I wish for Time to Stop

It’s early night-time and I am going to make this quick.

My absence from my blog is frustrating, I am angry with myself for it, however I found myself bombarded with numerous pieces of work over the mock exam or prelim period and was rarely able to take a breath. Writing is not always an escape for me, I like things to be perfect and to submit a piece of writing that was not deemed good enough in my dreary states would pain me further.

It is a gentle time of night, not so late that your eyes burn and your head swims, and nobody is loud. Distant hums of voices and music project from TV sets in the other side of the house, the computer keys tap rhythmically in front of me. I am surrounded by books and worksheets, all muttering of philosophical principles and dilemmas. Fallacies and Philosophers. I am meant to be reading them but my guilt over abandoning my neglected blog lit my procrastination alight. If you’re reading this, it’s too late.

Fairly lights adorn nearly every inch of my room, and the glow they omit coats every surface and creates dancing shadows and shapes. The glare of my screen blinds. There are sprawling, thin lines of fallen strands of hair laying upon the philosophical sheets, my hair loss has hardly slowed down ever since it began. It only serves as a reminder of my stress and esteem. As I write I feel out of sorts, I am aware that what I am writing is hardly up to my usual standard. My writing feels alien and dulled slightly, the continuous onslaught of work proves to be more detrimental than I previously thought.

Tomorrow I have to do things I do not want to do. My urgent fear of confrontation is being forced aside and I feel exceedingly uncomfortable and I am usually always uncomfortable. I have to confront the most constant source of anxiety throughout the majority of my life and it sickens me, for something to unknowingly hold such a large control over me is unbearable and I loathe myself for being so weak. I do sound dramatic, I know, and if I were to explain this anxiety it would only be laughable. But social anxiety and general anxiety comes in often laughable forms, things that sound completely and utterly ridiculous to the capable. Something that can be so big and dictatorial in one mind can appear minute and meaningless in another.

I am going to write, and write and write and write a bit more. This is what I want to do in my life, this is my livelihood and it is being drained ever so slowly by the all-consuming drudgery of everyday school life. I want to preserve this passion in a bottle and weep, for I know it will not be here when I wake up tomorrow. I am going to write, and I am going to read and I am going to enjoy things. I have tired of the bad outweighing the good and I am tired of not voicing my opinions and allowing myself to be guided by a system that barely cares about the unnoticeable individual.

In this gentle night, I want to read stories and poetry, to absorb all the knowledge possible within my throes of passion before it leaves. I want the night to freeze, the clocks to stop, the passion to solidify. I need to see it before me, in a soft tangible form glowing against shadowed light. To stay this age, this person, this being; for more than a fleeting early night-time moment is all I desire. I want more, deep down I know I deserve it.




To see your body, differently, in the way you experience it is disorientating at the least.

I walk through school hallways, my limbs feeling tangled and my arms absurdly long as I attempt to put one foot in front of the other in a clear, definitive manner. My thin hair feels like string and grease as it slides weightlessly yet heavily over my face despite having washed it the night before. My jaw is clenched and hands firmly remain in the pockets of a long grey coat that falls down to just upwards of the inside of my knees. My skin did not look too bad in the small mirror by my bedside that morning and my eyebrows appeared dark and obedient. My lips pink and my eyes massively circular.

I pass people of all different walks of life. Small and tall, pretty and plain, striking and strange, painted and pure. Ones that smell of cigarettes, deodorant, sweet perfume, sour perfume and chemicals. The thin girls with the good postures and the neatly tucked in shirts pass by, walking without staring at their feet and laughing even and open-mouthed amongst friends. I walk between many of my classes independently, none of my friends possessing an identical timetable of subjects, which gives me time to observe, to think, a paper-thin attempt to justify. I see them and I walk by and I know, they do not feel clumsy.

I am quite thin but I stand funny and feel heavy, with long arms and strangely circular, blue eyes. A small curved nose that is spherical at the end and an awkward walk, a puffed bottom lip and an even grin. Wrists with pointy bones, a fluffy uneven hairline, clumsy fumbling fingers.  I smell of nothing in particular but I feel slightly sweaty and unnerved. This was what I saw in the mirror, what I saw with my eyes and senses.

