On Forgiveness & Other Things


There are sometimes moments in life where everything feels strange. Early in the morning is one of those. I feel as though I am dangling on the precipice of something, my heart hanging out of my chest, on a tangle of threaded veins and arteries.

Strange. I don’t know how to be myself sometimes. It’s hard. I try to hard to be myself, I find myself becoming rather forced in my words and actions. Strange, isn’t it? Ha.

There is no particular point to this post. I am a rather complex person, so whatever ends up splashing itself across the page when I write tends to be wistful and romantic in some way; that’s something you should expect, if you’ve been reading this blog for a while.

As per my adventures into the realm of sexual exploration, I have been trying to watch a movie with Anne Hathaway in it, called One Day. It’s a sexy movie, rather lewd for my tastes, but I can’t help but be a little bit fascinated by the sensual world the director manages to create using a handful of backdrops and actors. Someone else I have been listening to lately is Lorde. Oh, and a little known fact about me: I love eggs. Love them. To death. Not that I would actually die for eggs—although you never know, when it comes to people.

Even more lately, I have been thinking about all the people who I have been wronged by. It’s a fantastic subject matter. It makes you feel all poisonous and vindictive—for a little while. Let’s say, a good ten months, depending on how deep the wound went. But after that, forgiveness starts to seep in, like some unwelcome paint in water, turning the lovely clearness into some annoying sort of colour. Forgiveness. Imagine forgiving someone who murdered your child. I don’t think I’d be able to do that. But, then again, I have never experienced such a thing before; although I’m sure there are, in this godforsaken world, some people who have. All they have, in those moments, when it comes to it, is God.

I am not afraid. That’s not true. I’m not afraid to speak my mind, a lot of the time. I’m afraid of other things, like talking to handsome boys and giving speeches. I’m odd like that. And besides, it’s through this blog that I get to truly be myself, and voice whatever opinions and thoughts catch my fancy.

Life is incredibly complex. So incredibly complex. In order to keep up with it, you have to keep getting smarter, all the time. It’s exhausting, this business of growth and change. Exhausting, but exhilarating.

I don’t where this post is going anymore. I suppose posts like these are for the die-hard fans of my blog, of which there are a few—-just a handful—of you out there, of whom I am very appreciative of. Through my blog, I have met and talked to numerous wonderful and lovely people, a young woman from India, a young man from Britain, another from America, and it is such a blessing, to have made friends like you through my blog. I can’t possibly put it into words. It’s as if you’ve invited me into your home and given me a full course meal, and then hugged me good-bye afterwards—it feels very warm, and wonderful.

You know who else I like? Neil Gaiman. His books, The Ocean At The End of The Lane, and Neverwhere, are two of my all-time favourite books. I am re-reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Don’t tell anyone, but I plan on naming my children Charlie and Cordelia when I’m older and find a man and am ready to have children and do whatever it takes to rear them. Obviously, I can’t stop you from using these baby names, but use them at your own discretion—God sees everything, after all. Shhh. Let’s keep it a secret.

I’m continually publishing my book The Hive, chapter by chapter, bit by bit. It’s coming along rather nicely. I’m rather proud of it. It took me a long time to write, even longer to plan, and overall, I am happy with the end result. So far, only 72 people have read it, but that’s okay, I can take that: I didn’t expect it to become massively popular immediately, or anything even close. If, in my lifetime, it hits 1000 views, then I will be happy, because that means around 800 or so people read it.

That’s all from me for now. Oh, wait, one more thing. About forgiveness. I have met some truly horrendous and petty people in my lifetime. The kind of people who would steal candy from a child. Who would break your bone and then ask to sign the cast. But somehow, over time, I have realised that there is something inside of me that is purer and brighter than the darkness they are and will always be, and for some reason, that makes all of the pain they caused me nothing but clouds floating by in the breeze.


In The Rain


I wish I was someone dazzling, someone people marvelled over.


Stunningly beautiful, sharp-witted, elegant, gorgeous in any dress, with smooth, tanned skin and shapely legs, with a handsome man by my side who has the ability to make my knees weak with a kiss.


I wish I was the popular girl, dark-haired and beautiful, strutting down the aisles of the school like I owned the place, grabbing boys by their ties and kissing them behind lockers.


I wish I was brave, fearless, wild, someone so lovely and fierce only a hunter would fall in love with me, and a handsome one at that.


