A Scented Candle Disaster: and on God

You Light Up My Life

Well, for Christmas, I bought my mother a scented candle. This was a bad idea. For instance, I never realised that, expensive as the candle was for me—$20, to be exact—it wouldn’t last very long, and in order to keep the woody wick going, I would have to keep scraping out the candle wax from around it.

This became a very messy operation, and I ended up with a lot of spare candle wax, scraped out of the original large candle. Which got me thinking: perhaps I could make some more little candles of my own, using the wax!

Yeah—that didn’t happen.

Instead, what happened was, I went to all the trouble of buying a little candle holder—$1.50, from the Dollar Store—and some twine, for the wick, from a store that sells fabrics and string and ribbons, which was $2.90, and, after much sweat, blood and tears, burning my finger on hot wax, and finally scraping together a good ol’ little candle, getting wax everywhere, stuck on clothes and the tips of my fingers, the wick itself didn’t even work: the twine just burnt up, even after being dipped in candle wax, and wilted. So, if I want to keep making tiny candles, I’ll have to buy actual wicks, from a shop, which means I’ll have to travel tomorrow to a place I have never been to, and walk for twenty minutes, probably getting lost, to a store, to buy candle wicks, so I can make tiny candles, and not waste candle wax, from an expensive I gave my mother for Christmas.

Stressed. Over what? I simply have an inability to not waste anything. It’s part of my frugality, and also part of my personality; and I have, in addition, a penchant for the crafts, and enjoy fiddling with and making things. However, this candle fiasco has scrambled my brain, and I feel awfully as if I am running in circles, wasting my time.

This entire incident, really, is a metaphor for my life. I don’t know how to quite explain it, but recently, ever since my writing has been going downhill (my mood generally tends to spin in whatever direction my writing’s mood is spinning in) I begin to get this feeling of general uneasiness about life, except it is more like an enormous ball of stress, like this whirling tornado of stress and anxiety twirling inside of me every second of every day, even as I am outwardly calm, smiling and happy-looking. I don’t know how quite else to explain it. It’s a tiny tornado inside of me; that is honestly the best explanation for it, and the only way to ease it, I believe, is not to search outside of yourself for comfort, but to seek something within: the core of the universe, what makes up animals and plants, and you—and that, in my vernacular, is God.

I haven’t been Christian for a very long time, but I have realised, for a long time now, that there is something behind everything in this world, some force, some energy. To this energy, which makes plants grow and the shine, the planets spin and twirl, fire and darkness and light, I have decided to call “God” or “Heavenly Father”. He has helped me, in many ways, throughout my life, mostly through aiding me in my writing when I get stuck, whispering words of comfort deep within my heart and being there, whenever I look out at the world, and sense His presence.

So. I guess the moral of this story is: tomorrow, I am going to go out, and try and find some candle wick. And if I succeed, I will be able to make my own tiny candles. And they will give light. Lots of light. And a nice scent. And that, my friends, will make the tiny tornado inside of me calm down a little, even if I don’t know why I should feel calm about that in the first place, which is, in turn, a metaphor for what God is in my life.

A metaphor inside a metaphor. Ah, the joys of my mind.


