Healing

Everyone needs time to heal when they're broken; when they've fallen. Time to get back on their feet. In retrospect, I've realised that I never really gave myself time to heal when little failures knocked me down, and as a result I let feelings of low self worth, self digust, self pity and depression accumulate. But, a week off has given me time to breathe, to work out (and pig out) and to take a time out to escape from this hole I've been digging myself in.

And now I'm content.

Looking back, I dealt with the shortcomings of 2013 quite badly. The c I got in one chemistry paper made me feel worthless; hopeless. The 655 in my ukcat made me angry; I could've done better. Looking back, I never said: hey, it's okay. I've got AAABB overall. I achieved 6A*s and 8As at GCSE. This grade won't define me. It'll give me another reason to work harder, to fuel my fire.

Even with my ukcat score, in my disappointed state I failed to realise how lucky I was - one of my friends was not so fortunate. But, she was and still is the pure definition of strength. I would've broken in her situation, but she disregarded it and put her efforts into tomorrow rather than dwelling over yesterday. I hope that I can one day possess even a fraction of her strength.

The proximity of the new year has suddenly made me realise how lucky I am. I've realised that I have actually fulfilled my new year's resolution. For one, I applied to Medicine. I got predicted A*A*A and I sat the ominous UKCAT. I raised £120 for charity. I achieved a distinction in Grade 1 and 2 piano - and now I'm working towards Grade 4. I can play the ukulele. I have an interview. I did finally manage to get 5 weeks of work experience (and miraculously at a GP too!)

And I finally have some self worth; some self belief. A year ago, I never would've imagined being where I am now. And I know that there have definitely been lows, some that have taken time to recover from, but they have not blown me from my path; they've simply made me walk with more strength.

Mountains

I had a dream I was walking down a steep grassy hill, long green ribbons caressing my legs. I was with my sister, we followed those ahead of us; others followed behind us. The sharp decline of the hill forced my legs to start running. Finally we reached the bottom.

To my left, bold coal mountains stood greatly, framed by a pasty blue-grey morning sky. A clear lake rested at their feet; a mirror. Small waves slowly rolled towards the bay - it was a rippling plane of perfection. I walked across the grass to get closer to the edge, stopping when my next step would plunge me in the icy water. The alpine air was crisp.

I inhaled, before exhaling a puffy white cloud. Ignoring those who ran around in the tall grass.

Standing there, inches from falling into the depths of the lake, not a single thought ran through my mind.

I simply existed.

Encounters

Odd isn't it? I'm blogging about someone I haven't even had a conversation with.

I'm writing everything out so that I won't need to think about it. To rid my mind of clutter.

I hate it. Suddenly my eyes catch another pair. I see him, in the corner. Hair masking his face. Nobody surrounds him. My curiosity spikes. He disappears.

Walking towards a building, our paths cross on multiple ocassions. He's always looking ahead. I'm always glancing at his face, trying to understand why he's quiet and alone. I want to encircle my arms around him and hug him tightly. To tip toe before delicately kissing his stubble covered cheek.

Walking out of a practice room, I turn the corner only to step on someone's toes, running into a tall body. I apologise profusely, look up and see him. He's simply smiling, his eyes never meeting mine, and walks by. My friend accidentally opens the door in his face, apologising. He smiles, dismissing it as an accident. Another ocassion, leaving the music block, passing him. His headphones in. His eyes stare ahead.

I do not exist.

I have a music lesson. Leaving the room, my piano teacher begins to ramble, but my attention is caught by the strumming of guitars. He and two others; one singing. It's a wonderful sound. We part ways, but I long to turn around.

I'm practicing piano after school and suddenly hear the rhythmic beat of drums, a bass guitar and refrain. Singing. I stop playing. He's the undertone. The bluesy tune.

Our paths continue to cross. His hair is shorter. On two occasions I walk around a corner and look up, his eyes catch mine through the glass of the door before I turn to the stairs.

I knock on a lab door; I need to get my work in the room. There's a lesson. He's sitting on the back table, his hair framing his eyes. Looking in my direction. The teacher is in an in depth conversation. His eyes flit towards me, looking away when I look up. I give up waiting and walk into the room, leafing through the stack  of papers. My oversised jumper gives me comfort. Eyes on my back. I take what I need and leave.