I wish I was a princess out of a fairytale, who sees her prince from afar, while seated in the bevelled window of her tower.


I wish I was a gorgeous lady, going out clubbing every single night, tossing back drinks like candy, and getting men to eat out of the palm of her hand.


I wish I was a flapper’s girl, with flirtatious red lips, ready to enchant any man that comes my way. I wish I was anybody, but me.


No, that’s not true. I love being me, and it has taken me a long time to reach this point. I love myself. I just wish for something more exciting, and sensual, to enter my life; it’s something every young woman with a mind full of daydreams wishes for, secretly yearns for, even if on a subconscious level. Why do I love being me? I love how deeply I think about things. I love my own insight. I love my own beauty, I love my face, with its relatively big eyes, rather large nose and big lips. I love my body, even where the fat rolls up around my waist. Heck, I even liked the cheese-flavoured popcorn and prawn chips I ate today, as unromantic and ordinary that might be.


The day will come when all my romantic fantasies come true. Actually, I don’t know if they ever will, but I hope they do, and I have a feeling they will come true, so, for the purpose of this piece of writing, yes, it will all happen to me. Until then, I have to find a way to live with myself. Lately, I’ve been working on being a kinder and less vain, self-absorbed person. Writing a blog post about yourself might not be the best way to do this, you might think, but, in actual fact, while being understood is one of the reasons I write this blog, I also want to make others feel less alone and comforted through my words. If I can do that, I honestly think I can die happy. If there is someone out there who religiously checks up on my blog, and hangs on my every word, and is brought to tears because they resonate so strongly with my words—then, I think I have achieved what I wanted to achieve here.


Let’s see. What should it be like? The perfect romantic moment. Indulge with me for a moment. Perhaps it will be with a handsome man, underneath the boughs of a tree. No. It doesn’t have any sparkle to it. Maybe he should crawl in through the window of my bedroom, like Edward the vampire, and surprise me with sweet-smelling kisses! I’m joking; that would be terrifying. No. Let’s think about this properly. On a boat, on a lake. We’re getting closer. I just paused for a long moment to think. In the rain.



In the rain.







Nostalgia On The Weekends & Taylor Swift

girl with keys.jpg

The weekends always feel strangely nostalgic to me. I don’t know why; there’s just something about the way the day ends, slowly and with a sinking feeling, like a cube of sugar being dropped into a cup of black coffee, that makes it feel like a dark, bittersweet time of the week.

I start thinking back to my childhood, mainly my father, and the good times I spent with him. My childhood was peppered with good memories of my father, and it half-killed me when he left me. I felt lost and abandoned. I’m completely whole now, but sometimes, on the weekends, when the sun is starting to set, I begin to feel a certain longing for oldtimes, for childhood, and magic, and pure moments.

As I type this, I’m listening to Taylor Swift’s 1989 album, specifically the song I Wish You Would. Out of all her albums, 1989 is my favourite; I find it nearly impossible to get sick of any of the songs on it, whereas with some of her older songs, I find it hard to play them on repeat.

I wish you would come back, wish I’d never hung up the phone like I did, I wish you knew that, I never forget you as long as I live. Those are some of the lyrics that are playing as I type this, sitting alone in my bedroom, on my laptop, dreaming of magical moonbeans and unicorns that prance.

It’s quiet. There’s the faint rumbling of a motorbike outside, the swoosh of cars. And now the song has changed, to a number called All You Had To Do Was Stay.

Nostalgia is a funny feeling. It’s an ache inside your chest. It almost feels like a watered-down version of heartbreak, although I haven’t experienced heartbreak myself—I suppose it’s a watered-down version of how I imagine heartbreak to be. You are full of longing for something you can’t describe, for something you once had but now don’t, for something you lost but don’t remember. It’s a Jack-in-the-Box of a feeling.

I almost want to turn back the hands of time. It seems only yesterday I was still in primary school, having fun with friends, basking in the glow of a father and mother, playing games with my sister, spending my days listening to Taylor Swift’s country songs and reading and writing my heart out. A lot of things have changed. Since I was a child, I thought I’d one day get published, and might have to reconcile myself to the fact that that might not happen. It’s sad. But there are good things happening, too. I’m growing up. I’m dating, I’ve got a job, I’ve got friends, a roof over my head and food in the fridge. Things are good.

