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.

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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.

Things INFPs Do That Make Others Think We Are Silly

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My life, thus far, has been a series of moments.

It’s interesting, isn’t it? The thousands of moments that make up life, the way time passes. The other day, I was sitting up in my bed, with my legs, encased in jeans, stretched out in front of me, and I thought, to myself, “Once upon a time, those had been short, tiny baby legs. Look at them now: so long, so grown-up.” It was a queer moment. I felt, for a second, as if I didn’t understand anything.

I don’t know what I want from life. Well, in terms of career, I know I want to be a writer, and to get published one day, but when it comes to love, to relationships, I have no idea—simply no idea. I suppose this is just part of what it means to be an INFP. Speaking of INFPs, I wrote a small series of funny quotes, showing things INFPs get up to that make others thing we’re, well, a little too “head up in the clouds” kind of men and women (or teenagers; I don’t think any children INFP read this blog, but then again, I could be wrong). So, here it is. I hope you like it.

Talk to things that shouldn’t be spoken to

INFP: “I think, dear pencil, that it is time for us to do some writey-whitey.”
Other people: “Is she talking to a pencil? She is talking to a pencil. I knew it. She is dumb-bat crazy, and weird.”

Get lost outside

INFP: “I am lost! I am alone in the wilderness, and I shall never find my way out again—I shall never see my family or friends—-this is an absolute disaster!”
Other people: “If you just cross that road, you’ll find yourself on the right street, and from there on, it’s only one more block until you’re back home.

Gets lost inside

INFP: “And I am certain it was this door!” *tries this door* *nothing happens* “No….I got lost again! I am doomed to wander down these corridors forever…”
Other people: “Just ask someone for directions! Or try to find the right door, to get to your classroom! Quickly, class will be starting soon!”
INFP: “But…but I have social anxiety…I don’t…want…to…interact…”

Can’t find anything
INFP: “Where is the tomato sauce, where is  the tomato sauce, where is the tomato sauce, where is the tomato sauce—“
Other people: “right here. Under your nose. Where it has been all the time.”

INFP: “Where is my phone, where is my phone….”
Other people: ‘RIGHT HERE.”

Thinks about someone who doesn’t even know they exist for too long
INFP: “We shared a moment. Our eyes met, across the bus seats, and….”
Other people: “No, he was a stranger, who you will never meet again, and who did not fall in love with you just because you made eye contact, you need to get your head out of those clouds and get a real boyfriend.”

Dances to music

INFP: *dancing* *weird moves are involved*
Other people: “I can’t…even…”

Is told that her dreams may not come true

INFP: “MURDERER. MURDERER OF DREAMS.”
Other people: “I was just trying to be realistic.”

Gets lost in daydreams

*the world ends* INFP: La..lalala….laalaaa…
Other people: Nobody put her in charge of the new civilisation.

Loves music so much she screams
INFP: *screams*
Other people: “What happened? Is it a spider? Are you alright?”
INFP: “No, I just love this song so much.”
Other people: “Of course.”

Loves books so much she screams

INFP: *screams*
Other people: “Look at her again, loving books so much. Ah. What a strange girl.”
INFP: *gets bitten by spider*

“Nobody” The Song By A Dreamer

 

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I’m no-one

 

And I’m talking about nothing

You say to me things

And I don’t hear a thing

For I am nothing but an empty book

Chorus 1

You see me go

And then you don’t

I live for the world

But I’m just a word

You want me to stay

But I won’t do that

Because I’m the invisible man, with just a hat

I once was somebody bright

But now the darkness stole the light

I wish for a better place to be

And not to live in disharmony

I wish you would hold onto me

But if you did, you’d end up catching me

And I’d rather stay in anonymity

Chorus 2

I want to be heard

But to be like a bird

Free from prying eyes

And those who darken your skies

You never know

What they might do

Could kill you

And take your heart, too

Bridge

You will realise one day

That not everybody’s here to play

And not everyone is here to be with you and stay

Well…

I’m no-one

And I’m talking about nothing

You say to me things

And I don’t hear a thing

For I am nothing but an empty book

Click HERE to listen to the song.

When Reality Intrudes

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I don’t know about you, but for me, for some reason, I tend to be able to live in a bubble of my own reality. However, this bubble is easily popped, and usually by external surroundings.

 

Shopping centres are one of my least favourite places to go, usually because its jam-packed with people who only seem interested in buying the next ‘new” thing, and are filled with capitalist greed and desire for said things. The bright lights, the noise—it just doesn’t sit well with me.

 

Another intruder of reality is supermarkets. With their bright lights, and electronic beeping noises, all the produce shiny and looking as if they have been newly-polished, everything nature made packaged into ugly, plastic containers—it’s really as far as you could get from magic as you could possibly be.
You know where magic really exists? Parks. For some reason—and I realise this is the second time I am using this phrase; I use this phrase an awful lot in real life—there is something about nature, and trees and grass, that soothes and calms me. It’s the same for an awful lot of people. I think wherever God’s creations are left alone, in their natural state, is where humans also feel the most calm, and relaxed.

 

I tell you this, because something recently happened to me. It was a reality check, like the time policemen once came to my house because a family argument had gotten a little too rowdy, and I felt, as these logical, very masculine man stormed into my house, as though reality itself had entered my home. I won’t tell you exactly what the event was—it’s very private, and related to a family member—but suffice to say, someone very close to me has recently fallen very, very ill.
I felt, as if, well, after I cried and shed my tears, dried like a husk from my misery, as though reality had walked right through the door and sat itself on my lap, exactly like an unwelcome puppy dog. It was as if my world had been split into two: one where I had known this news, and another where I didn’t.