I'm in a chemistry lab, at the edge of the room, measuring the conductivity of ester hydrolysis, stirring the mixture vigorously before looking up. Through the glass window, I see him walking by, his hands in his pockets toward the Art Block. Or leaving the tech block.

One recent morning, before class, my fingers itched to play the piano. I have a keyboard at home, but it's sound doesn't compare to that of a piano. Thus, I went to a practice room in the music block. There was only one empty room with a piano - people kept their guitars here for music lessons during the day. People knocked on the door and sheepishly placed their guitars while I played.

Comptine D'un Autre Été. That's what I was playing when I saw someone hovering outside the room in my periphery, through the rectangular pane in the door. They stood, and waited. I thought it was perhaps my piano teacher. I continued, but abruptly stopped when I glanced at the time: 8:30. And the person still waited.

I got up from the piano bench and began to collect my belongings when the door opened. It was him. Looking down. Carrying his guitar in. Saying nothing. I hurriedly placed my sheet music in my bag and turned to leave while he took time in settling his guitar. I left before a word was uttered.

My heart raced as I walked away. I find it difficult to play the piano in front of others - I feel oddly exposed. Raw. And he had been listening. I had stopped mid note. I had probably kept him waiting tiredly. Why did he wait while I played, but then walk in when I stopped? Polite? Would he have said something if i didn't flee?

Sigh.

The next time we pass, his eyes remain fixed ahead.

I am irrelevant.

In The Valley

I feel so low.

Everything is right and wrong. I work hard. I had fallen but get up. I push past the barriers, almost reach my goal, and then am dragged back to where I began.

I try to brush the gravel off my clothes and get up but suddenly someone shoves me back down. I stare incredulously at this person, but notice their eyes. Pitying. Sympathetic. They shake their head at me; walking away.

Confused yet undeterred, I rise. I begin to walk, gradually getting closer to my goal. Almost there, now only one hurdle. I turn to tell he who spoke of being realistic about my achievement - he who pitied me. He who doubted me. I smile, but it falls when he gives me the same look.

Pity. Doubt. Lack of hope.

Knocked back down again. He walks away. My hands sting; spots of blood appear where the pavement has bitten my palm. I take a moment to cleanse them. I stand up. Taking a step forward, I feel determined. But then someone appears when I least expect it, from the shadows. I forgot. I didn't keep track. They look me in the eye.

Knocked back down.

I blink back tears. Inhale, exhale. Tell myself to stop being so pathetic. Rapidly arise from my moment of weakness. I see a friend, she glances at me. My puffy eyes, my calloused hands. Then she looks right at someone next to her, and laughs. Before walking right by me.

I tell myself it's nothing. I tell myself I can do this. I stand up, anger coarsing through my veins. I go to a place I know

to find the door slammed in my face.

Now, on my knees. My energy long gone. Good news is not worthy of celebration, it merely helps me get by. Hands waved in front of my eyes, staring ahead. I do not waver. Lips pressed together, why should they open? After all, when I speak there is simply acknowledgement, dismissal. My words forgotten within an instant.

Why should I speak? I need only listen and see to get by. What relevance do my words offer to others? What relevance do I hold for others?

Nothing at all.

When Motivation Runs For The Hills

I'm sure we all encounter a point in life, when your goal seems within arms length, only to find yourself... feeling nothing. Nothing at all. The power and effort you've put to get there, and suddenly your motivation has vanished.

Poof. Gone.

You've climbed mountains (metaphorically of course), you've accomplished things you never dreamed you would. But now, here you are, puzzled as fuck about how you're going to get your ass out of your chair.

I find myself in the same scenario.

But guess what? I won't let this hopelessness consume my life. I won't let it dictate what I do.

I, a sleep deprived teenager, pledge to try again. I will aim for my goals, even if I have failed previously. Failure will not be an obstacle, it'll simply fuel my fire.

Whenever someone tells me that my chances of success are slim, I will simply smile at them, because I know that putting hard work in will pay off in the long run. The opinions of others will not deter me.

Whenever there are brief lapses in my optimism, I will look back at what I have achieved, or think of what I will achieve and strive onwards.

I may stand small at 4 "11. I may be overlooked as a child. I may be a naïve 17 year old, but I will not overlook my aspirations, nor those who matter to me in life. In the past I had bulimic tendencies and depressive thoughts. But they have come and gone; these periods of time have not broken me. I am simply stronger and wiser. I know how to avoid them.

