“Rocket Ships And Internet” Written by A Dreamer


I wish I could find a place for me

Somewhere I could just be me

Butterflies and raindrops in the air

Everything all good and right and fair

But the world that I live in

Is war-torn and bleeding

The people are screaming

Save me now

Save me now


Rocket ships

And internet

Beautiful people

And it’s all pretend

Take my hand we’ll

Run away

Into fairyland

Where it’s all romance

I wish I could fly above the clouds

Under the cover of midnight’s shroud

Taking my time oh it’s so grand

Soaring so high above the land

But the house that I live in

Is all plastic and filling

And the water is running

And somewhere an animal is dying

Save them now

Save them now



Take me and everybody

Somewhere safe

Somewhere lovely

We’ll swing from tires

And bathe in streams

Living on stardust and dreams


Click here to listen to the tune. Take care. ❤


You Are Unseen Royalty


I am princess, just like many of you (or a prince, if you’re male; princes can be just as lovely and noble, contrary to storybooks where they do nothing but miraculously save the day).

I was not born in a palace. I did not grow up in marble hallways paved with porphyry, wearing silken finery, with pearls in my hair and a pond of precious fish inside my bedroom. I did not, and still do not, live in a world, where suffering does not touch me. I do not go to balls, or have servants waiting on me hand and foot. I am not beloved, in the way beautiful, wealthy and important people are. There are no handsome suitors, waiting in a line for my hand.

But I know I am a princess, nonetheless. Even if all my hair and teeth were to fall out, and my skin to become wrinkled, if I stumbled through the streets in nothing but rags, if all the world burned and raged, and I lay amongst the ashes, nursing my wounds, I would know, with roaring ferocity, that I am, and always will be, a princess.

Because this is what it means, to be a prince, or a princess.

It means not to be wealthy, but to give your wealth to the needy.

It means not to be outwardly beautiful, but to be kind, a kind of unseen beauty.

It means not to live in a home that is like a wonderland, but to have a wonderland living inside your mind.

If you are able to dance to beautiful music in the dark, to stand on a balcony and throw your arms out and smile; if you are able to stroke an animal, and love it; if you can look at an orphanage, on the news, online, and feel nothing but a desire to help the children; if you are the man or woman who sits by themselves near the window and curls up with a good book to float away into the clouds; if Disney movies and childhood films take your breath away; if you are the kind of person to risk your own life to go back into the danger zone to save someone else; if you are an artist, who creates dreams using paintbrushes and pencils, if you believe in magic, and see it everywhere you go—
—then you, my friend, are royalty. You are blessed. You are a prince, a princess. You are beautiful. You shine like flowers in the sunlight. God looks upon you, and he cries tears of joy at your existence, at your exquisite, beautiful heart.

And it’s a funny thing. People who are truly princes and princesses, for most of their lives, never realise they are; usually, not until they get a bit braver, and stronger, more self-aware, and reach out to God in their adulthood, do they realise the beauty that shines from them.

Princes and princesses are not perfect. Like everyone, we commit sin, by which I mean, any act which makes us, after its completion, feel disgraced, or ashamed, or afraid. Our hands are not spotless. Our mouths have not always spoken kind words, nor our minds. But no matter how dark, how dismal, how deeply we fell into hatred or jealousy, our hearts remained pure and lustrous as pearls.

The reason we take so long to realise our birthright is because, from the moment we were born, full of daydreams, sensitivity and hope, our light is attacked by the darkness of others. There is a lot of poison in the world, and all of it comes from the hate, pride, greed and insecurity within the hearts of other people. There is nothing an unkind person hates more than seeing someone else showing kindness; nothing a conventional person hates more than unconventionality; nothing a cowardly person hates more than seeing another being brave; nothing an unimaginative person hates than seeing another bleed creativity from their veins; nothing an unhappy and miserable person hates than someone who seems to have nothing, yet is able to smile at the sight of flowers on the grass; nothing a person who gave up on their dreams and decided to follow society’s norms more than someone who lives boldly and bravely, pursuing their dreams to the ends of the earth, even if they die in the process; nothing someone who sees no magic in the world hates more than someone who seems to find it in everything and everywhere—

You are a creature of light. I say this in the hopes that you will not become egotistical, or self-righteous about it; you are a creature of light, in the way birds fly, and the sky is blue. You did not earn it. That is important. You were blessed with kindness, with the ability to be happy, to see beauty, to daydream, to love and to care for other people and animals. And for the longest time, you will feel completely insignificant and out of place, more bitterly lonely than some people can possibly imagine. A lot of the world is not bright. A lot of the people in this world, while they are beautiful, somewhere on the inside, have lost their light, and have been instead been consumed by darkness.