Isn’t it funny, how songs can be linked to memories, to particular times of your life? I used to listen to this song called I Know Places by Taylor Swift a lot while I was doing a retail course, and had to travel by train to this place to study and go to lessons, and now, whenever I hear the song, I feel myself transported back to that depressing period of my life, where I was lost and didn’t know which path in the woods to take. I’m in a much better place, now. Depression has kept itself out of my way for about a month, ever since I started my job, I have a little money to spend on myself these days. Yes. Things are good. Nevertheless, nostalgia still exists, and it will always be there, lurking in the corners, not like monsters, or ghosts, not scary, just simply like lost toys left behind by their owners, gathering dust and loneliness.

One song that always puts me in a good mood is Welcome To New York by Taylor Swift. The song feels full of possibility to me. When we first dropped our bags on apartment floors, took our broken hearts, put them in a drawer. It conjures up images of going on holiday, to dazzling cities like New York, entering hotel rooms, giggling with friends, going out for lunch, taking pictures, a whirlwind of fun and joy, young people basking in their youth and the happiness life can bring, faraway from the sordid, the frightening, the dark and miserable. Taylor Swift is wholesome. Her songs are uplifting, and bright, even when they’re about sad things, like heartbreak and betrayal, and there’s something so charismatic about her music. That’s probably why she’s my favourite artist, and will always be.

I’m halfway through another book. It’s about this young woman who meets a faery-man, and the magical adventures they go on together, and the perils they meet. I think, after I finish it, instead of trying to send it to publishers, I’ll type it all up and put it on Wattpad and make it public for people to read. That way, you can finally read some of my longer works of fiction! It’s a story I’m quite proud of, if only for the concepts I managed to come up with, and I hope, when it’s all done, and posted online, that you like it. I’m still thinking of whether I should post another book of mine, The Dragon Train, online; I think it’s not really suited to the Wattpad demographic, who are accustomed to stories about romance rather than children’s books. Let me know if there are any good sites to publish online books, and if there aren’t any, I might just end up publishing it on this blog.

That’s all from me for now. Looking forward to another week at work. I’ll see you in the next post.

Inside This Dreamer’s Heart


It is exactly 9:23 pm, give or take a couple of seconds, and I am sitting on my bed, along in the light of my lamp, typing up my thoughts. I don’t feel particularly sad, nor particularly happy either; since discovering keeping busy is the only way to keep depression at bay, I have been doing just that. Instead of picking up a book and skimming through it in a lacklustre fashion, I have been actively reading, letting the sentences sink into my mind; when watching a Chinese TV show, instead of just focusing on the English subtitles, I’ve been trying to absorb the language.

Was that a particularly boring start to this post? I apologise. Sometimes, I forget that my life is far more interesting to myself than it is to other people. Isn’t it interesting, all of us living our lives? Isn’t interesting, the way we are all created the same way, born the same, and yet, in this world, of digitalised technology, fewer and fewer relationships are being formed, and fewer children being born in developed countries? Humanity is evolving, and I don’t know if in entirely a good way.

Look. You. Me. Staring at a computer screen, inside our own bedrooms, which have their unique aura and scent, living our lives, going to work or school, hanging out with friends, lovers, people, playing with cats and dogs. Our lives intersect, in so many ways, and sometimes, if I imagine hard enough, I can push myself into someone else’s life, feel their room, see the video game they are playing, the anime they are watching. I can be someone else, because we are all interconnected. We come from the same place, all of us, stitched out of the matter of the universe itself.

I don’t know where my life is going. I only recently realised keeping engaged in whatever task I am doing, be it listening to music or reading a book, only by being 100% engaged, every second of the day, can I keep the monster of depression at bay. It’s like lighting a fire to keep away the lions. Scary, isn’t it?

I’m a dying fairy. I can honestly say that. It’s as if this is a world full of iron, and I am being slowly burned away, from the inside out. Iron is anathema to faeries. Humanity keeps swimming around me, and I feel myself stranded on my own island, looking out, making no connection with anyone. I’m on this journey called life, and while I feel as though life is something quite momentous, I can’t seem to touch its grandeur, and instead am left with emptiness. I shy away from iron. I do. I cringe away from it, cry out in pain as iron pushes up against me, right against my skin. I am burned. I am dying. A tiny fairy, fluttering frantically like a butterfly, lost in a world of poison.