I have made mistakes. I have my weaknesses. But I can only improve myself from these. And that is what I am going to do.

So I brace myself for what is to come. For the struggles, sweat and tears. For the emotional resilience that will be demanded of me.

I may fall, but I will not fail.

Le Onde

Shrugging off our clothes.
I tugged at your silk black tie.
Buttons scattered, a
Shirt suddenly wrenched open,

Your lips now on mine.

Night

Once dawn has fallen, the night crawls back. It creeps upon you slowly; gradually the scene dulls.

Then enveloped in sharp black before you realise.

Sometimes the night sky holds promises of glinting stars - messages from distant galaxies. Signs of chaos and fire and fusion. Letting you know that things continue elsewhere, even if everything in your life has come to a standstill.

Starless nights imply one thing only.

When I feel

The warmth of your body,
There is nobody,
That I'd rather hold.

Shattered and cold.

The Art of Overthinking

I ponder frequently. Scenarios particularly; some possessing a greater probability of occuring than others. But regardless, I cannot help but psychoanalyse every thought that is more probable than improbable. Having social anxiety doesn't really improve my situation.

I'll be going about my normal routine, when suddenly I bump into someone - a family friend. They're a lovely person, yet I have no control over the tremour in my voice nor the suddenly hollow feeling of my eyes. I blink rapidly. My inward confusion about the rapid onset of these symptoms probably worsens my anxiety.

Essentially, I feel like my eyes are about to tear up - but I don't want to cry. I don't feel upset. My brain just decided to slam dunk this in my face. Sigh oh sigh.

I hate my over analysis of life - often when one overanalyses events, one tends to overlook the small yet undeniably important things.

Unspoken Words

I love days like these.

Sitting back against a white wall, lathered in the sun's buttery heat.
Eyes closed.
Lips parted.
Sometimes they quirk up into a smile, imagining that you kissed them while I remained unsuspecting.

The autumn leaves have fallen. Scatterings of ruby, amber and gold. With the season's change, I've noticed your eyes on me in my periphery. When I turned to look at you, you simply held my gaze.

You approached me. You laughed. You got closer. And closer.
The one I once admired from afar stood before me; you're smiling too.

But what exists in your dreams does not in reality.

Opportunity Cost

opportunity cost

noun

Economics

noun: opportunity cost; plural noun: opportunity costs

1. the loss of other alternatives when one alternative is chosen

I despise opportunity cost. The next best thing.

I may be utterly naïve, but I refuse to settle for anything less than my dreams. Period.

A Haphazardous Haiku

Here are a collection of words which may or may not be understood by you, the reader.


A Haphazardous Haiku

Sometimes I speak out,
Quietly pleading for help.
Getting no response.

Sometimes I wonder
Whether you hear me mumble...
Or simply wish not.


---

As Led Zeppelin say - "Communication Breakdown," - sans the guitar and vocals. I still retain my Britishness though.

C.S.

Sentimental

I'm not sure whether this would be classified as poetry; it's more so a collection of ideas. Thoughts. They're disjointed, alike the format - I thought they'd go hand in hand.

Sentimental.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't,
But I am.

Watching you with them kills me.

Why are you making this harder for me?
Because every time I look up, your gaze meets mine.
I close my eyes; open them to see you're leaning in towards her.
You whisper something in her ear and she blushes.
I; the voyeur.

I disregard my thoughts and redirect my focus.
I straighten up and continue writing, pretending not to notice
How my pen presses harder into paper, or
How your eyes follow me.

For some time, I'm convinced you're forgotten.
Temporarily, I'm rid of the pathetic little girl
Who waits for you to approach me
When you're bored.

And I do forget.
And I notice another man's interest.
We speak. The man laughs and sneaks secret glances.
I think I don't mind. Slowly, I laugh too.
The man puts his hand on my arm whilst I-

"Hey, are you busy?"

I don't need to turn around to know who it is.

Reponding, I still can't stop
The nine year old smile
That forms on my face.

And now you smile too.

My jaw clenches; my fists curl.
My anger soars, indignantly.
I shove at the little girl within; she is not welcome.
I press a pillow into her face and she screams.
I tie her to a tree, ignoring her pleas.
I cuff her hands, swallowing the key.
Yet nothing changes.

Why do you do this?

Because every time you turn away, you break my skin with your blade.
Because every time you return with a smile, you wrench it out; the wound unhealed.

