“Figure It Out” By A Dreamer

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Trying to figure it out

And I don’t even know

How to buy a house

And to build a home

And you say I do care

We can live in a shack by the beach

You say it’s so unfair

The way rich people eat

Chorus

Well, I’m…

Trying to figure it out

Take my hand and we’ll run away

I’m taking destiny into our hands

We’ll make the stars align

You and I…

But you tell me you want the cash

Because the bills are piling up

And I’ve got nothing in my stash

Just cigarettes and nothing much

And you say, “Come on, now”

We can’t live like this

We want a baby someday

And if can’t do that for me…

Chorus x1

Bridge

Leave me, my dear

You and I are not, meant to be

Leave me, my dear

For you and I have no destiny

Click on the link to listen to it. Thanks for reading.

https://vocaroo.com/i/s0oEoN99AEWO

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Things INFPs Do That Make Others Think We Are Silly

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

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

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

Talk to things that shouldn’t be spoken to

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

Get lost outside

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

Gets lost inside

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

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

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

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

Dances to music

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

Is told that her dreams may not come true

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

Gets lost in daydreams

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

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

Loves books so much she screams

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

A Talkative House—Artistic Piece

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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.

“Nobody” The Song By A Dreamer

 

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I’m no-one

 

And I’m talking about nothing

You say to me things

And I don’t hear a thing

For I am nothing but an empty book

Chorus 1

You see me go

And then you don’t

I live for the world

But I’m just a word

You want me to stay

But I won’t do that

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

I once was somebody bright

But now the darkness stole the light

I wish for a better place to be

And not to live in disharmony

I wish you would hold onto me

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

And I’d rather stay in anonymity

Chorus 2

I want to be heard

But to be like a bird

Free from prying eyes

And those who darken your skies

You never know

What they might do

Could kill you

And take your heart, too

Bridge

You will realise one day

That not everybody’s here to play

And not everyone is here to be with you and stay

Well…

I’m no-one

And I’m talking about nothing

You say to me things

And I don’t hear a thing

For I am nothing but an empty book

Click HERE to listen to the song.

A Small Piano Tune

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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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Another Little Ramble

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Dear Dreamers

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

Well.

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you.

Kind regards

Dreammerrambling

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A Little Ramble

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It’s a very good thing, to escape into fantasy sometimes. I really do think it is.
I don’t know what it is about it. Actually, well, I do: reality is just so, well, boring.
Magical lands. Magical creatures. Adventures. Romance. Beautiful clothes, jewels that can unlock doors.
What’s there not to like?
But lately, save for the odd book or two—like Torches in the Night by Sabir Tahir, and Strange the Dreamer by Laini Taylor—and the trailers for the video game Overwatch—I have been finding it very hard to find good, quality content. Is it just me, or are books and movies, at the ones written these days, less original? Why hasn’t there been another Harry Potter series, or a Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?
Anyway. That might just be me. Onto another topic. Boys. Just kidding. There are no men in my life; and to be honest, I’m not really ready for that kind of thing yet. This is just another ramble, from a certain dreamer, who longs for things sometimes, but, when faced with the reality of it, find it onerous and tiring. It is very tiring to be idealistic sometimes, it really is.
On a more positive note—I have been making good progress with my book. If it ever does get published, well, I don’t think I could ever make it public on this blog, because then my identity will be completely revealed, to the whole entire world—haha, as if; the likelihood of that happening is extremely low, nearly nil—and then I would be horribly embarrassed, and my publisher would probably take me off the list, deeming me ‘ruined goods’. Reputation is important, my friends, very important; and I’ve written an awful lot of private and strange stuff on this blog over the years, none of which can properly integrate with a professional identity. I hope you understand what I mean: that a private blog started when I was around 16 or so, shouldn’t be let out to the world, for people to analyze, should I ever write a book that does well. So. If you do ever make the link, in the future, between me and a published book, just send an email to dreamerrambling@hotmail.com , and I’ll confirm it for you. 😉
What else is there to talk about? Oh well. Nothing much, really. Happy near year, everybody! Really. And a merry Christmas, though I think I wished that to you all already in my last post. I hope you are all well, not physically, but more psychologically; if there’s something I’ve learnt over the years, it’s that happy people are much healthier than unhappy people. And if you are suffering under some great burden at the moment, for that, I am extremely sorry, and I reach out to you, and pray for you, and hope that God will do his good work, as he always does, and free you from your darkness.
That’s all from me, this New Year’s Day. I hope you all have a great day. Just kidding!
I feel like writing a little more. Let me see. Well. I have noticed that I kind of live in an airy-fairy reality whenever I spend a lot of time at home, reading or writing; I am in it right now, where I feel disconnected from the rest of the world, and the lives other people lead. I just lead my own life, lost in my own fantasy worlds; completely forgetting that, for instance, somewhere on the other side of the world, some student is struggling with her exams, or a family in America or somewhere is sitting down to a New Year’s lunch, laughing and talking. The reality of other people’s lives, for me, is somewhat frightening: they seem so lovely, and normal, so steady and grounded, that I feel as though I have no place in it. It’s a strange thought, but it is true. Ah well.
Now, this really is the end. Happy new year. May your life be filled with lots and lots of musical, literary and cinematic magic.