All those years you were trampled upon, bullied, neglected, abused, treated as stupid, silly, all those years of feeling “different”, left out—all of that, was because you shone too brightly for some people, reminding them of the light they had lost; all of the social persecution, hatred, jealousy directed at you today, is because there is nothing darkness hates more than light. You irritate those people more than anything else in the world, just by doing nothing except being yourself, by daydreaming, by expressing the gifts God has decided to give you, by feeling the happiness that you naturally let burst up from your heart. When people who have lost their light see that, they are so full of rage, and hatred, at themselves, that they seek to destroy you, believing that if they can just annihilate the light before their eyes, they will feel better about their own dark lives. What they don’t know is that darkness, if it destroys light, only becomes darker.

You are a prince. You are a princess. People may—and they will—tear the clothes from your back, whip you until you bleed, throw you into the pigs’ pen, leave you behind while they go to the ball and enjoy themselves, cast you into the wasteland of loneliness until you are in too much pain to even scream, until you lie, broken and gasping, naked and pitiful. Do not give in. The light inside of you will never abandon you. Don’t let people who seem to hate you, and put you down, for no reason, for being happy, for being creative, for being sensitive and kind, for daydreaming, for dancing to music or singing on your way to work, for following your dreams, for knowing you have, on some level, been blessed, gifted —don’t let a single one of them stop you from shining.

Royalty is not something you own, but something you already have, deep inside not a treasure chest, but a heart. You have been crowned, though nothing ugly and golden sits on your head, by the light and goodness that exists in the world; and no matter how much people who live in darkness loathe seeing a carefree, yet ordinary person walking around in a state of shining light, kindness, and a mysterious kind of happiness, a faraway look in their eyes, know that you are blessed, and that there is a kingdom where you belong, amongst angels and stardust.

Do not hate those who hate your light; that is a grave mistake that I make, and still do, because it is so easy to go on the defensive when others hurt you, and often quite badly, without knowing how delicate and sensitive you are; but do not hate them, in your hearts, because they are the ones who live in a dark world of pain that you have no knowledge of, that would make the wasteland they throw you into seem like a lush garden. Instead, let them hurt you, and walk on, stumbling a little, but stumbling towards the light, which is all that matters.

A Little “Doomsday” Prophecy


There is a sight that I hate almost more than anything else in the world, and it is a strange one: that of a prospective parent, be it mother or father, holding their own biological baby to themselves, covetously, closely, greedily. Their body language says it all: this child is mine, look at me, I have made offspring, I have achieved a milestone in life. They are smug, and proud. They are loving, yet cruel.

Because as they hold that very same baby, in their nice home, in a first world country, over tens of millions of orphans exist around the world. Motherless. Fatherless. Starving, dying, getting raped, abused, exploited. Babies. Toddlers. Children.

Somewhere along the line—and perhaps this is a failing of humanity, or modern society in first world-countries—possessing children, giving birth, to one child, two children, or more, carrying that baby in your arms while a diamond ring sparkled on your finger, became a status symbol, like getting married, like owning a house, like owning a car, like going on holidays and splattering your social media with pretty pictures of your lovely, pretty life.

Here’s a little doomsday prophecy for you: in my heart, and in the minds and hearts of scientists and professors around the world, all is not well on Earth. And the reason for this is Overpopulation. Our planet simply has too many people on it. We are almost like ants, crawling over the planet, using up its resources, desecrating its lakes, its forests. I could throw a couple of statistics at you—for instance, that over 27,000 trees are cut down EVERY day to produce toilet paper for everyone around the world. Just think about that. With just that number, for toilet paper, something we use just to wipe ourselves after we go to the bathroom, entire forests are decimated every single year.

The wastage is indescribable. If Mother Nature could speak, she would be speechless with agony and pain. The amount of plastic, the amount of toxic waste, the amount of water consumed, fuel consumed, trees culled, rubbish thrown into the sea, poisonous fumes released into the air, is beyond comprehension.

Somewhere along the line, we forgot we belong to Mother Nature, that we came from God just like the trees and the lakes and the animals. Somewhere along the line, we decided to treat this beautiful planet as our very own playground, to be done with as we pleased.

Overpopulation. Millions of babies, being born everyday, at a rate far greater than people dying. Millions of forests, cut down. When you hurt nature, you hurt yourself. Do you have any idea how important trees are? I won’t go into the science of it—you already know that; they provide oxygen, they provide us with material to build houses and furniture, are homes for thousands of beautiful species of animals. But there is a spiritual aspect to trees you might not know about it. Place your hand against the trunk of a tree, and you will feel immediately at peace. The gentle strength of Mother Nature flows into you.

Bite into a juicy apple. Nature’s sweet gift flows into your mouth, your body, giving you strength. Drink some water, and clear, crystalline power of it enters your entire bodily system, refreshing you, healing you. Breathe air, feel the breeze, lie on the grass—all around you, Mother Nature is holding you close, telling you that you and Her are one. Look at yourself. Blood flows through your veins, you have skin, eyes, like any animal; you live on food that grows out of the ground, with the help of water and sunlight, like magic.

And I tell you that if Earth’s population doesn’t reduce soon, if we don’t start becoming a little more frugal, have less children and instead take care of the fatherless and motherless children that already exist, treat water as a precious commodity instead of something to be poured down the sink, consume less energy—

Then someday, many generations from now, a person will yearn to bite into some fresh fruit, and never be able to.