Stop.

Stop plaguing my thoughts. Stop infesting my mind
With your half true promises and
Your half hearted love.

Ha, Love. Sometimes I believe.
Other times I do not.

Catching my eye; you dare me to keep your stare.
Your mouth upturns; your face softens.
But then you whisper into her ear,
Kiss her cheek.
Your eyes never leaving mine.
I close mine; re-opening them now.

Forgotten.

Advocate.

I wanted you.
But your bloody red lips opened.

I needed you.
But your pseudo emotions leaked and
Your words became dust.
Smiles became crooked and I was trapped
In your spider's web.

And now; I.
The master at deciphering your lies.

But still, I need you.

So languid; oh love.
Why are you so?
Twisted; distorted.
You snatched my soul.

My eyes hollowed, my heart a corpse.
And yet you stab me with your bullshit

word

after

word.

And yet you degrade me with your lies, as if I'm the devil's advocate.
With every syllable that spirals from your lips.

Seeing You.

Seeing you reminds me of

Lips

Pressing against my skin.
I feel your smile.
They drag, left to right,
Soft; firm.
A pink blush left in their wake.
I bite my own. You chuckle and reciprocate.

I blink. You're staring ahead.
Your gaze does not waver.
Do you know, I wonder?
That seeing you now
Wrenches at memories of

Kisses. Along my neck, down my collarbone.
Gently taking the skin of my earlobe
Between your teeth.

My eyes do not leave yours
Burning into mine. Seeing you
Makes me feel like a pathetic little girl with
A high school crush;

small and powerless.

You take a step towards me
But my feet have fixed themselves
To the rocky ground beneath them.

Another.

Inside I cry
For my limbs to obey.

They do not.

And now, you're only
A hand's length away.

Suddenly I can't bear to look at you.

Another step.
Closer, now.

So close
That your breath caresses
My cheeks. Close enough to smell wisps
Of the aftershave you're wearing.

I lean towards you instinctively

No.

I feel your hand reach out
And my mind screams at
My body to move.

I must go now.
I have to go now.

I walk away.

I hate tragedies.

Nobody feels any pain
Tonight as I stand inside the rain
Ev'rybody knows
That Baby's got new clothes
But lately I see her ribbons and her bows
Have fallen from her curls.
Oh she takes just like a woman
Oh and she makes love just like a woman
Oh and she aches just like a woman
But she breaks just like a little girl.


- Jeff Buckley, Just Like A Woman.

I absolutely loathe the cruelty of life sometimes.

I recently stumbled across Jeff Buckley, through several YouTube videos (as many of us do), and under the video, saw RIP JEFF. After a Wikipedia search, I found that he died in his early thirties when going for a recreational dive in a river - something he'd done before - only a tug boat came by this time. He wasn't on recreational drugs. He didn't feel suicidal or depressed.

He was simply in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

It makes my chest ache when people die, even more so when you think of how unique and talented they were, or could've been. To think of how their path has come to an end. I guess the fragility of life is something that I will probably learn to grasp over the next few years studying Medicine at university. But hearing about how doctors eventually learn to accept death, feeling nothing...I'm not sure how I feel about that. I suppose time will tell.

It's saddening to think that some people get up one day, leaving their homes, not knowing what will happen. Not knowing that what you said to a someone that morning would be your last conversation. I am angered at myself and at others, when we see the news on TV, when hundreds die in another part of the world, or someone goes missing, and we just accept it, before changing the channel over the watch a film. How we've become desensitised to what we see. Why, I wonder? A self defense mechanism? Or perhaps people have stopped caring.


I hope it is not the latter.


To anyone reading this, I ask you to spend a moment to think of those who are lost from the world every day and to be thankful for what you have - for the people in your lives. Or if you're sitting there, thinking of how you have nobody, I ask you to break from the monotony of life's routine. Live, to never regret.

After all, you have no excuse. Where are your shackles?

Additional note: here's the link to Jeff Buckley's - Just Like A Woman http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=isYhMK3tP0c. You won't be wasting your time.

Sugarcoated.

Dust them in white,
tap your sieve again
and agian and again.

Until they're hidden. Masked.
What once was flour now seemingly sweet.

And you smile slightly.
And you speak softly, maintaining eye contact.

And you put your hand on my shoulder, being a friend.
And you tell me what has to be; you tell me you're sorry.

