Favourite Books, TV shows, Films & Music

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Another week has passed, ladies and gentleman. Let us congratulate ourselves for making it through another week. Only kidding, this isn’t the Hunger Games. Actually, I don’t even think I should be making jokes about the Hunger Games, because the reality of the games is so terrible and awful, so excuse me for that bad quip. How did your week go? I hope your life is faring well. Continue reading

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A Blog Post Written On Different Days

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8:30pm 20/05/2018

I thought I might write a small ramble today, just to catch up with all of you, my readers, and have a little heart-to-heart chat. Let’s see. What’s new with me. Nothing much, really. I’ve been spending my days writing novels and short stories, and the rest of the time studying to be a librarian—I think I might as well finish my course, before I start another in a more writing-related disciple, since I am so close to completing it. Continue reading

A Play-By-Play of ME! Taylor Swift feat. Panic! At the Disco

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CLICK HERE to watch the music video and support Taylor Swift!

Let us begin. The music video starts off with a snake, a beautiful white and pink one, slithering across rainbow-coloured cobblestones, and then slowly rearing up as if to bite you through the screen, except just as it is about to strike, it explodes into beautiful, rainbow-coloured butterflies. One butterfly flies past a window of a high-rise apartment in a pastel-blue colour, and inside, Taylor and Brendon, the pretend-couple in this music video, are having an argument in French, during which Taylor Swift refers to her cats Meredith and Olivia as their “daughters”. Continue reading

Daily Inkling: “Randomizer” Story

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I have been challenged by the blog Normal Happenings: Appreciating Everyday Life to write a ten sentence word story based on randomly generated words. Thank you to Normal Happenings for making this happen. Here goes. Continue reading

An INFP in a Post-Apocalyptic World

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This was once a world where animals breathed and waters ran free and strong.

Now, there is nothing.

I stand on top of a skyscraper, staring upwards at the sun. The sun’s rays slanted down towards me, like a kind of annihilation, and I wondered if one day, sooner or later, the sun would disappear too, explode in a supernova of rays of deadly light and scorch us all to death. Continue reading

An Odd Ramble

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Sometimes, I wish I was someone else. Like, some kind of magical, powerful creature with one red eye, one green, who can wield plants, make them magically appear and charge towards people, wrapping around people and saving them from certain death—

Ahem. I’ve been writing. Writing is a curious thing. It really is. On the one hand, it’s blissful and amazing; on the other hand, it’s horrible and hard, difficult and annoying; and one never seems able to write anything that is satisfactory; I always seem to fall short of what I want my writing to be. I’m in the process of looking over a piece of writing, of 60,000 words, a YA novel, that I’ve been working on for a while, and which I’m putting through its final edit. While editing is fun, and I enjoy, very much, reading my own book, I can’t help but feel fear that, once again, this book will get rejected by publishers and I’ll be pushed back to square one.

I don’t want the fame or money that comes with writing—those things are temporary and alluring, like will o’ the wisps that lure you to your death in some swampy river water. What I want is to have something I created to be read and enjoyed by other people. Obviously, on some level, I’ve accomplished this through this blog, but there are so many words and stories inside of me yearning to be seen and known, and enjoyed, that it’s nearly impossible for me not to write. To not write, for me, is to not live.

As for life itself, I still haven’t got it figured out. I wish the trees and the roads felt less…empty. The world feels so empty sometimes, like it’s the loneliest and saddest place that could possibly ever exist. This feeling tends to fade when I am surrounded by people, but when I spend long stretches of time by myself, it grows and grows, like taffy when it is pulled apart, until I can barely bear it. Why do we exist? Why do we live? I believe in God—I am Christian, after all—and Jesus, and I believe God gives me meaning in life, and has put me on this planet to share my writing and the words inside of me. I don’t know where my path in life will lead me, but I do hope it meanders towards something bright and beautiful.

I ended up deleting a post about some students who bullied me in school, because, lo and behold, they managed to get onto my blog, and one of their friends started to harass me on Instagram, telling me to take down the post. While I felt it was somewhat giving in, I had do it, because harassment is not cool and I needed to put a stop to it. Sometimes, I wonder how people live their lives, and how they find pleasure in the shallow world of trips to nice countries and physical pleasures and pretty clothes, because those things, lovely as they might be, don’t bring me lasting happiness. Words do. Magic does. Kindness does. Giving to those who needed, helping people, doing God’s work—all those things bring meaning to my life. Books. Music. Pets.

If any of you would like me to do more posts about INFPs, I’d be happy to do it. This blog sort of evolved into a blog about INFPs, even though I changed the blog’s name to my own name (the reason is present in the previous post) and I’m still always wracking my brain, trying to think of more INFP posts I could write. It feels as though I’ve exhausted many of the avenues of blog ideas already.