Someday, countries will go to war over water, something which we, who live in first world countries, get just by turning on a tap.

Someday, trees will be so few in number, the remaining ones will be guarded and preserved like national treasures.

Someday, millions of people will die, on a planet too polluted and broken.

Mother Nature loves you. She provides everything for you. Water, earth to grow food, trees that we can cut down, a couple here and there, to build shelter. But if we keep on taking until she is nearly dead, then we will die, too. We are like babies drinking our mother’s blood, instead of her milk.

I am afraid, and sorrowful.

Life Lessons In Your 20s: Smiling When You’re Sad

I don’t know if many people have ever felt the need to look cheery and happy when in reality they are wailing and sobbing inside their hearts. Probably. I’ve never met someone in real life who has experienced such a feeling. They either smile to show they are happy, or look miserable to show they are sad, or if they have trouble hiding their sorrow but are desperate to do so, look down at the table or the floor. It’s something else, I think, to  smile as brightly as sunshine when you feel like a dead moon.
Funny thing is, though I can remember doing this several times during my life—smiling so wide I wondered if my lips were about to break and then ducking away into some dark and lonely corner tp cry my heart out—when I look back on the incidents that caused me to feel the need to twist myself into a contradition, I wonder why on earth I turned into such an emotional mess over nothing.
Well, in retrospect, it was nothing. At the time, it was everything.
My memories are vague. I think they were so traumatic my brain has actually tried to block them out. Isn’t that ridiculous? Other people block memories of the horrors of war, of horrifying occurrences like rape—and I block out silly moments of childhood and adolescence. Maybe I was just a vapid, little drama queen, desperate for attention, like so many young female teenagers in the world. Or suffering from some kind of deeply-buried childhood trauma I truly don’t remember. I actually don’t know.
I remember…
I remember seeing a boy I liked start loving another girl. Ouch. I smiled so hard that time, trying to make it seem like all was right in the world while was wrong inside of me, that I honestly think I twisted my soul out of shape and it hasn’t been the same since.
Another time…
Another time, I was extremely lonely. I think it was after my father exited my life. I was desperate for male affection. But I was too shy to go seeking for it—I was only seventeen, after all, and socially awkward. And when a friend of mine started dating a lovely, kind boy, I was so overwhelmed with bitterness and jealousy I had to put on my brightest smile as I gushed about this new development of her life with her. It felt like my eyeballs would fall out of my head from the strain. It’s not fair, I remember thinking, some people live such charmed lives, I can’t bear it. She had a caring father, who still loved his family very much. A tall and wonderful brother, so kind he once spent more than fifty dollars once just to buy her a tiny little memorabilia from a franchise she liked. A handsome boyfriend. A wardrobe of beautiful dresses. Beautiful and intelligent, gifted with the written word, lots of family and friends. Popular and adored. Her name echoed down the corridors of the school, spilling fondly from the lips of students who were greeting her or wanted to talk to her. I didn’t hate her. She liked creativity and words, just like me, and I could never hate someone like that. I think I hated myself.
One time, it was because someone else won an award I had been desperately wanting. I would have felt so proud, standing up on that stage. What made it worse, was that everyone thought I would get it. My entire class. But instead, a girl who had never treated me nicely got it instead, and she stood proudly next to another girl, both of them popular and well-liked. Extroverted and beautiful. Like lovely celebrities. And I stood in the crowd, in the shadows. It was the moment I realized sometimes being liked by people is more important for getting ahead in life than trying hard.
Another time, it was for a silly reason. I was nine, I think, and had my birthday party in the park. This was before the divorce. I had been given these strange and lovely balloons, all sorts of strange patterns and shapes. I wanted them all for my party, only, but my cousin started handing them out to other kids in the playground. Suddenly, my party wasn’t special at all, anymore. I remember feeling spiteful, filled with tearful rage. It was strange. I didn’t mind sharing things at school, or with my sister. For some reason, the balloons struck a nerve, but you wouldn’t have known it, looking at me, dancing and skipping on the way home.
I think if someone can see past your smile to the awful tears seeping like blood from a wound behind it, then they deserve to love you. If someone believes your smile when you are actually in agony, you should do yourself a favour and stop letting them fill your precious time.
I still have never dated anyone, I haven’t won any awards except for one writing competition four years ago, I forget my birthdays, I don’t lead the charmed lives some people do, all the men I have found likeable so far have had girlfriends or been married, I’m not the least bit popular amongst my acquaintances and still keep to myself a lot…
…but I am no longer unhappy. For years, I have never had to stretch my lips wide and crinkle the corners of my eyes in false happiness in front of anyone, when I truly want to scream out a neverending vortex of darkness. I think discovering God helped me. He soothes me all the time. Writing, daydreaming, movies and films, anime, music, studying—these fill my days, and make them bright, like the sun. I like to watch people, and the way sunlight slants through the clouds. I like animals and children. I like vegetables and fruits, they are nature’s jewels. I know everything will turn out okay in the end, even if it doesn’t, because God wilk always be there to catch you when you fall. I really believe that.
And the misery only comes once every blue moon, but when it does, I make sure to show my true feelings at the time.
Because the only one forcing you to smile when you are unhappy is yourself.
PS: I’ve recently realised how very INFP one of my main characters I write about is—she is often quite, and reflective, and full of shattered dreams. And in the end, instead of choosing love, to live happily ever after with her prince, she decides to sacrifice herself to save the world. A sweet flower, falling into the fire, so the forest won’t get burned. There is something so brilliantly romantic about martyrdom.