On Flaky Friends


I don’t know about you, but I’ve had my share of flaky friendships—by which I mean, friends who don’t really actually care about you, creating a one-side relationship where only one person—you—seems to be the one desperate for the relationship to continue, like some strange, clingy girlfriend or boyfriend.
I don’t know what is wrong with me. At least, for the longest time, because I was a lonely and sad young woman, I thought, perhaps, maybe having some friends around would cheer me up, and for a while, I kept up quite a few friendships. Slowly, though, for reasons very easy to understand, they dwindled off; friends would stop calling, or stop answering calls altogether; or they would always be busy, or I would write them a wall of text, and in reply, I would get nothing.
And for the longest time, and maybe, if this has ever happened to you, I blamed myself. I wasn’t good enough, obviously, for them to want to stay in my life. I didn’t get along well enough with them, because I wasn’t an interesting enough person.
But sometimes—just sometimes—it just might be the other person’s problem.
As a sensitive, kind and sweet person, I once walked with a young man through the entirety of his depressive episode, calling him almost every single day, only for him to stop contacting me the moment he got better. Obviously, he thought we didn’t get along that well; but, for some reason, he interpreted my kindness as neediness, and also decided, thus, that I simply wasn’t “cool” enough for him to hang out with.
And that isn’t even the first of the problems I’ve had with friends: I’ve had friends who brag about their life and holidays to me, knowing I couldn’t afford, at times, even a trip to the beach; I’ve had friends never be there for me, even when I was there for them; and after a while, I just had enough. Enough.
So, here’s a tip for you folks out there, who might be struggling with similar problems—friends that just feel a little “off”, or something like that: it’s not your fault. Deep down, you know you are a kind and beautiful person, probably far more kind-hearted and a little bit more sensitive than your counterparts, and anyone who dares to hurt you, or ignore you, or pretend to be friends with you only to brag about their own life, do not deserve to be your friend.
And that’s that for me, folks. Sorry to be such a downer on Christmas Eve, but it’s very hurtful, having to deal with people like these; as INFPs, we really have to be less of a doormat.

Immature INFPs Vs Mature INFPs



I will float away on heavenly clouds of joy forever more, because he and I (or she and I) will meet in a chance encounter, faraway from human civilisation, where we will mutually love each other instantly and become absolute soul mates. That is how it will happen. Yes. In a woodland, probably, surrounded by fairies only we can see, and feed each other bits of cloud and stardust. Probably. What do you mean, unrealistic? Listen, I don’t think we can be friends anymore. You obviously don’t believe in true love.

I will meet a person, most likely in my everyday life, in my everyday social circle, such as my school or workplace, or through a friend of a friend; and we will get along, like ordinary people, and sometimes, we might not get along, which is fine. And there are the obvious good parts—the endorphin high of falling in love, the protective and loving nature of having a partner—but you do have to compromise a lot, too. Ooh, look at me, being all grown-up. WHERE ARE THE WOODLAND FAIRIES.


I am going to be a writer. I don’t care what you say, it’s going to happen, and if that means living out of the back of a caravan for the rest of my life, so be it. What do you mean, no orange juice? I can still buy it. And electricity…well, there are solar panels. And for showering, I could go to the gym. Listen, I have done a lot of research, and this is the best way for me to live; it’s the only way I can pursue my passion, because, frankly, it is rather impossible for me to hold down a full-time, soul-sucking job, I would really rather die. All I want to do is daydream and write and float away on the clouds of thoughts all day long…shut up, I’m not being unrealistic, tell me again why we’re still friends??

It’s not that hard, holding down a full-time, ordinary job, once you actually get used to it. Yes, it is boring—after all, I work at a chemist, scanning items and stacking shelves—and sometimes soul-sucking, but otherwise, it’s not that bad, and has its good parts, too, namely the fact that you can keep a roof over your head and food in the fridge, something that writing will take some time yet for it to do.


Are you kidding me? I AM A BLEEDING HEART. THOSE POOR PEOPLE, THOSE ANIMALS, THOSE, OHMIGOD, WHAT ARE THEY DOING TO THOSE RABBITS?! EXPERIMENTING ON THEM? Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t actually personally helped any of these people—after all, I am a single twenty-one year old living at home who still thinks she can become a writer and change the world—but, at the very least, I feel for them. At least I CARE.

OMIGOD. THIS IS A TERRIBLE WORLD, FILLED WITH EVIL Okay, so, in the future, when I have the funds, I will make sure to donate to this charity, and that charity, and that charity, and that charity, and that charity…animals rights…gotcha…sexual assault…definitely, can relate (another post, guys)…wateraid….EVERYTHING. Poor people, poor animals. I love them to death. They need my help. I might one day…give some money. Yeah. Because I don’t have the social stamina to travel halfway around the world yet and look after people after they’ve been affected by hurricanes or floods. Help. EVERYBODY, HELP THEM.