A Scented Candle Disaster: and on God

You Light Up My Life

Well, for Christmas, I bought my mother a scented candle. This was a bad idea. For instance, I never realised that, expensive as the candle was for me—$20, to be exact—it wouldn’t last very long, and in order to keep the woody wick going, I would have to keep scraping out the candle wax from around it.

This became a very messy operation, and I ended up with a lot of spare candle wax, scraped out of the original large candle. Which got me thinking: perhaps I could make some more little candles of my own, using the wax!

Yeah—that didn’t happen.

Instead, what happened was, I went to all the trouble of buying a little candle holder—$1.50, from the Dollar Store—and some twine, for the wick, from a store that sells fabrics and string and ribbons, which was $2.90, and, after much sweat, blood and tears, burning my finger on hot wax, and finally scraping together a good ol’ little candle, getting wax everywhere, stuck on clothes and the tips of my fingers, the wick itself didn’t even work: the twine just burnt up, even after being dipped in candle wax, and wilted. So, if I want to keep making tiny candles, I’ll have to buy actual wicks, from a shop, which means I’ll have to travel tomorrow to a place I have never been to, and walk for twenty minutes, probably getting lost, to a store, to buy candle wicks, so I can make tiny candles, and not waste candle wax, from an expensive I gave my mother for Christmas.

Stressed. Over what? I simply have an inability to not waste anything. It’s part of my frugality, and also part of my personality; and I have, in addition, a penchant for the crafts, and enjoy fiddling with and making things. However, this candle fiasco has scrambled my brain, and I feel awfully as if I am running in circles, wasting my time.

This entire incident, really, is a metaphor for my life. I don’t know how to quite explain it, but recently, ever since my writing has been going downhill (my mood generally tends to spin in whatever direction my writing’s mood is spinning in) I begin to get this feeling of general uneasiness about life, except it is more like an enormous ball of stress, like this whirling tornado of stress and anxiety twirling inside of me every second of every day, even as I am outwardly calm, smiling and happy-looking. I don’t know how quite else to explain it. It’s a tiny tornado inside of me; that is honestly the best explanation for it, and the only way to ease it, I believe, is not to search outside of yourself for comfort, but to seek something within: the core of the universe, what makes up animals and plants, and you—and that, in my vernacular, is God.

I haven’t been Christian for a very long time, but I have realised, for a long time now, that there is something behind everything in this world, some force, some energy. To this energy, which makes plants grow and the shine, the planets spin and twirl, fire and darkness and light, I have decided to call “God” or “Heavenly Father”. He has helped me, in many ways, throughout my life, mostly through aiding me in my writing when I get stuck, whispering words of comfort deep within my heart and being there, whenever I look out at the world, and sense His presence.

So. I guess the moral of this story is: tomorrow, I am going to go out, and try and find some candle wick. And if I succeed, I will be able to make my own tiny candles. And they will give light. Lots of light. And a nice scent. And that, my friends, will make the tiny tornado inside of me calm down a little, even if I don’t know why I should feel calm about that in the first place, which is, in turn, a metaphor for what God is in my life.

A metaphor inside a metaphor. Ah, the joys of my mind.