A Childhood Wonderland


There are things inside my heart that have never seen the light of day, but are as gentle and miserable as a butterfly trapped inside a glass cage.

My yearning to return to the happy days of my childhood, a desire so powerful sometimes I feel as though I will be choked by my sadness. Bits of memories, that flash through my mind. Restaurant outings before my family split in two, laughing and talking around the table, walking home together under the stars at night. Days and nights spent at my father’s bakery, where I grew up, a tiny wonderland of delicious pastries and desserts. Fireworks against the sky. The feel of my father’s hands, the shape of his nails.

It all comes back to the happiest period of my life: a childhood spent inside a world of sugar and flour, fruit and egg, milk and chocolate. I tell a lot of people about my father being a baker, but no-one can truly understand how happy I was, living upstairs of that scrumptious establishment. Tasting the chocolate goodies and biscuits, eating them with a bowl of milk before bed. I would always choose the Chocolate Hedgehog, and my sibling the Happy Face, a biscuit dipped in chocolate, sprinkled with hundreds and thousands, and with Smarties for eyes, a chocolate mouth.

I would help my father clean the steel tables after he’d made pies, scraping away the flour, some of it hardened so it was extra tricky, and afterwards he would reward me with a bright, $2 coin. Under the kitchen tables, there were boxes filled with plastic sacks of dried orange peels or sultanas, which I would eat, gathering up a handful. At night, when the shop was closed, I would go out into the front, in the dim lights, with the display cases all filled with pastries and sweets and gently glowing, and my sister and I would play, pretending we were maidens lost in a forest, casting flowers out of her baskets onto the grass.

Vitamin C tablets in a jar on a wooden shelf, so tasty and acidic. The Mario games my father used to play, with the diligence of a mastermind, in between his work hours. Machines whirring deep into the night, rolling out dough, oven doors being slammed open and shut. Flour, everywhere. The time I stuck my tongue on some ice in the freezer because of something I had read in a book. The big freezer at the back of the bakery, filled with all the frozen goods, which my father always, jokingly, threatened to lock me up in, if I kept on misbehaving.

The snails I kept as pets. The rock sugar lollies, the gummy fruits. Watching my father decorate cakes, piping the icing into beautiful swirls, decorating them with his chocolate script, little carrot sprinkles and tiny silver balls. Cherries glazed in sugary syrup, which I found absolutely disgusting. Treats, delicious food, left, right and centre. The way he would play rock, scissors and paper with me, while I sat on the table, swinging my legs.

The make-believe games I played with my sister, using pencil cases to whack a balloon back and forth across the room, screaming “Lifesaver” if we hit a balloon upwards just before it touched the carpet. The endless movies and cartoons. Trips to McDonalds and KFC, coming back on the train. A shop that sold trillions of buttons in all different designs and shapes, as numerous as there are people on this planet, and fabrics in tall, towering posts. Lying in bed at night, and feeling the train passing by make the floor of the bedroom I shared with my sister gently rumble. The jelly my father used to always buy me, because he knew it was my favourite food.

You know, there might be a reason why I love fantasy so much. It’s because I practically grew up in one.

And then it all ended. It was like a room going dark. No, worse: it was like a busy house, full of colour and people, suddenly empty and grey. I was thrown from a beautiful wonderland into a cold, barren winterscape. One moment I was clothed, and alone in my room; the next, naked, and standing in front of a crowd of people.
I lost my father. Not in the physical sense, technically. He is still alive. If I wanted to, I could go see him. But he has changed entirely, in ways that are too traumatising for me to put into words. The last time I saw him, I felt like I was meeting a stranger, and the feeling—of loving someone so completely, and having them change like that—was nearly darker than anything I have ever felt before. I was a coin that had been flipped, and fallen into the gutter. I cried on the bus ride home, and then forgot about it. I didn’t even really know why I was crying. Crying because I had lost something, I suppose.

I will never have any of it back. I will never find it again. Not for as long as I live. Even if I forge a new life, full of my own magic and wonder, that tiny world of magic, of my childhood, is locked away, forever beyond my reach.

In this life, heartbreak is common. People talk about healing from heartbreak.

That’s not true. You never heal. Not for as long as you live. The people who say they get over things, like deaths and divorces, are lying, and probably in too much pain to admit it to themselves. Instead, you just keep walking around with the pain inside of you. Sometimes, you forget about it. In fact, most of the time, given long enough, it even seems to not even be there—you are laughing, joking. You are jubilant.