Immature: ASDFGHJKLQWWERTYUIOPZXCVBNM. My mother just told me I would never become a writer, that I was wasting my life on airy-fairy dreams. *bursts into tears* I hate my life, I really do. You know, I think Juliet was onto something. I think I maybe should do something drastic, and destroy myself, because this life, with its soul-sucking jobs, and unfeeling people, and cruelty and horribleness, and horrible, realistic mothers, is just not worth living anymore.

Well, I think that maybe one day, if I try hard enough, I will be able to publish my work. My mother is wrong—or at the very least, I think she is. But I understand where she is coming from; I mean, writers aren’t exactly known for being able to pay the bills on time, and she wants to make sure I have some security in this world. I guess it’s a good thing I am studying to be a nurse.


I’m going to eat all this junk food, because I am so depressed about my life, and I like sweet foods a lot, like cookies and ice-cream. And after that, I am going to sit on a chair all day, typing up my book on my computer. And after that I am going to watch a movie, to forget the real world, and then read a book, to forget that I was trying to forget the real world, all while never moving from the same position.

The benefits of a job is that it gets you moving around, which is healthier for you. Things like running, or working out, while tiring, are good to schedule into your day, as they have numerous health benefits, such as making you feel healthier and happier. Moving around is very important—and if you’re happier, you’re less likely to eat lots of junk food. Unfortunately, I will still spend a lot of time sitting down, because I still write and watch films, but I can do other things standing up, or even walking around, like reading a book. Health is important, remember that. Oh, gosh, I can’t even believe what I am saying…is this real? Or is it the Matrix?

What This INFP Has Been Up To—For The Last 3 Weeks

Well, I got hospitalized again.

Pity. It was not a nice experience, not by a long shot; not only was the food terrible, but I had to spend day-in and day-out staring at the same six or seven white walls, praying for an escape. And, when the time came for me to be released—oh joy—I realized I had actually started writing a book.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen: a book is underway, all because I got depressed, became a suicidal meltdown, and managed to get my hands on a little book to write in at the hospital.
So, I guess silver linings do happen.

Onto my other life developments. I think it would interest you to know that I have since decided being an INFP is going to be one of the core reasons I will never gain employment. Just kidding: but to be fair, being an INFP has made being employed very hard; I don’t even know why I get up in the morning sometimes, and trudge on to my soul-sucking job at the chemist. But, well, that’s part and parcel of life, so I have to put up with it.

The extra money has been a blessing, though. In the past, I used to never buy anything, because I had no money to buy it with in the first place—would you rather a nice, new shirt, or some pasta and tomato sauce in the fridge? But now, I get to buy all sorts of lovely, little things I never got to before, like a new top, new lipstick, eyeliner and nailpolish. It’s all been very nice and girly; I never got to indulge in this side of my personality before. However, as per INFP style, every time I do my eyeliner, it comes out all terrible and wonky. And my nail polish isn’t much better, to be honest; I’m like a young woman who looks like a tranwreck of a housewife whenever I put on make-up.
Seriously. Things have been okay, discounting the fact that I ended up in hospital for depression, and not just on the material side of things: I actually am beginning to write again, and lots, too, so, you know, keep your heads up for upcoming writing, from Yours Truly.

And Christmas! Christmas is just around the corner, all sparkly and bright. I have been listening to Taylor Swift’s new album, Reputation, and I am trying my best not to cry at one of the best songs on it, New Year’s Day… “I’ll be cleaning up bottles with you on New Year’s day…”….

Anyway. Life is ordinary, life is good. I wish I had a boyfriend, to top it off, the cherry on the icing of my now very ordinary and non-reclusive life, but that’s not going to happen any time soon, simply because I am too awkward to function. So, see you later for now—keep posted, I have an INFP-related post coming up!