. The bad news is, despite being already in my twenties, I have never dated, or been on a date, or kissed a man, or even dabbled in anything close to a relationship.
Certainly, I am happy with the life I am living now, indulging in my passions part-time while working the rest of the time, but at night—and NOT for sexual reasons—I do get rather lonely, and feel it would be nice to cuddle up with someone. Preferably someone who is not my own mother. It’s just not the same.

I have considered online dating, but then, people tell me that’s a kettle of fish you have to be prepared to dip your toes into. You just never know who you might meet.

Let’s see. What else? Nothing, really. I have been sleeping an awful lot lately, since it is the long weekend here in Australia. It was Australia Day! A day to celebrate how wonderful it is to live in Australia, for all people. I do like Australia. It is my home, after all. Apart from the very rare racist person, in fact, it’s pretty excellent.

Well, that’s it from me. I am, for once, actually running out of things to say. In the past, many people have wronged me, or picked on me, and, as I live my life, and grow happier and more confident, I sometimes wish, with the taste of bitter regret in my mouth, that I had been as confident and sure as myself from the very beginning, instead of painfully shy and sensitive, and an easy target. Well, that’s really it. See you later.

PS: I sometimes get comments regarding music, and I would just like to say, just for the record, that Taylor Swift is practically all I ever listen to. As an INFP, her music resonates with me on a very deep, very great level, and I adore her, and ALL of her music.

“Immortal” A Song By A Dreamer

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Never you mind
Oh…oh…
I will always find
Oh…oh…
A better place to be
Oh…oh…
In my own heart

And we’re drivin under the sky
Taking our lives for a fly
You told me not to lose the beat
As we drove in the heat

I said we’re going to die
It’s not as if we’re immortal
He said don’t be shy
Let’s go make our own time portal

Chorus

And they said, Ah….
And they said, Ah….
‘Cause we’re so far
From our homes…
…tonight

We got our lives in such a twist
Not gonna lie to you
I guess we’re in quite the fix
Not even God can save you

And whether it’s heaven or hell
At least we have some fun
And let’s go ‘fore they ring the bell
And schooltime comes

Chorus x1

Bridge

Take me and go away
Far from this place
You and I will have such a blast
That the skies will
Collapse on us

Chorus x1

Listen to it, if you want, by clicking HERE Or the link below:

https://vocaroo.com/i/s0SOYv5yjG1v

An Example of Subtle Racism

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I encountered an example of subtle racism the other day.

It was not a nice experience. As many of you know, I am of Asian descent, specifically, Chinese, and am living in Australia. Let me tell you the story. For those of you who don’t know what it is like to experience racism, of any kind, in any place, then, perhaps this could be a slight eye-opener for you, in regards to the subtle aggression certain people have to experience, directed at them from only some people. Lots of people in Australia—I would go so far as to say nearly most, are very friendly, nice and tolerant of other cultures. After all, we are one of the most multi-cultural places on the planet, and have very good, very kind people in politics.

Now. Onto the incident. It took place in a bar, which also doubled as a hairdresser’s place. The moment I walked in, with a group of my friends, who were all Caucasian, or ‘white’ (I do not usually like to use this term), I knew something was wrong. For one thing, not only was the place totally NOT my scene, filled with men, and those drinking beer and waiting to get haircuts, but the owner of the shop, a bartender, greeted everyone who had entered, smiling at each one, EXCEPT for me. Now, this might seem like an accident, but I have encountered enough racism in my life to know it wasn’t. That was just the beginning.

While I was getting increasingly uncomfortable, feeling the sense of hostility in the air, my friend sat down with me, and plaed all of his bags next to the counter. He then went to get his haircut, asking me to look after his bags. The moment he did so, the bartender, the owner, specifically requested for him to look after the bags. He picked them up, and placed them behind the counter, for safe-keeping, after calling for my friend to get his hair cut, in the friendliest manner possible, without ever looking in my direction or acknowledging my existence.

Now that I didn’t even have the excuse of looking after the bags to stay at the bar, my anxiety skyrocketed. I sat and flicked through the iPads, avaiable for free, flicking through the news, waiting for my friend to finish getting his haircut, growing increasingly uncomfortable, and, to be honest, by this point, a little upset.

The worst was when I upped and left the store, before my friend had even finished his haircut. (By the way, my friend noticed the very un-Australian behaviour, and apologised on the bartender’s behalf afterwards). And then, while I was outside the store, I saw the bartender go over to the very seat I had been sitting on, and ADJUST it, a couple of times, as if, by sitting on it, I had made it unsanitary or uncomfortable for others to use. After seeing that, I felt as if the breath had been knocked out of me, I was so angry, and had to get some bubble tea to cool down.

Phew. That was quite the mouthful. You don’t realise how hurtful racism is, until you actually experience it for yourself, and many times, over the course of your life. It has affected me many times, including, in an incident very close to my heart, when my Caucasian counterparts won a writing competition I had a very good story for, and which even my English teacher told me I would probably win. When I read their stories, I found them to be good, but quite ordinary: my story was very good, probably exemplar, but the place, since the person judging it was one of the less kind teachers, had been given to a couple of (six, in fact) other people, none of whom were any race other than, well, ‘white’.

Not to be a bummer, but an incident like this can seriously ruin your mood for the week. I hope you are all having a marvellous week, and never have to experience what I did today, no matter which country you are in, though, unfortunately, this still happens on an everyday basis in a lot of places. I wish for more tolerance, and more hope. Not everyone is bad—most Australians are wonderful people. Take it from me, as someone who has lived here her entire life.