But inside, deep inside, where the pain is, there is nothing. And that nothingness will always be there, like a hole punched right through your chest. Like an empty treasure box. Like looking at some bones and a skull, and realising they were once a living, breathing person, just like you. Like burning books. It will be there until the day you die. And I say this as someone who has only suffered an unbelievably tiny fraction of the pain some people in this world and throughout history have.

So I guess it’s lucky we have God.

PS: Still unleashing my yearning for the lofty and idealistic by writing—am currently brewing inside my imagination a love story between two people set in a clockwork, Victorian world. It’s nothing original, but it sure is dreamy and satisfying. What I love most about stories, and books, is the last paragraph, or line. It has to be poignant—they fly off, ready for a new life—or tragic, the sun shines through a window and illuminates a music box, that will never be wound up again. Does stuff like that just make your heart spread its wings and shimmer?


Diary Entry 6: Wistful


Well, it’s almost 10pm at night, and I am sitting in front of the laptop, by myself, feeling quite lonely and depressed, as I usually do. And, as usual, these posts are meant to make you feel like you are having a conversation with me, an ordinary young woman who feels herself to be quite insignificant a lot of the time. Let’s see. What is there to say? Well, I thought I would be bored until July, which is when my Age Care course starts, but it turns out I will be joining a Retail course on the 10th of April, something that will keep me occupied for hopefully some time, which is good. Lately, I have also been reading a good deal of the Harry Potter series, because whenever I get depressed, I get this urge to escape into another world, and Harry Potter is one of the best, most well-written magical fictional worlds that exists. I’ve also been trying very hard not to have flashbacks about this young man I used to like. I don’t think he ever liked me–in fact, I have a feeling he thought me quite insane and obsessive, the details of which I would rather not recount—but in typical INFP fashion I admired him from afar, and he still lives in my heart, quite as strong as ever, even though it has been more than a couple of years since I have seen him.
Hm. Everything I write in this post will undoubtedly make you feel much better about your own life. I was very tempted to overdose on pills today because I simply saw no future for myself. I am going to eventually train to be a nurse, but I hardly–well, I’m just not sure if I have the right personality for it, if I’m really even cut out for the job. More than twenty times today I have either lain down on the bed or the floor, praying to God for things to change or wishing that I had never been born. I was bored a lot of the time as well, because there are still ten days—ten miserable days—until my retail course starts and I can begin getting out of the house and doing things. i keep on having this secret feeling that if I just hold on for long enough, if I just keep living, eventually, something good is going to happen and my entire life will turn around. But nothing has happened, and I am beginning to grow afraid nothing ever will, until the day I die. I feel incomplete. I feel like my entire life I have been holding my breath, waiting for something to happen, and—well, I’m still holding it, and probably will do is until my deathbed. I mean, what I want to know is, is this all there is? I feel as though there should be something more to life. I want shooting stars and meeting handsome strangers in midnight cafes and chocolate birds that really fly. I don’t know if I’m making much sense. it’s just that reality is so intolerably dull, and I yearn for some escape from it, I really do.
The truth is, I hate life on planet Earth. One of the happiest times of my life was when I had a psychotic episode, and believed I was an angel on a mission for God, because then, magic, even though it was all inside my head, for a brief moment, was real and true, and I felt at home. I’m not sure how much more of reality I can take, or how many more times I can, inside my head, bang my head repeatedly against the wall in exasperation. I just wish I could ride on a Ferris Wheel at sunset for all eternity–though I suppose even that would get boring after a while—rather than spend my days in complete boredom living an average, day-to-day life. it’s why I feel suicidal, really; I am someone who hungers for novelty and variety, and this world can only show so many faces. I am exhausted by the dullness of life. As an INFP, I do believe I have lost my sense of child-like wonder and delight. Nothing is delightful or wonderful anymore, not even books; and I am left sitting by myself in the dark, alone and with empty hands, praying for a miracle that never comes.

Diary Entry 5


dusty gray.jpg

Well, it’s the second day of depression, and I haven’t jumped off a bridge or taken any medication, so that’s good. I am still feeling quite apathetic about everything. It’s as if nothing interests me anymore, and everything is boring.  Even the words I am typing right now take a tremendous deal of effort. Everything is painful, and difficult.

I’ve never really felt like I’ve belonged anywhere before. I never had a group of friends, or people who I could hang out with and feel good around. Because I’m depressed, even as I write this, I feel the urge to stop and just lie on my bed and waste away the hours, but I’m not going to do that because it’s not good for my mental health. The urge to kill myself is getting very strong, though I’m still afraid to act on it so it’s likely I won’t be hospitalised any time soon. What was I talking about? Oh, yes. The point, again, by the way, of these diary entries, is for you, dear reader, to feel as though I am sitting with you, and having a conversation. Likely it will be a very boring sort of conversation, with a very sad and melancholy sort of person, but I hope, if you are feeling lonely yourself, or perhaps just might be interested in what I have to say, will glean some comfort or hope from my words. I’ve always been pretty much a loner. It’s strange. I just can’t seem to properly connect with people. Whenever I meet someone and speak to them, we only talk of trivialities, and there’s no deeper connection between us, no spark. I don’t think I’ve met someone ever in life with whom I’ve had an abiding connection with, a sense that we perhaps met in another life, or something like that, and have known each other before. I feel very lonely.