As I’m writing this, I am listening to an artist called Phildel. I can honestly say she is one of my favourite artists on this entire planet, especially her song Beside You, which is soft, lyrical and haunting. I don’t know how people find boyfriends, or lovers. I really don’t. I’m a lonely 20 year old, and whenever I step out into the world, I see a busy place of busy people too busy for relationships, too busy to stop and notice anyone, to speak and blush and flirt. No wonder the birth rate is declining. Relationships have always been foreign to me. And I’m afraid they always will be.

This blog has been a chronicle of my life. Every moment, every sensation and thought and feeling, I have poured into this blog, since 2013, when I first started it, out of the blue, just for fun, never thinking it would get any views, that people would care to read what I wrote. When I was full of dreams, and still lived in a relatively loving family. I haven’t seen my father for more than three years now, I think, since the divorce, and I’m afraid he is now in a place where I can never reach him. Do I care? Maybe not. Right now, I’m worried about how I will occupy my time for the next fifty or so years, at least until virtual reality kicks off and I can dive into escapism for good (only joking). The word “joking” frightens me sometimes, because it reminds me of “joker”, and I find jokers, particularly because of popular media, to be extremely disturbing and frightening. That’s how neurotic I am. Now I’m listening to Runaway by AURORA. I put Youtube on autoplay, so the words and the flowing notes of the song are washing over me, like watery silk.

It’s at times like this, quiet and silent, alone, lonely, that I wonder what life is all about. During my more depressed moments, I have wished to never have been born; I mean, life seems like a dream, half the time, and it passes so quickly. You cannot imagine how quickly the last 20 years have passed. Now I understand what 50 year olds mean, when they saw time passes so quickly. I don’t know what I want form life anymore. My dreams of getting published have melted into a puddle. I can’t—it isn’t—you can’t pick up water, you know? My dreams are gone. And so I am left with smaller dreams, bite-size pieces, more manageable, less sparkly and beautiful: to have enough money to buy food that I like, like fruit juice and hummus, to keep myself busy for the rest of my days, to not fall into the pit of depression. Eventually, I will post my book on my blog. Maybe i’ll even sell it on Amazon for a couple of dollars. Maybe only a few of you will buy it, but that doesn’t matter, because at least someone in the world read it and appreciated it. I love my book. And it makes me so sad that the publishers don’t love it at all.

Isn’t it funny, how different houses can have a different feel to them? I have moved many times in my life, and each time, each house had a different character to it. Even the walk home, to a particular house, had a different, unique feel to it. To be honest, I don’t know what went wrong. How did I go from a vivacious 15 year old to a depressed, unemployed (so far) 20 year old? It doesn’t make any sense. Nothing does. It’s as if everyone else around me in society is a robot, sometimes, and I’m the only real person. That honestly how I feel. Rushing from work, to home, to their friend’s place, to their boyfriend or girlfriend’s house. Always rushing. Paying for things. Buying. Working. Somewhere along the line, I got left behind.

Someone please come back for me.

The Best Way To Beat Depression


Depression is an ugly thing. I know. I’ve been there, more times than you know, that dark, midnight time of the soul, where monsters lurk with sharpened teeth and faries die underneath iron blades. It is never easy, and it is not a battle you can win easily, not without sacrificing a tooth or two, or a portion of your heart.

But there is one way to overcome depression, one tried and sure way which I have discovered over time, and which many other people have told me about, only, it wasn’t until I put it into practice did I realise how very useful it was: keeping yourself occupied. I know it sounds rather simple, and not the kind of solution you were asking for. Keeping myself occupied? Doing things, even though all depression wants me to do is lie in bed until I get nauseous and dizzying from staying in a supine position for so long?

Yes. The best way to overcome depression, to re-surface from the land of cluttered clockwork unscathed, with not so much as a single scratch on you, is to keep yourself busy every single second of every single minute of every single hour of the day. You mustn’t let yourself do nothing, not even for a second—you must be busy at all times, doing something, even if the task is as simple as typing a message to someone on your phone. The moment you stop doing, and lapse into passive activities, is the moment when depression likes to creep in, and ruin everything. It feeds off of lassitude and boredom.