Walking away; you're as fooled as you think I am. Saying what you needed, without what you had to.

But you didn't realise one thing - your words tasted bittersweet.

Words

Sometimes I can't help these words that rush into my mind, into the tips of my fingers and onto the keyboard that they patter on. And sometimes, oh. Sometimes I grow tired.

Hands

Hands;
Longing to love.

To hold.

Lips touch.

The rough, grind
please oh;

life.

Hurdles

I made it. Alive. I've actually gotten over a hurdle.

Holy mother of god. Things are about to get very real, very quickly.

Yet I can't quite quell my fear.

I can't fail now. Not now.

Unconventional.

Surrounded by walls of black. She shivers, he whispers. His words tease her tantalisingly.

Hot; cold. She gasps. He licks. The wind cuts at her neck. Then she touches, coaxing his tossing and turning and lip biting and oh, the torturous pleasure.

A cry,

a beg.

She sucks at his skin and  delicately caresses him where he's senstive. He inhales sharply; his hand travelling lower...

"Oh God!" a religious sin. Lips part to steal air from air and then collide to kiss furiously. Why is this happening?

The question hangs above the writhing forms like a guillotine, glinting angrily as they possess one another. Consumed in lust, they toss all doubts aside, for this is all about the dark pleasure, the power, about who's stronger and who's weaker.

Lust; a facade or a necessity?

But it is hatred, pure unadultered hatred that is the driving force that pushes one body against another, that forces and wrenches the cries of sex and pleasure and pleading from them.

Pleading; the sinful pleasing. Surrendering; nobody is.

Their eyes burn into each other, their hips burning scaldingly hot as flesh grinds against flesh. They give their bodies and souls in release, holding up their hands in half-serious surrender.

Hot, white flash.

These two people dare to defy society's rules; to defy one another's expectations. They aren't meant to be together. They're poles apart. Why is this happening?

And they so pay for it. Because they spiral in, head first into the abyss.

Then reality hits.

Badly.

oh change, you make me sigh

This was something I'd written back in May, but I think it generally conveys the nature of change, in all of its weird fearsomeness.

---

It's a strange thing - change. I'm sure I've heard that statement a dozen a dime times (mentally at least). Nevertheless - it's a component within life we have to adapt to. Change terrifies me; it makes my heart race with anxiety. Change, and the future, seems to loom overhead like an omnipresent guillotine. And by God, I'm scared. I don't want to commit to a career, to a university, nor to a choice. I want to live in the sunshine of youth (albeit the brightness is indefinitely variable). I guess that makes me a coward.

Time is slipping between my fingers. I wish I could capture the flyaway grains of sand and place them back into the leaking hourglass. Sometimes I ponder over terminal diseases; I briefly entertain the thought that I have one. In the sickest sense, it gives me relief. I won't live up to achieving my fears, my failures. To cut to the truth, I don't want to fail. Damn it, I don't want to come within an inch of failure. Hence, the prospect of death seems frighteningly relieving.

But then I come to my senses.

Putting death into perspective - I couldn't part with life - forever living in the minds of people as someone who quit. The girl who couldn't take it, the girl with the shiny flask. Forever anxious, always quiet. The prospective failure of a meek geek. Forgotten within a week. No. I need to try. I must strive. The question that constantly reaches my mind is; what for? What am I striving towards?

And bingo! There is the problem. What do I want?

...
...
...


What do I want?

Several things come up. Whilst some are trivial, others are more or less impossible. Dauntingly so. I read about an exercise to achieve almost a mental purge - to figure out what you want. So, I'm going to type what comes firstly into my head. One minute. Perhaps two.

What do I, Peta, in all of my pseudonymous truth, want?

I want to be happy. I want a relationship, with someone who loves me, for who I am. With a man that I can be myself with, someone who doesn't care about my imperfections. Someone who is satisfied by my broken mind and my fragmented esteem; someone who disregards vanity and appearances. Someone I wouldn't stutter or stammer at, somebody I can be at ease with.

Oh, sigh.

Sometimes I wonder whether the issue is with me, rather than with the world; with people who are picky.
- - -


MAY

It's strange how you long for something even more when it's being threatened to be wrenched away from you, forever. I never realised how much I truly want to become a doctor. After time, I have come to realise that economics is not my passion. In fact, economics - my former academic flame - has actually become somewhat monotonous, to my surprise. It is biology that has captured my interest, with the various components and biological processes and details and intricacies. It's actually fantastic.