And it’s more than loneliness. I feel alone in my view of life and the world, which is a very bleak one. I don’t know what it is that keeps other people getting out of bed in the morning and living their lives, it’s incomprehensible to me, because everything in the world, when you are depressed, seems so pointless and meaningless. Other people live, laugh, work, eat, breathe, have families, go on holidays, and I feel myself to be entirely removed from that sphere of life, standing on the outskirts and looking in through the window. My greatest fear is that I will live a boring life, doing nothing very much in particular except working, never get married, never be a part of the normal flow of things, and then die, childless and unloved, of old age, in hospital, of cancer or heart failure. I can’t exactly explain it—but I always feel like I’m standing on the outside, looking at other people and their lives, and seeing how wonderful or at least satisfying their lives are, while I am completely lost, on my own, filled with insecurities and loneliness. I don’t know where I fit in. When I look at nature, at trees and grass, at the sky, I see only mindless apathy, an indifference beyond belief.


I’m also going through a pretty bad creative slump, and am so tired from lack of sleep for several nights glands inside my neck have swollen up and are very tender and painful. Really, do read this just to feel better about yourself, because all this post is is a litany of complaints on my part. I am going through a major creative slump when it comes to my writing. Normally I have a wealth of ideas—a while ago, I did—but now, the river of inspiration has run completely dry and I am left beached on the dry banks, heaving and spluttering. Writing isn’t an easy job, but it’s never been this bad before, and I am afraid I will never achieve my writing dreams. Granted, I am only nineteen, but that makes no difference; I’m too impatient and overeager, and wish I could snap my fingers to improve my writing prowess, just like that. Okay, now, just then, I felt another powerful urge to stop writing this blog post. To just give up. That’s what depression wants you to do, to relinquish everything and give yourself over to nothingness. I won’t. I will stand strong, and firm. I know I have what it takes to write a good book, but it’ll just take a great deal of time and effort, maybe even years of hard work. But I’ll get there eventually. I think in life it’s very important to follow your heart and listen to what it has to say. What feels right is generally the correct thing to do, and for me, writing does feel right, it feels like the thing I was born to do, and so I will keep following my heart, the trail of happiness, to wherever it may lead me.


Diary Entry 4: Depression


Life, for me, has always seemed lonely and terrifying. I am afraid of everything. I am afraid of being ordinary, of being stupid and never achieving anything worthwhile over my lifetime. I am afraid of boredom. I am afraid of never finding someone to marry because of my mental issues and dying alone and childless. I am afraid of the night. Heck, I’m even afraid of walking down the street by myself, not because I think someone will or attack me or anything like that, but because whenever I do so, with the cars whooshing past on the roads, and everyone else going about their business, I feel a loneliness so overwhelming I can hardly bear it.

It’s as if everyone else has an in-built self-comforting device that I wasn’t born with. I can’t soothe myself. I don’t think, since the day I was born, I have ever felt completely calm and collected in my entire life. I’m pretty sure even as a baby in my mother’s womb I was having some kind of panic attack, getting riled up over something only an unborn baby could fret about, like choking on the umbilical cord or coming out between my mother’s legs the wrong way, headfirst instead of feet. I get anxious about my looks, because I feel like I shorn sheep now that I’ve cut my hair really short, and the sense of ugliness is something I carry around with me like a dirty shawl, old and unkempt. I can barely even pick up a book and read it these days because all words do is remind me of the writing dreams I once had and which now seem so very much out of reach and impossible.

I’m a mess. I’m neurotic, insane (I’ve had a psychotic episode before, where I thought I was an angel sent on a mission by God, and was found wandering the city late at night by the police) and crazy. I’m a tight spring, always coiled up, and I feel completely alone in my misery. As a child, books and films soothed me, but now that I am older, reality has pushed itself right into my face, and it’s leering at me, grinning a mouth of dirty teeth, and I can’t look away from it, I simply cannot. I’m too afraid to kill myself at this point, but I don’t feel as though I can continue living in reality any longer. Even the words I am typing right now are disgusting to me, because I am in a state of mind where I loathe everything I write and everything I think or say is pathetic and useless.

 The best way I describe what it feels like to be suicidal is that it’s like you’re dangling over a precipice, and holding onto a string. The string is keeping you from dropping to your death, but only just, and with every passing second the string starts to break apart further, so that any moment, it could snap completely and send you plummeting into the abyss. I am holding onto that string, with my eyes tightly shut, hoping it will not break, yet terrified that it will.

To try and not kill myself, I have been trying to remind myself of all the wonderful things life still holds for me. I still have people I would like to meet, friends I can make. I might start a family one day, have a loving husband and children of my own. While I doubt I will get published, I will have some sort of job or work eventually, and perhaps gain some satisfaction from that. Sometimes, I will save up enough money to go on holidays, and that would be nice. Yes, just a nice, ordinary life, with its small joys and hopes, is what I am looking for; and it is these things I am clinging onto while every part of me screams at me to down a whole heap of pills in one go or jump off the bridge near my house. Writing on this blog, too, is helping me, and perhaps it will help anyone else out there who is struggling with depression or self-loathing.