Through the eyes of my friends, their cameras and double mirrors I was told differently. I am thin and light with long arms and long, long legs. My eyes are blue and somewhat slanted above bruised bags, in the centre fits a small, arced nose. My walk is cautious and consistent of small, careful steps in big, heavy boots and I have pointy bones. Pointy bones in my wrists and collarbones and elbows and shoulder blades. My grin is crooked. I smell of something sweet but they don’t know what.

I do not feel like any of these things.

My mind tricks me and my frustration grows and my slanted eyes narrow and I do not know who I am.

A body dysphoria of everything from my manner to my walk, from my nose to my talk. I save every photo I infrequently appear in, I stare at them and try to figure out why I do not feel the way I look and I why I do not look the way I feel. The person I am stuck with the most fascinates me and disgusts me in equal measure.

A lock of thin hair slides across my shoulder, the picture shows my parting looking like a zig-zag instead of the neat, straight line I saw. My head is an odd shape. I thought I knew what category I belonged in, what league, what level. My eyes look like they are different sizes, my hands look smaller than I thought.

My warped vision looks away bemusedly after passing the thin girls in the hallway and guides its way through the weaving, chattering walks of life through the veil of circus mirrors. Never knowing, never understanding, never truly seeing.




The occasional holidays throughout the school year are simultaneously a gift and a curse.

A break is always very much required, to be removed from the repetitive and somewhat pressurised environment and be left to one’s own devices. It reassures my introverted mind into a sense of temporary safety from the constant up-playing of personality; you see, a quiet demeanour, I was taught from a very young age, was a negative thing. If you were not confidant and sociable, extroverted and loud then you were not a successfully well-rounded person. As I have grown older, I have now seen this not to be the case however I am unable to break free from this fake mannerism, the flipped switch stuck. I am envious of those who have been able to maintain the solitary quietness, the kind where they look so sure and gently confidant in their silence.

However, aside from the positive effect a break brings, a brief period of isolation rings true.

I am not good at arranging things with friends, the first issue being my brain constantly second-guessing itself and whether my friends actually like me or not. The motivation to leave the house, a solid comfort-zone of mine, is not within reach. I barely possess said motivation for extremely important things such as revising for exams. The majority of my holidays have been spent inside the safety of my room, through no one’s fault but my own being and rubbish brain. Other than that, it has been walking through fields such as the one above with my earless dog and unknown music.

This sudden blog post arrives on the last day, the Sunday before the Monday. I am aware I am terrible with consistency in posting and I will try to improve, however the build-up towards prelims (mock exams) may prove challenging within my endeavour.

My work for school piles up rapidly through procrastination : I have art pieces that are disgustingly unrefined and of a bad quality that I wish to burn into ashes before my teacher even catches sight of them, unedited English portfolio pieces, unrevised¬† Philosophy and Biology notes and I haven’t touched a single History sheet since the Friday two weeks ago. I despise myself intensely. My violin is severely under-practised and I am dropping out a music group I was forced to be a part of which will only end in lecturing.

At the end of it all, I am taking control back over my life, in terms of interest and happiness, enjoyment and living.

Ever so slightly,

little by little,



The class is quiet.

I like quiet but I do not like these people, and I do not like the quiet of the people I dislike.

They’re sitting in front of me, three people bowed in irritating silence as their breath gasps quietly onto the faux wood, their pencils grazing the paper beneath them and the material of cheap hoodies scratching. In some ways I wish to become more tolerant of people, I become irritated at some very slight things and it greys my view of their character.

I see them in the hallway and I grimace.

I pretend to type up Art Critical notes as they complete what appears to be Maths. They keep looking up but they do not look at me. I am thankful for that. I am not an angry or easily unsettled person by any means, I act generally very civil and use my quiet nature I have possessed ever since primary school, to my advantage. One of them is writing viciously across her paper and she keeps looking up, I want her to stop. I am polite and I work moderately hard, I am not a noticeable personality. When I leave this school, no one will remember me. Half of my teachers barely know my name. I think I am ok with that.

I am unsure of the paintings I am studying for Art, they are abstract and messy, half-finished and scratchy. If I was to turn my portfolio containing such pieces to the exam board, it would most likely be batted back into my face, scratchiness and all. My teacher repeatedly knocks her jewellery against her desk, it jumps and chimes upon the surface. She shuffles paper now and asks someone at my table if they are alright. No one answers.