This doesn’t mean that every “activity” out there is considered sufficient enough to be classified as an “occupation”. On Google, occupation is defined as “work”, or how one earns one’s living. There’s a secret here: why do you think so many of us who are unemployed, are depressed? That’s because we have nothing to occupy our days with, so we end up sinking deeper and deeper into the morass of our own thoughts. What we should be doing, instead, is trying to find a job, so that we can find ourselves productively engaged no matter what time of the day it is.

Passive activities like watching Youtube, or watching films. or even reading, are NOT good antidotes against depression, simply because, especially if you find reading an easy thing, they are occupations which require little effort. Effort is key. The task shouldn’t be so much effort that it causes you to over-stress yourself and have a mental breakdown, but it should be engaging enough to require your full attention at all times. That, my friends, is how you beat depression—simply by keeping busy, very busy, very productive, and entirely engaged with life.

I used to work in an age care centre, and even though I hated the job, and didn’t enjoy cleaning up faeces one bit, throughout the entirety of my experience at the age care centre, because I was busy and occupied, I wasn’t depressed. Not at all. It was only afterwards, when I had to wait half an hour for the bus, or during my break time, when I had to sit and eat and stare at a television screen, that the gloominess would begin to set in again.

I think I’ve stumbled across something quite marvelous, which many others before me have already discovered, yet is still new and fresh to me. Depression is beatable: not through medicine, not through therapy (although talking to your therapist is a productive activity, and probably why people feel “better” afterwards), but through simply lifestyle changes; namely, finding things to do. I don’t care what it is. It could be playing an intensive video game, doing the grocery shopping, playing Sudoku, writing a book, cooking, singing, working at a real job; never just laze around, watching Youtube videos, films, listening to audiobooks and reading books, like I have done before.

Keep busy, and it’ll keep you alive.


How much do INFPs daydream?


While I can’t speak for all INFPs, the answer to this question is: a lot. I spend every waking moment where I’m not occupied with other tasks daydreaming, whether that be imagining possible scenarios inside my head, or envisioning futures in which I obtain the things I want to, a published book, a boyfriend, etc. Anything and everything, provided it isn’t graphic or perverted, is daydreamed about, from worlds beyond our ken to everyday situations. I do it on the bus, while I am walking home from the job agency, while I am in the shower, while I am cooking, and I would like nothing more than to crawl into these daydreams, and live inside them forever.

One of the problems that come with daydreaming is that you become even more dissatisfied with the way your life currently is. I know that the more I daydream, the more discontented I get, because whatever I’m daydreaming about is always a better version of the reality that I am experiencing. For example, walking home today, I imagined myself getting an email, telling me that I was to be published, and that the publishers wanted to meet me and discuss my book in person. The daydream became so real that when I snapped out of it, I half-expected to see the email in my notifications; and when I didn’t, the disappointment was so crushing I felt as if I might fold in half from the pain of it.

All in all, I do believe excessive daydreaming is unhealthy, and shouldn’t be encouraged. Instead, happiness or contentment with the way life actually or currently is leads to greater joy, because there are no expectations. But, on the other hand, as someone who daydreams a lot myself, it is very tempting to keep imagining scenarios, and never get anywhere in life in reality. In my daydreams, I am already a mother of two, with a wonderful husband, and a wonderful job, and several published books under my belt—and in reality, I am an unpublished 20 year old author, who has never dated anyone, let alone get married to someone. The contrast between the two is startling—and pathetic, if you want to view it in that light—-so instead of channeling one’s energies into daydreams, it’s better to use that same energy towards fulfilling your daydreams in real life.

For example, instead of daydreaming about the perfect moment in time, where I meet someone and our eyes meet and we connect, I could join a dating website, and actively try and find someone to partner up with. Instead of daydreaming about getting published, I could get cracking on the fourth book that I am writing. It’s a better use of one’s time, and of one’s energy, to try and bring your daydreams to fruition, instead of just wallowing in them.

So, in answer to this question, yes, INFPs do daydream a lot, but it would be better if we did less of it, and used our energies on more productive activities. While there’s nothing wrong with a bit of harmless daydreaming, when it becomes excessive, it can consume one’s life and make your current life seem boring, lacklustre and ugly in comparison. I’m going to try and channel my energies towards better activities, and I hope you do as well; here’s to greater joy, and contentment, living a life that may be far from our daydreams, but is lovely and beautiful in its own way.