When I get depressed, I hate everything about myself. I hate what I write. I hate the words I say—they seem boring and pathetic. I hate my own thoughts, I hate the way I sit, the way I move, I hate my own reflection, I hate the sound of my own voice. I don’t understand people who seem so calm and happy all the time. What is their secret, I wonder? What is it that makes me different from them? Am I just strange, defective? Broken?

The problem is, I don’t know who I am. I really don’t. I’m turning 20 this year, and still have no idea who I want to be or what I want to do with my life. Since my studies haven’t started, I have very few friends and people I can talk to, and even when I go to public places, like the shopping centre or the library, where I am surrounded by people, I still feel sad and lonely because I have no-one to talk to or confide in. I don’t know what it means to be human, and I’m puzzled as to why I was born in the first place. I’m puzzled as to why people have children, and I’m puzzled as to how everyone can be happy and satisfied with their ordinary lives, when I feel as though only something extraordinary could ever possibly make me happy.

What I hate most of all is my own ordinariness. I will live a boring, lower-or-middle-class life, spend my days engaged in ordinary activities, and then one day end up at hospital, dying in a great deal of pain. Is there more to life than this? Surely there is. Surely there must be something out there in the world which is fresh and exciting. Surely I can’t possibly languish in this hell-hole for the rest of my life. But what is there, except for reality, for trees and food, parks and stations, buses and trains? No matter who dies or cries or screams, life goes on, as it has always done, and always will.

There’s no-one I can turn to. In life, you are truly alone. Or perhaps that’s just me. Other people have boyfriends, spouses, husbands, family members they can rely on, but I feel no affinity with my mother and brother, no connection to them whatsoever. No knight-in=shining-armour is going to come waltzing into my life on the back of a white horse and come save me, that’s just not how reality works. Reality is the worst. It is ugly and terrible. Flowers bloom for a little while, but then they must wither, and that is reality, withered flowers, dead and gone. I wish I knew who I was. I wish I had never been born. I wish I had some answers. I wish I didn’t want to kill myself. I wish I could wave a magic wand, and make all the pain and loneliness, all the confusion and despair, just disappear.

The Reality Of Depression


Well. The depression has returned. It came back three days ago, and I have a feeling the beast will be staying for a long while this time, biding its time, sitting on my chest like an unwelcome dog. I haven’t slept in three days, and feel like hell. Even the slightest, tiniest of tasks, like sipping a bit of water from a cup, or relieving my bladder, takes a monumental effort; I’ve got heart palpitations from anxiety, and nausea and dizziness to boot. Nothing I write is the least bit good, and my writing dreams are dust. When I get like this, I see nothing—no future, no past, no present, just endless pain and misery, for eternity.

There’s no hope. Granted, I’m not suicidal yet, I don’t have any plans to kill myself, but it is likely I’ll be hospitalised before the week is out if my mood keeps up. I’m just sick and tired of everything. Sick and tired of writing and never getting anywhere with it. Of staying home, and feeling like I have no future, no career, no hopes or dreams, nothing to look forward to or be happy about. Everything is colourless and dull; there’s nothing more depressing than the world outside, with its cars trundling down the streets, the empty pavements, the grey leaden sky, the people on the buses and trains, living in their own separate houses. Every word I write is a barbed thorn, digging into my flesh. Depression isn’t anything to laugh at; it’s black, it’s dark and all-consuming. It is the lack of hope itself, the world become a pencil-drawing instead of a rich, colourful canvas. I can’t remember the last time I was truly happy.

When I get particularly depressed, as I am now, a dark, thick self-loathing overtakes my mind and body completely. I can’t look inside mirrors, and every word I say, every movement I make, is pathetic and disgusting. I can’t stand being alive. I can’t stand my own presence. All I want to do is lie down, in a dark room, take a few hundred pills, and go to sleep forever, so I will no longer have to bear reality and all its sharp edges. I want to step out of my body, shed it like a butterfly does it chrysalis, and flutter away on angels’ wings to heaven, to somewhere pleasant, without pain or fear or despair. When I get depressed, I wish I had never been born.

I really feel quite ill. The only purpose of this post is to shed some light on the reality of depression. I feel sick and nauseous, deep down to my very core; the lymph nodes at my neck are all tender and swollen, and I can’t breathe, as if there’s a pillow clamped to my chest. I have a pretty good idea for a book, but not the writing skills to bring it to execution, and I cannot help but feel that my dream of becoming a writer is out of reach for good. When I get depressed, everything is irritating and unbearable; the light of the sun, my family’s attempts to speak to me; all books and films become boring and banal. .