Loneliness still hits me, every now and then, but instead of filling it with something that doesn’t actually fill the hole, like a boyfriend or food, or fantasies of magical worlds and whatnot, I fill it with God’s love, which surrounds me every second of every day. Some people might think this is pathetic, and just a way of dealing with loneliness and singledom, and, for those who don’t believe in God, even delusional, but God does exist, He is real, and He is there for me, every single second of everyday, deep inside my heart. I wish everyone a brilliant, beautiful start to the new year, and hope you live happily.

🎄 Hearts and Gingerbread 🎄

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This is a dark short story I wrote for this upcoming Christmas season, about a sad, lonely woman who lives in a gingerbread house and lures men into her home, and how she came to be there and became the person she was.

 

I eat men for breakfast.

I lure them into my gingerbread cottage, with promises of love and affection, in bed and out of it, and offer them chocolate chip cookies that taste of faintly of laudanum the next morning, when they’re dusted in the sugar of my skin. They die quite quickly. After that, I put them in the oven and cook them, until they’re golden brown and well-done on the inside.

Continue reading

The Girl Who Fell In Love With The Villain

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I fell in love with a prince who turned out to be a villain.

He wasn’t the knight in shining armour, riding on his horse to save me, but a sorcerer of black magic, dealing in potions that glimmered with dark radiance and evil objects capable of inflicting curses. Even though he was handsome, he was dark, dark as sin, and a curl of black vine-like tattoos traced across his left cheekbone, like a mark, a brand of evil. He came to me, not to love me or rescue me, but to take my blood and my power, both magical, and make him mine, a veritable endless supply of sacrificial blood and strength. Continue reading

My Writing Process

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I just finished reading “The Martian” by Andy Weir, and while it was a magnificent book, chock-a-block with scientific facts and space terminology that went right over my head, and I found the main character, Mark Watney, to be brilliant and funny, the ending absolutely blew. Completely. In terms of the build-up and amount of suspense gearing up towards the ending, I expected something earth-shattering and irrevocable to happen. Instead (spoiler alert!), it all passed without a hitch and everybody lived happily ever after like a bunch of fairytale princes and princesses living in their castles and sipping on fine, red wine or something. Continue reading

A Princess Story

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I used to be a princess, pampered and beloved. I spent my days in the palace gardens, playing amongst the flowers and butterflies. Ladies-in-waiting tended to my every need, threading beautiful hairpins into my hair, tying it up into knots and curlicues. I wore the most beautiful gowns, each one lovelier than the last, and had grand, lavish meals in the castle’s banquet room. I dreamed of one day marrying a prince, for him to kiss me under a blue moon, and give birth to an heir to the throne. I wondered what it would be like, to spend the wedding night with him, and how much joy I would have spoiling our children. I loved my wealth, my prettiness and my own grandeur. Everyone loved and flattered me.
Then came the war.
They took everything. My home, my palace. Every servant I had, their throats were cut and slit, their bodies bled dry. My father was beheaded, and my mother, too, and the opposing army’s soldiers, from a kingdom neighbouring ours, had their way with me, in that moonlit room, one after another.
Somehow, I survived. Maybe they got a little tired of the killing. Maybe they thought I was a pretty thing, and I wanted to keep me around for later, like a child stowing away a sweet. Either way, I was kept, I was left alone. They left me there, in that cold, empty bedroom, without anyone by my side except a small kitten.
The kitten and I, together, we grew stronger. I named her Strength, and we formed and built a new life together, on the ashes of the bodies I was forced by the soldiers to haul out into the palace gardens. Every so often, a triage of soldiers would visit the place, and desecrate me. I became pregnant. The children I gave birth to were taken away from me.
Then, one night, a witch visited me, from the closest village, riding on a broomstick up to my window. She whispered secrets in my ear, and touched a finger to my forehead. Having been granted witchcraft, I started practising magic.
When the soldiers next visited my bedroom, I was ready for them.
An onslaught of magic, and they were nothing but smears of blood against the parquet floor. Well. Good job, my princess. Strength, look at what we have done. This is marvellous. Blood-thirsty and filled with vengeful hate, I left the castle, and scoured the land, searching for victims. Any soldier from the neighbouring kingdom I met, I slaughtered. I brought Strength with me, perched on my shoulder, and became known as the Nightmare Witch and her Secret Cat. Day after day, I spent killing those who had dared to take over my kingdom, the magic building in my veins like bile. I found the children I had given birth to, with my eyes, my nose, my skin. I took them, enfolded them in my arms, for they were innocent, for I was strong enough, now, to face the products of my horrific pain.
I built a new kingdom, upon the dead bodies of those who had dared to threaten us in the first place. I called it Hope. I became a queen, instead of princess—no longer did I laugh gaily, or dream of princes. Instead, I laughed, maniacally, at the thought of my lost innocence, and dreamed of a day when men would no longer plunder and slaughter, and realise any crimes in this lifetime are eventually judged by the Great One. And when the kingdom finally crowned me, to much cheering and fanfare, for lifting the shadow from their lands, I did not shed a tear, or unleash a single sob. Instead, I stood tall and proud, and spied the flash of a small figure on a broomstick, flying off into the sunset.