 

I didn’t like it. I don’t like hospitals—that’s another place where everything is brightly-lit, cold and clinical. I can’t stand places like that, full of numbers and logic, all head and no heart—though many doctors and nurses can be the kindest of people, the surroundings are still very unwelcoming, and well, too hard, and rigid.

 

Anyway. Back to what I was saying. I believe it is a good idea, if you’re an imaginative introvert, to stay in your own reality, because that is where you will truly thrive. I believe it’s a good idea to daydream, and to spend time fulfilling your artistic pursuits. I also think it’s a good idea to reconnect with nature, spend time with loved ones because you never know how long they will be around for, to live and laugh, and to never forget that God is the reason we are all here, and that we all have our gifts and our purpose, in this life. And that is all I learned, on this harrowing day.

Another Little Ramble

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I sometimes wish, deep down, that there was something more to this world. That it was a little more like the stories in books, rather than reality.

 

I know what you’re thinking: darling, this is the second post in a row you’ve written about disliking reality, are you alright? Yes. I am. I don’t know why, but as I’ve grown older, I’ve become a lot more disillusioned with life. What is it that life holds? Holidays, shopping, family outings, children, work and school, dating and relationships? The only time I truly feel alive, is when I listen to music, or read books, or watch films: instantly, I am transported, to a magical and wondrous place.

 

Sometimes, I am afraid I am an awfully boring person. Then again, I do have a particularly vivid imagination, and I suppose it’s hard for an imaginative person to be entirely dull. Right now, I am at an employment agency close to where I live, trying to find jobs online—it’s a big job hunt, and I will be working in the age care industry, tending to the needs of elderly people, something that really does fulfil me. As a kind and caring person, I couldn’t ask for a more ideal job.

 

I guess I don’t know what I want. Every day, I wake up and write, and I do my best to hope for the possibility of getting published one day—even though that is easier on some days than others—but then, at other times, I am dejected, and bored, wanting some stimulation when I am not writing, or reading, or watching TV, wanting for real life to be magical and strange, beautiful and weird.

 

I want flowers to suddenly grow up from cracks in the pavement, and start talking to me. I think, if I said that statement aloud, in a group of businessmen or other logical people, they would probably heckle me out of the building. And I wish for more. I wish for a magical adventure to come swooping out of nowhere, and take me to the higher reaches of wonder; I would like to ride a rainbow, play babysitter to a child fairy, magically wave a wand and make things appear out of thin air, be swept off my feet by a handsome prince after we battle ferocious but easily defeated trolls. To eat jewels, and turn into a magical woman, capable of shimmering her way through life.

 

I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I should be looking for jobs—well, I am taking a break from it—but some part of me, deep inside, feels  so dissatisfied, it is screaming and throwing a little tantrum, thumping its fists against the sides of my heart. Why must the world be this way? Shouldn’t there be a little more excitement to life? A little more—pizzaz? I guess life, in many  ways, is still an adventure, and we’ll find out, soon enough, how things will pan out. In the meantime, I will keep living my boring little life, alive only in those moments when I read and write.

Dear Dreamers

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There’s a place for us. It’s not in this world. Not at all. This world…

Well.

This world is filled with shallow people, who live empty, boring lives, and who never yearn for more. I’m sorry to say this, but some people do not grow up with butterfly wings, full of sparkles and magic, inside their hearts; instead, there lives in them nothing but lust, greed, a desire for the next source of pleasure, and ordinary hopes, such as a desire for a meaningful job, or a nice partner (though there is, technically, nothing extremely wrong with just wanting these things).

But, dear dreamer, I know you want more.
I know you do.

I know you dream of places that you cannot even imagine, where plates float with food through the air and fairies sparkle towards you, holding delicate flowers that you can nibble on that change your skin colour and make you see in the dark. You want to hold magic in your hands, to fight wars, to use all of your sorcery and powers against evil, the red sparks bursting from your fingertips and banishing evil foes. I know you want salvation, bravery, courage—magic, wonder, delight; and this world, to be honest, free of the magic of books and films, have none of that, and you wish, so desperately, that it were true, that this world, for once, could be magical. You want the notes of music, of melodies, to be made into a living, breathing world, for that is where you, my dear dreamer, truly belong.

I know how you feel, because I belong there, too. We all do. Not everyone—just us, the dreamers, the thinkers, the people who pick up a snail and gaze at it curiously, before gently depositing it back onto the ground, on an area where people aren’t likely to crush it with their feet. You are the ones who curl up in bed, with your book and a cat, lost and lonely, and very much afraid: because the world out there, bright and beautiful as it is, is full of plastic, greed, money and superficial desires. And you want none of it. You want trees and sunshine and flowers and air. You want magic and dreams. You want to break free, and escape, forever—to a special place, inside your own imagination, where no-one ever finds you strange, or quirky, and where you truly belong.

I believe that place exists. It exists, fortunately, not only after we die (heaven), but in our hearts, and in our minds. And although we may never find a sense of belonging in this world, our hearts, hundreds and thousands strong, intertwine, in a great network of joy and happiness, all around the world: forever, and more.

Thank you.

Kind regards

Dreammerrambling

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