A Melancholy Post


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.


On Peasants and Princesses


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


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.


To My Future Boyfriend ( A Song by a Dreamer)


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

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

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:


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


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.

An Example of Subtle Racism


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.


A Talkative House—Artistic Piece


I ate a lollipop the other day. After that, it came alive, and asked me if I was happy. I said, “No, I live inside my head everyday, and nothing feels right. What should I do to be happy?”

He said to talk to the pencil. So I picked up a pencil and talked to it, and it whispered in my ear things to do, like maybe try writing another story, or something like that, and if I would, pretty please, sharpen it more often, but I got sick of its mumbling, so I put it back down.

Then I thought to myself, what else should I do, who should I go for advice to? The clock seemed a sensible creature. I spoke to it, and it said, “The best way to find romance, is to put yourself in love’s way.” I punched the clock, and it made the glass crack, because I’d been searching all my life, and I still hadn’t found anything else, no handsome boys had come knocking on my door, so why don’t you shut the fuck up, clock-face.

Then I tried to eat something else, but the food started talking to me, too, and it said I needed to lose weight, the macaroni and cheese spoke to me, it told me to lose weight, I was beginning to develop a paunch, and how unsightly that was, for a lovely, little lady like myself. So I ate the macaroni—it screamed as it died in my mouth—and licked up all the cheese, and that was the end of that.

Every day, for that entire day, objects spoke to me: my hairbrush told me my black hair was too flat, and needed to be made into a more attractive cut, banknotes whispered of the riches they hoped I would make one day so I could plant trees and help starving children and do all the good I wanted to do in the world, and I threw the hairbrush into the sink and cut the banknotes up, letting it float like confetti onto the floor.

I went up to the old attic. I was alone, and scared. There was a skipping rope. There really was. I thought it was a snake at first, I was so scared, but there it was, lying in the shadows, a skipping rope. It spoke to me, in a springy sort of voice, about my childhood, and my father, and all the good old days, and I wished I could have cuddled it up. But there is something that nostalgia that stinks of old socks, so I knotted the skipping rope up, and put it in one of the old boxes.

Then I went back downstairs, and took a bath. The bath was a good bath. It had lots of bubbles in it. For just a little while, it was quiet in the bath, but then the water started mumbling to me, about all the soap suds contaminating it, and I had to pull the plug out, watching as the water all gurgled away.

I was very scared by this point. I thought I was going insane. Maybe I was. After all, in a normal world, objects do not speak to you. So I thought to myself, “Where can I go where nothing will speak to me?” Not the bedroom. Not the kitchen. Not the bathroom, or the living room; even the sofas and couches were speaking to me, calling me a lazy shit, hating on me for dropping cereal all over into its cracks and crevices that time I decided to eat the cornflakes out of the box. So I went outside, into the garden.

The garden spoke to me, but it was just unintelligible noises, so it didn’t matter. And then I looked up at the sky, and the moon was very big, and very bright, like a big, fat cheese I could maybe eat, and I thought, I should talk to the moon. So I poured my heart out to the moon, telling it how lonely I was, how I wish I could have someone to put their shoulders around me, smelling not of my mum or my sibling but a man, and I thought maybe, just maybe, I could maybe get my shit together enough to fulfil my dreams of becoming a full-time artist, and as I thought this, the moon seemed to smile down at me, as if to say, “Don’t worry, everything will be fine.”

When I went back inside, everything was quiet. Nothing was saying anything anymore. I went to bed, and the last thing I heard, before I went to sleep, was the clock. It said “Fuck you”, and then was silent.

A Small Piano Tune


Recently, I have been indulging in the more musical side of my personality; I am currently working on writing a song—I have a couple of songs already on this blog—and this one is a piano piece I put together. It is quite…unprofessional, to say the least, but I tried to just play whatever my heart wanted me to play, as someone who has little to no proper musical training. It’s just a little ditty I put together, and you can listen to it here, if you like: PIANO PIECE—SUNSHINE. Just click on the link, for a little nice music.

As for the song piece, that one has lyrics, and will take time for me to finish writing. But it’s always good to indulge in one’s creative side, especially for INFPs, no matter what the medium, even if the products of our work are lacklustre and not Oscar-worthy.

What have I been listening to? Lots of Taylor Swift, and Lorde. They are two brilliant, young women, and my absolute favourite artists, ever. There’s something about their work that just seems to sparkle very brightly, full of genius and feeling. I can’t describe it—and there’s a reason they’re so successful, they’ve got the magic touch, is all.

As for what else has been going in my life—not much, really. I have been working on a new book. It’s a secret, but if it ever get published in the future, I’ll be sure to let you guys know. Thank you, so much, for following this young lad’ys ramblings over the years—or, if you’re new to this blog, welcome! I write whatever I feel like, whenever I feel the need to, and at times, I have been absent for long periods due to illness (mostly depression), but I always manage to hop back onto my feet, and return to the blogging scene. It’s amazing that I have been doing this for around 4 years—looking back, I feel as though I have grown up, a great, great deal.

Also, I apologise for trying to change my name and call myself “Cordelia”. That really was a stupid thing to do: it didn’t feel right. I’m back to Anne now, and I am very happy. Sorry to all those who started calling me Cordelia—your good heart was very much appreciated.

I hope you are all well. There’s nothing like the beginning of the year to put some fresh spirits into some people. Soon, I’ll be back with another blog post, about…well, that’s a secret, too, but it’ll definitely feature INFPs as the main subject matter. I hope you all had a wonderful weekend, and are looking forward to the beginning of a new week. Bon chance.

When Reality Intrudes


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.