Whenever I get depressed, I wonder how it is that everyone else can remain so happy and calm, and go about their days with such faith and motivation. Why is it that only some people have demons? What makes one person more susceptible to the blues than someone else? It doesn’t make any sense, and I am full of jealousy towards those who live their lives happily, untroubled and carefree, because it seems to be a state I can never attain.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this no-sleeping business up. Twice, I have run through my head suicidal methods—there’s pills I’ve been taking for depression, paracetamol in the drawers in the kitchen, which I can overdose on, and close to where I live a bridge that overlooks a reservoir of water which I can jump off from if I need to. It’s hard to explain to someone who isn’t depressed why I would want to take such a drastic step. I’m still afraid of doing it so far, but some part of me wants to do it, desperately, because I can’t stand being myself, being conscious and existing, for a moment longer. Life has become unbearable; it’s as though someone has crammed a lump of something disgusting into my mouth, and I want to spit it out—by which I mean, kill myself. I do sincerely wish I had never been born. I wish I could return to a better place, to my childhood, when everything was fun and exciting. I’m lost in life, and I don’t know who I am, or where I am going; I want to find satisfaction, contentment, happiness, but all these things seem as out of reach as the sun, and instead of smiling all I feel like doing is throwing up.


Diary Entry 3

Nothing much has been happening in my life lately, and I couldn’t think of a good topic to write about, so this will be another rambling entry, a peek into the life and mind of another human being. I haven’t been sleeping well these past few days, and it’s been bothering me. I can’t seem to get comfortable. I don’t much like beds, strangely enough; I find them to be dull and lonely places, and much prefer sleeping in public places, on transport and at libraries. There’s just something so awful about sleeping by yourself in a stuffy bed in a room all by yourself that I ended up watching three Youtube videos last night—each of them of a woman holiday in Virginia Islands, Venice and Morocco—before spending the rest of the night lying in bed trying to fall asleep and failing terribly. To be honest, very few things interest me these days, not books I used to like, not films. All of reality is starting to feel dull, except for my own reading of nursing topics, such as health assessments and anatomy. There’ s just something so fascinating about disease, and the human body; all of life is such a miracle, even when things go wrong. I think it would be good for my studies to start soon, if only so I can have some human interaction and make some more friends. These days, since I have nothing much to do except study nursing topics and do a bit of creative writing, I try and leave the house and go to the library everyday, just for a change of environment and so that I can be around other people. I might be introverted, but even the most  shy and hermit=like of introverts would grow depressed spending hours by themselves in an empty hours for days on end, as I have been doing.

Let’s see. What else is there to talk about. The purpose of pieces like this is for you to feel almost as though you are having a conversation with me, in person, though in reality it’s really basically my substitute for friendship at the moment, since I don’t have many friends and likely won’t be making any new ones anytime soon. I find it very hard to find good friends. Sometimes, people just don’t get along, no matter how polite and affable both parties are, it’s a very strange and peculiar thing. In fact, apart from friends I’ve made online (and mostly through this blog), I don’t think I’ve ever met someone I felt completely comfortable and happy around. Maybe my father, perhaps, but he has long left the arena of my life, so there’s no point in dwelling on that anymore. Good human company is rare. That’s why I spend so much of my time alone. I wish I could get a cat. I love cats, and they make great company, in a soft and silent way. I wonder what it is about myself that makes it hard for me to find friends? Is it my personality? I’m a very quiet, subdued, calm person, who likes writing and daydreaming, so I think people I would get along with would be particularly kind or sensitive people, who can see beyond an introverted exterior into the heart of the person within. If I ever get a boyfriend, he would certainly have to be a very kind and patient man.

It worries me, my introverted nature. I don’t know how I am going to cope with the constant social interaction as a nurse, though I suppose I could just act as a medical professional and get the job done without engaging in too much social chit-chat. Oh, here’s something interesting that happened recently: after a long drought, I picked up my creative writing again. Only a little of it, because writing fiction for too long tires me out, but I’m writing again, at the very least, which is always a good thing. I don’t know what I want at the moment. I feel  kind of quiet and lost, like an orphan sitting on the steps of a house holding a cat in her lap, silently looking out at the world moving past around her. Lately I’ve been realising how very ordinary I am, and how I will simply live and die, and that will be that. It’s not a nice thought. Surely there must be something more to life than the world we see before our eyes?

Where is my place in this world? Where do I belong? In books, in worlds of the imagination—but even they, these days, are starting to feel empty. I don’t know quite how to explain it, but even books these days are starting to seem ordinary, because they were created by human hands and human minds. I want something otherworldly to happen to the world. I want magic to be real and true. I want angels to descend from the skies and hell fires to burn in people’s fireplaces. There was once a time when even a Vegemite sandwich was a source of novelty and delight for me, but now, everything seems so—so irritatingly ordinary. I don’t know if I am making much sense. Maybe it would be a good idea for me to spend a little money and go watch a movie or something, just to spice things up a little, or at least make plans to save for traveling somewhere so I do not entirely lose my zest for life. Existence just seems very pointless, really, and all our efforts, all pleasures and joys, silly and meaningless. Not even cupcakes cheer me up. It’s not good.