What weirds me out next is the following. How something you adored goes to something you tolerate; how something you tolerated goes to something you adore. It's odd how we change with time.


May is both a month of beauty and horror, I think for obvious reasons. The proximity of exams is a constant nightmare to my frantic mind. There is not a second that I do not curse myself for being so damn tardy. But on the positive side, God has given me the strength to persevere - I believe that's what counts ultimately. Thus, I thank God, for giving me hope, and I thank God for giving me family. Despite their...exuberance, they're not that bad after all. I just pray that I'll get through the next month without any stupid mistakes, and by working to the max. I don't want to be the one shattering my own dreams. Being a doctor seems so real now. I just have to work for  it.  And I pray, and I promise that I will not give up. I will keep on. There is nothing else I can do. I cannot afford to get B's - I must achieve a minimum of three A's, or else I've failed  by my own standards. Economics, if I work, should fulfill this - as should biology and maths, if I work and get everything done in due course. But chemistry is a constant worry. I guess.

Learn to love right? That's how I rolled at GCSE - learning to love.


d --> a*  hmm. I'd say learning to love wouldn't be so bad after all.


So, how do I feel? I'm not quite sure. Every year I wonder whether I'll exceed my expectations. I always do, but that doesn't negate the subsisting and prevalent fear that clings to my chest. It's a physical feeling this fear - like nausea. Pumping through my veins, circulating through my body.


- - -

MAY

It's hard.

On the surface, things can be easily dealt with. But underneath, it's difficult. Sometimes I feel my anger soar above; indignantly.

- - -

Dreams and Illusions

I remember there being a man - and I felt attracted towards him. His whole stance, his whole posture emanated confidence - not arrogantly so. He was the type of person who wasn't afraid of what he wanted; he could get that with what he had. Around nineteen - the same age as my dream self. Mature. He wore a crisp black suit, the top button on his white shirt undone. Sharp jaw line; light stubble. Dark brown hair; light brown skin.

Black high heels; my long, thin legs extending from them. Black tights; modest black dress. Short sleeves, slightly dipping neckline. Collarbones. Dusty brown eye shadow. Long, dark, wavy hair.

I never saw my face.

I strode slowly and confidently towards him. I remember his eyes; dark. His smile; his lips stretched out slowly.

We were in something reminiscent of a dressing room; dim evening lights emanated from what seemed like mirrors. I; perched on the edge of a dressing table, my legs extending out. And my black high heels. He leaned against something - a wall? his shoulders always leaning towards me as he spoke; laughed. I remember the proximity between us; how the air seemed charged.

It was all about touch. About how the simplest things a guy does can stir your feelings, how the simplest touches can wreak havoc.

My body facing forward from my spot on the table; shoulders directed towards him. He; leaning against the wall beside the dressing table, facing me. Perpendicular almost. We were close. If I extended my hand up from the dressing table, I would be touching his face. No one else was in the room; the door closed. We simply spoke; laughed. Soft eyes. Intimately. Sometimes his hands played with my hair, or drew circles on my skin. My breath hitched lightly.

Our eyes locked. His eyes devilishly playful, he smiled slowly. The small distance between us mocking us. Challenging us. Suddenly we were standing.

I only remember glimpses of the rest.

He stood, towering beside me, facing the side of my body; my eyes swiftly closed. Anticipating. Closer now. I felt his breath on the side of my neck, ghosting up until his lips hovered near my ear. His fingers dragging up against the skin of my arm. His breath was sweet.

He spoke my name in a low rough voice. I looked up silently from beneath my lashes.

Other glimpses of how he leaned towards me as we sat; his lips delicately touching my face, slowly moving upwards.

His body fully pressed against my side, one hand moving up from the nape of my neck and through my hair, another slowly turning my body to face him. He pushed my body against a wall. Our bodies flush with each other, his teeth gently nibbling on my ear. My hands held by one of his above my head.  My lips parted; his making their way down my neck. His hands moving down the sides of my body before roughly grasping my hips. My hands running through his thick, unruly dark brown hair.

In another glimpse I stood, facing the mirrors as he stood behind me, his body pressing against mine. His hands delicately caressing my shoulders; he made eye contact as we locked eyes in the mirror.

His lips diving into the dip of my neck, kissing every inch of my skin, fingers grasping my shoulders.