When Your Dream Gets Shattered


When I woke up this morning, there was an email in my inbox, from one of the publishers I had sent my book to. And as the words reeled past my eyes “…unfortunately…have chosen not to…”, I felt as if a ton of bricks had landed on my head. My book not only had not been accepted, I had received a generic email saying that I hadn’t been published. After seeing this email on my phone, I deleted it, out of sheer anger at myself, rolled over and went back to sleep, sinking into a dark, depressed slumber.

So, my friends, it looks as though this publishing dream of mine is sinking down the drain. I think, in the end, I expected this, I really did; no part of me truly believed I would get published, no matter how much hope I held onto. I guess I’ll have to be happy with an ordinary life, spent doing ordinary things, working as a childcare worker, earning money, buying a house, dating, and the other daily, usual activities of life. I feel, as can be expected, like a dead woman walking; without getting published, some part of me will always be missing, and lacking, a puzzle piece that is never found.

So what’s next? The temptation is to do something drastic, like drape myself over my bed and not get up for several days, stuck in a depressive stupor. But I’m not going to do that. Without writing, without a published book, I am determined to still get up each day and keep living my life. After all, I have to keep on striving for others in life—to have fun, to go on holidays, to eat, to live. The strange thing is, while writing was something that made me feel incredibly happy and joyful at times, the stress of having to get it published wore it all away, and made me feel as though I was carrying a great weight. Now that I know I can’t completely succeed at it—not without trying for another few years, at least, and even then, there is no guarantee—I feel as though the great weight has been lifted. I don’t feel lighter, but I do feel relieved. In my opinion, my books are still gorgeous, and deserve to be published, but I might have to look into other avenues of publishing, such as self-publishing, or even, for a small donation, publishing my books on this blog. I don’t want to give my creative work entirely away for free—I spent many hours on it, after all—but I wouldn’t ask anyone to pay more than a couple of dollars for them, simply because I know many of my readers are in dire financial straits themselves.

Life feels curiously empty. I feel as though I am glass of milk, that has been completely emptied, all of that milky, rich goodness spilling out of me, gone forever. Nothing feels very real or true. My feet don’t touch the ground; they scrape, they float, as if buoyed by balloons. Even the words I type look nothing more like insects across the screen of my laptop. I don’t feel well. Perhaps I will never feel well again. I feel like screaming, or perhaps marching up to the publishers themselves and going through my book page by page, explaining its brilliance. Something crazy, drastic. Yet I know I will do none of those things. At the most, to comfort myself, I will buy a treat (and even that is unlikely, considering my budget) for myself, and eat it, alone and miserable.

I know! I feel as though an arm or leg has been amputated. Yep. And there’s that shadow-sensation people always talk about, the feeling that the limb is still there, that it can still feel pain and still move. That’s how I feel. But really, other than that, I’m completely fine. I still have a roof over my head, food in the fridge, activities to occupy my time (fingers crossed I get the childcare traineeship) and family and friends. Everything is perfectly fine.

So why are there tears trickling down my face?

A Genuine Insight Into This Dreamer’s Existence


It’s exactly 10:39 at night, and I am sitting in my room, alone, typing on my laptop. I just got back from an evening with church friends, and, while I didn’t know quite a few of them, I did end up having a nice time, playing board games and eating food. I didn’t feel like I quite fit in with any of them. As someone who is going through a particularly miserable patch of their life, surrounded by happy people, with jobs and happy lives, I couldn’t feeling, internally, as though I was sticking out like a sore thumb.

I wonder what it would be like if you met me in real life. I started thinking about this, ever since I started an Instagram account and became active on Twitter again. You can follow me on Instagram HERE, and on Twitter HERE. I mean, I’m a very introverted sort of person, very internal, all of my thoughts and feelings are wrapped up inside my brain, instead of expressed outwardly. Perhaps, in real life, I might come across as odd or strange, or quite average, the kind of person that blends, unnoticeable, in with the crowd. Inside, however, there is quite a different story: inside, within me, I am a hurricane of feeling, of misery and poetry, stardust and sunkisses.

Disappointment forms the focus of my life right now. I am utterly disappointed that none of my books have become published. In fact, disappointment isn’t even a strong enough word for it. I feel as though I am dragging with misery with every step I take, leaving behind sludgy, footprints of sadness on the ground behind me. My entire body sags. Not being published is like not being able to breathe. I feel as though I was never born, and never lived. My entire life is not just missing a single jigsaw piece: all the jigsaw pieces have been scattered into the wilderness, never to be see again.