I have just come from a music lesson, in which I played my violin to a tedious piece in a tedious book. Repetition of bars, the clumsy movement of fingers, the rubbing of my pale hand up and down the fingerboard as I shift position. It is always the same. The constant anxiety of doing something wrong poisoning my chest, the same. My music lesson interrupted a quite uninteresting Human Biology lesson, a course I can see myself receiving a very unimpressive grade. However, it was revision, and I need as much revision as I can get.

The girl in front of me laughs into her breath in the quiet and whispers to someone else at my table, she is doing geography. She bites her nails, the sound of her mouth unpleasant and combs her fingers through her hair. I think she likes noise. As for me, you can barely hear my breath, silently inhaling and exhaling through my nose. My figure is straight and unmoved – the boy in front drums his fingers – and the only noise I let ring into the open air is the clicking of my keys as I type. I like quiet.

The grinding of chairs in the classroom below can be heard, the distant male voices travelling through the halls. The undefined thumping of feet everywhere, the class is finishing. I pretend to do work in the next tab one last time.

I save this post,

and I publish.



Consistently Inconsistant

Well, it’s been a short while. I have a cold, one of those ones many get in between the transition between Summer and Autumn. The ones that are a nuisance and a depressing notion. Burning incense may or may not be wiping ash up my window, it smells of roses and smoke from what I can smell through my limited airways.

The new school year has properly started and I am anxious. Anxious because I have to start new things, that I have to ask new questions, that I have to take hold and guide my life down the correct pathway with my meagre knowledge. My anxiety is very much centred within my struggle to socialise: Social Anxiety. I attempted to pull all my courage together to attend a book club in a Waterstone’s in a close-by city; I had read the book thoroughly, I watched the newly released film and prepared. However, my effort was rendered unrequired as a friends’ birthday meal interrupted my plans, I decided I had better strengthen my friendships in my school in order to improve my fifth and sixth years there. I had an Italian meal and saw a film about a prehistoric shark, full of jumpscares. I did not jump nor scare once but laughed.

A Facebook notification, two weeks after, told me the book club would no longer run.

I hope to study English at University and in order to make up for requirement grades that I will most likely not receive, I have to show how much I like English to convince them. Merely reading books and writing short stories that I never show anyone apparently will not suffice. Thus resulting in my attempts to join a book club. And to start a blog, well, I’m here now aren’t I? I have still much to go, there are ‘to-be-confirmed’ writing classes on in the city theatre that I am still to look into, and a Creative Writing Group in my school that I will have to venture into alone as my friends are nowhere near interesting in writing through their lunchtime. I am scared, not of the group, but in general. In a very general way.

These things are new, these are things that I don’t know anyone else doing. It is as if I am paving a very extremely mundane path, hindered by insecurity and doubt. My specialities. I feel as though normal, everyday things effect me more than things that really should make me sob into my pillow, like friends with cancer and family members dying and suicide. I feel selfish but I am unsure how to stop. I recently submitted my creative piece for my English portfolio for fifth year, I love writing but I have no friends who are as equally enthused.

I suppose that is why I so willingly turned to blogging.

Maybe someone who reads this may reach out, may talk, discuss, debate. I have long since been yearning for someone with similar interest in the art of words and writing to reply. To respond. As well as someone who blogs similar content, I do often struggle with blogs and computers etc.

I also struggle with not talking like a robot online,

but please, talk to me,


A Brief Introduction

It is a rare feeling for me, the sudden boost of energy and determination to advance my writing skills. I have continuously googled ways in the past other than this one, always believing that I am unable to write upon a blog and share my thoughts and opinions to the internet.

God forbid anyone I am familiar with will stumble upon this mediocre blog tucked away in the corners of a desperate internet.

This small passage is honestly just something to unwillingly slap on my blog in order to prevent the site from pestering me to do so further. As well as checking that I truly still do understand the English language. Hopefully I do, as I hail from a small country where it is unfortunately the first language, a country where other languages are not found often amongst our ignorance. I type this now, my laptop upon my bed as I sit upon my ankles, crushing them gently into the carpet while I peer through large-framed spectacles. Music is playing gently by my side. I do hope I can write often.

I am a naive human in my earlier years of life, filled with fearful ignorance and empty with a severe lacking in life experience. I do hope whoever may read this understands as I ramble obliviously about my unimportant life, accompanied by my frequent frustrations and joys as I navigate it. As well as my amateur writing style.

So, here’s to a hopeful time of me attempting to write out into the world and creating a better version of myself as I go.

Much thanks for reading,