In another glimpse, his fingers torturously dragged up the side of my body, under his. My head tilted back, my fingers raking up his back. His surprise.

Or when his shirt was hastily unbuttoned, his lips pressing against mine, his torso against mine. My hands roaming against the expanse of his chest, his broad shoulders.



I awoke startled.

The Rant of a Mute

Simply typing, because my head is clogged with thoughts.

I hate those moments in life where your emotions have decided to deactivate themselves, and your life is abruptly overruled by mental clutter. I simply lose my balance; my grip. After all, who works effectively when they simply cannot think? Hence why I’m typing the first words that appear in my mind. No beautiful literature, no poetry. Simply my thoughts. Very infrequently do I get the opportunity to simply spill the contents of my mind, due to my quiet, introverted nature.

It infuriates me sometimes, my inability to be a normal human being. Of course, I understand that no person is perfect – I have common sense. But regardless, it does hurt when you are out of loop. I could blame this on my 4”11 height and geeky appearance, but that would be a lie. It is my personality. An innumerable number of opportunities to converse with others consistently present themselves to me, almost mockingly. Yet, every single time, my mind goes blank and my lips do not speak – as if my words have been stolen from me. And I remain; an observer. Smiling, reacting, watching. Infrequently speaking. It is not emotional or psychological – I don’t exactly have a fear of speaking. I simply don’t know what to say, and how to say it when the opportunities to speak present themselves. Despite having lived sixteen years of life, I do not know how to express myself, my thoughts and most importantly, my words – verbally. Something so basic to the majority of people, I fail to do so.

Today, I arrived at college, my standard time. My best friend was talking to two other girls in our year – both loud, kind, yet sassy people. That’s something I love about black people – that ‘take-no-bullshit I-have-standards’ attitude. I joined them, listening in, not really contributing, but laughing along. People have generally accepted my quiet personality now, so they didn’t react to my presence. But when brief silences between conversations occurred – when slivers of words that I could utter entered my mind, my lips did not open. My mind constantly debating over whether I should comment, whether I should not, whether that irritating strand of hair was about to fall over my face again, whether I was being weird by observing, whether I was smiling and laughing too readily.

Constantly thinking.

I guess that’s my issue – I’m an overthinker.What’s worse it that I presume this trait isn’t exactly dummed down by my gender. You know, with women being typical overthinkers.

I’ve often heard the people debating over how long they could remain silent for. Some claim that they couldn’t not talk to people for even a day – impossible! Some perhaps a little more resilient, claiming they could last a while. But generally, the vast majority of people claim “Oh no, I couldn’t do that. I really don’t understand how some people can.” And sometimes the conversation ends there. Other times, their eyes glance at me, and their thoughts are glaringly obvious. I could. I could stay silent forever. I’m not mute around everyone – in fact, I’m not mute. I do indeed speak, given a task, or class activity. In some classes I’m more verbal, around people that I enjoy talking too. In other classes, surrounded by people with popularity, looks, knowledge, high standards, words fail me. Quite literally. With my best friend, I am actually incredibly extroverted – I constantly tease her about her romantic life, her fear of bugs and love of chemistry. I’m at ease generally. But, introduce another individual – say a jokey loud jovial confident classmate, and I cannot speak. I simply react, laugh, observe. Don’t get me wrong, I do like these people. In fact, I dislike very few people. But I just don’t know what to say. So I simply exist whilst the conversation occurs. I don’t participate. I don’t know how to participate.

I think what really grates on me the most is how I’ve simply disappeared to some. During group conversations, when I am around and someone is speaking, they make eye contact (naturally) with members of the group. However, when I’m not actively participating in the conversation, but reacting in the same way as the other group members, the amount of eye contact made with me is practically non-existent, and I do not know why. Being the over thinker, I do not excessively stare, or act in a judgment inducing way – I simply be normal. Yet, with some, they do not even acknowledge my presence. But ultimately, the scenario that I cannot tolerate, at all is when I do speak, but the person whom I am addressing ignores me, despite my appropriate volume and tone. And what absolutely drives me crazy is when I ask them several times, and they do not respond, abruptly saying something else to my best friend and disregarding what I say. That is something that I absolutely despise. I do deliberate over whether I should respond to this with sass, in an attempt to gain some respect perhaps. I really don’t know.

Things are generally hopeless.