I am exhausted, but I must keep writing, for that is the only thing that is keeping me sane at the moment. I was made for nothing else other than this dream of writing. I know nothing else, and exist nowhere else. Whatever I do for the rest of my life, be it childcare, or teaching, or whatever it is, I just know that it will all pale in comparison to the prospect of getting published, of seeing my book on shelves, of holding my book in my hands. I can barely breathe from the misery of it.

Perhaps I come across as too dramatic. After all, there are many other avenues which you can take to publish your book, such as self-publishing, or distributing books for a price in public. Other ways. But I don’t want the other ways. I want the official path, the one and only. If I could just thrust my book beneath the noses of my readers, and let them see the pure artistry and magic written across their pages—if I could just make one publisher see inside my mind when I write my books—

But it’s all for naught. Lately, I have decided to Instagram and Tweet as often as possible. I don’t know why exactly I’m doing it. I suppose, I want to be of more help to others in this world. I think, if I write a tweet about my misery, and someone else in the world somewhere reads it, then they might feel comforted. If they see a photograph of my laptop, or my doorknob, with a certain caption, they might feel less alone, less—-something. Less afraid. I don’t know. I want to provide comfort to people, in this often dark and lonely world. If I can do that with my life, then I think I can die happily, if not satisfactorily.

And that’s the thing. Oh my, a headache is beginning to build. I better stop writing soon. If I die without ever getting properly published, officially published—why, I think I might actually die with a tear trickling down my face. Eventually, I will self-publish, if this thing never works out, and advertise my book on this blog. I’ll sell the books for only a couple of dollars, because I know some of my readers are struggling financially, too, just like me. And perhaps people will respond, and tell me how much they like the books—and that, I think, will have to be enough. I can’t see anything more than that happening.

It’s quiet. It’s night. 16 minutes have passed. I have written around 800 words. Outside, cars are passing by on the street, making soft swooshing sounds. I am currently reading a book called Shopaholic Ties the Knot. The woman who writes this book is very blessed. I do not hate her; my heart does not hold such vindictiveness. Instead, I stare at her books with a gentle wistfulness, with a tinge of envy; she is married, with beautiful children, and has a long and steady publishing career. Her life is everything I have ever wished for for myself. Meanwhile, the days pass in a steady blur, of boredom and stress, job searching and interviews. I don’t know where I am going, and life is turning into a dull ache of pain. It isn’t excruciating: it’s just always there, pulsing, against me, against every part of me.

I reach out to God. I do. I reach out to Him. And tonight, I will go to sleep, thinking of nothing because there is nothing to think, my heart empty of dreams because it isn’t shattered or broken, it no longer exists, and I wade, sobbing quietly, into a future where I don’t belong.

Twitter and Instagram


I thought it’d be fun to reignite my Twitter account, and create an Instagram account.

While I can’t promise I’ll be extremely active on either of my accounts, I will try my best to post something new everyday. However, I don’t think I’ll be doing a face reveal anytime soon, simply because I am painfully shy and there are people I know in real life who I wouldn’t want knowing about this blog, because this blog is almost like my personal diary. Everything post I write on this blog is rather like a dairy entry, a private one anyone on the internet can see, so the last vestige of anonymity I have is my own personal appearance.

Instead, I will be posting whatever thoughts crop up in my mind throughout the day on Twitter, and posting pictures of my everyday surroundings on my Instagram account. I have already posted on picture on my Instagram account, and that is a photograph of my laptop, where I do all of my blogging!

Here’s to a glimpse into my mind and thoughts, and my everyday life. Enjoy!

Twitter: https://twitter.com/dreamerrambling  or click HERE

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/dreamerrambling  or click HERE

INFPs Are Not Suited To The Modern Workforce


Before I begin, I would like to give a shout-out to Louis, for donating to my Patreon page. Thank you very much! Please a topic you’d like me to blog about, Louis, if you want to, to dreamerrambling@hotmail.com. And for those of you who want to, you can donate at my Patreon page http://www.patreon.com/dreamerrambling.

Now, let’s get started with today’s blog post. What has been happening? I’ll tell you what. A big, fat nothing. Isn’t marvellous, when nothing particularly remarkable or special happens in your life? I mean, that’s just what I wished for, ever since I was a little kid, for nothing to happen. In fact, I’m sure I remember wishing for that to happen when I was five years old—I’m almost certain for nothing to happen has been lifelong goal, and now, guess what, I have finally achieved it.

Sarcasm aside, I spent a good hour or so once I got home today, after visiting a newsletter group and my job agency, trying to figure out if I would make a good medical transcriptionist. And the answer, my friends, is a resounding no. While I do have a typing speed of 65 words a minute if I concentrate especially hard, if I want to write accurately and correctly, my typing speed is much less than that. What is more, whenever I try to listen to audio recordings of people’s voices, like that of a doctor’s, I can never quite make out a couple of words, which makes writing the transcription nearly impossible. So, no to transcription, my friends. Another day, another job ticked off the list.

As for childcare, well, I signed up for a traineeship, but I don’t think I’m going to get it. On the medical form part of it, I excluded mentioning any mental illness, for fear I would be discriminated against, but, on second thoughts, I wonder if that was a bad idea, because both of my references, a TAFE teacher and my job agency coordinator, know about my mental illness. Either way, it’s one way to pass the time, going to interviews for jobs I have no interest in, isn’t it? This is exactly what I mean by nothing has been particularly happening. Job interviews aren’t interesting enough to mention in a blog post, are they?

Well, let’s just say, I get nervous during job interviews (okay, maybe job interviews are worth mentioning). Extremely nervous. Perhaps not nervous enough to be classified as having some kind of anxiety disorder, but, well, I get pretty frazzled: my hands get sweaty, my heart starts to pound, my mind works at a hundred miles a minute, trying to predict interview questions beforehand, even though that technique never works because they usually go flying out of my head the moment I step inside the interview building. As an INFP, while I believe job interviews are important for life, I don’t think they’re something I’ll ever get used to. In fact, they are something I dread, with the kind of chest-clutching panic most people reserve for speeches and spiders. I would nearly rather give a speech, to a crowd of people, than have a job interview. Nearly.

Lately, I’ve been reading a lot of books my Sophie Kinsella. She’s this marvellously funny author, who writes irreverent, beautiful material on marriage and divorce and being a “shopaholic”; her work is fantastic, and I genuinely recommend you check her work out. Her book, Confessions of A Shopaholic, was even turned into a major Hollywood blockbuster movie. Okay, I guess you can tell I’m definitely running out of things to say, if I’m even mentioning what kind of books I’m reading at the moment.

Like I said, nothing in particular has been happening lately. Not particularly happy, but not particularly depressed, either. Everything seems to be going along in a straight line, a very straight, single line. I don’t like it. In fact, now that we’re on the subject of things INFPs don’t like, I would just like to point out that I am of the adamant belief that INFPs, if we’re being honest here, especially if they have anxiety and are daydreaming, soft, sweet little creatures, aren’t very suited to the workforce at all. I don’t like the idea of working in a stressful job, and every job, at the end of the day, has its own measure of stress. I think it’s because INFPs react so badly to stress in the first place. I mean, we’re not exactly Zen about it, are we? On the inside, we panic as though we are dying, and try to hold it all in, only to burst into tears at the end of the day. There isn’t a single job out there that doesn’t feel as though it is made for grown-ups—that is, other people—rather than INFPs. We’re not mature, in the sense that you need to have this sort of official, self-comforting personality to operate in society, and we don’t have any of the skills that are required for most jobs, such as high intellect or great socialising abilities. No. Instead, all we have is a penchant for daydreaming, a brain that is good for daydreaming, and usually an ability to turn these daydreams into works of art. Pretty practical and useful, I should say.

You know what I think INFP are suited for? Being children. As a child, all you do is play, all day long, by amusing yourself and finding ways to occupy your own time, whether this is through watching films or movies, imaginary play, reading or writing, or singing. Playing the piano. Going for walks. We’re suited to being children, and staying children, not adults. We can’t go to work, dressed up in a suit, and talk important business-talk—that’s just not us! Nothing about us is suited to the modern workforce. And so far, the only solution to this problem is to either somehow make money off your art, or be on government benefits to survive.

Am I being dramatic? You tell me. Maybe this only applies to myself, instead of all INFPs. Anyway; I wish you a wonderful day, and I hope your life is filled with starlight and late nights spent breathing in the spices of the wilderness. Or something like that. Cheers.