A shorter notice.

Lap up sweat, tear, saliva

Oh, and the baggage too

Vitality through spilling of secrets, lost

Evolution? Closer than before.


A short notice.

My eyes ran across your cheeks

And then sprinted to your lips

Round your beard and up to your nose,

Rolling onto the curves your brows

A moments’ pause at this point –

Knowing I’d be sweetly looking into your eyes.

Excited and zealous and gleeful like a kid

Chasing along the skin to arrive at my favourite part,

Here, into those eyes, I dive, heart pounding and complete submission, to never come up from submerging.

Kiss me, you fool.

Whether fast or slow,
you fall.

Whether reluctant or naive,
you fall.

Scoff as you might,
you’ll still fall.

No-one is right, better, or correct,
just different hearts have different wounds,
different bandages and different swoons.

Forcefully or at ease,
you’re going to fall.

Timing is not on your watch, control or possession,
so falling is no option,
no exception.

Idealise as you may,
falling is fact only – gravity pulling, invisible and strong.

It’s one hell of a ride,
but it’s one totally worth, maybe, being right,
or frustratedly, being wrong.

Human old or human young,
they all fall.

A universal feeling of something,
yet we pretend we don’t feel it at all.

Projection – a slow creeping killer.

It’s hard to recognise projection. It begins with a desire for self. It’s a want driven by a natural need of connection – at least, I think so. Recently, I’ve recognised what projection versus reality is in human interactions. Projection can be totally innocent but wrong – it inhibits full recognition and appreciation of reality.

I’ll begin with who I project the most onto – my younger sister. Not only does this handicap her from accepting her own reality as she is but also creates disillusion of myself.

It’s not wrong to have desires for what we want in others and what we want from our interactions with them but it’s not wholly right. It’s not truthful either and sometimes we project to deny the truth.

I’ll give an example.

For a long time I wanted a relationship where my sister and I could share secrets openly and honestly. But the way that I do it and the timing of this doesn’t fit into her own expression. And most importantly, as a compulsive liar it isn’t in anyone’s interest to tell the truth. Lying is true, essentially.

Now don’t get offended, compulsive lying is just the magnifying and sustenance of lying itself. A compulsive liar finds safety in the lying and it works well for their well-being. We all have mechanisms.

But instead, I chose to see her as I saw myself – we’re related, blood-related, so we must be the same in these areas, plus she’s my sister. Yet, time and time again I was faced with the reality of her. I masked it with the reality of me, constantly let down by any real hint at her truthful self. Her authentic self – who she’s, rightfully, chosen to be.

Projection is dangerous because it is fantasy. But fantasy only lasts so long before someone gets hit with real emotions and real reaction.

The type of people and the type of relationships we have with them are determined by our ability to see them and the interactions as they are, not asserting anything greater or smaller than what it is. When we deny that, we deny ourselves something fair and just – to accept reality and decide what we do next.

This has also happened with friends, boyfriends, and other family members. As hard and harsh as it feels to recognise, it’s essential to everyone’s well-being.

Unfortunately, it takes years and training to recognise this. Whenever you feel you are trying to focus on your needs – whether social, emotional, mental, etc – and how you idealise them you’re in danger of projecting onto others. It is okay that who they is who’ve they chosen to be and who they’ve chosen to be in relation to your life.

Instead of projection to fulfil what you may seek, it’s better to acknowledge what is and find something better suited for that need. In my case, having a close friendship enabled me to have that deep, secret-sharing relationship I desired with the ones I cared for most. One person is not to be who you want them to be – it’s up to them and in the meantime, it’s perfect fine to seek what you want elsewhere. A title does not determine a positive or negative interaction, just the person.

Its hardest with family because family represents unity, community and close ties but the reality is… it doesn’t. And likewise, titles equate to nothing and they equate to displeasure and dissatisfaction when pursued to what we, or society, deems fit for them. We choose who we want to develop deeper or what interactions to sustain, but they choose too.

At the same time, projection can happen to our selves from others. I know who I’ve been idealised versus who I am has been shown in how people interact with me. It creates a pressure to be a person you’re just not – and that is perfectly ok. It is not up to you to be who someone sees you as and if they can’t realise that or stop, well, it’s only time before their fantasy crashes on them.

The only thing I can see now is truth in evidential action – and that speaks greater than what I can idealise about a person. We hate to admit this is the case but it always is. Whatever we consciously do is a reflection of our personality and our relationship with another. I don’t want to fight reality anymore – it leaves me confused, broke and more alone.

I looked away from my phone screen.

My phone is a portal and when it doesn’t light up I start to think something is wrong. I spent the day with my thoughts. They were trapped in this flat and became huge balloons. I noticed they took up a lot of space. I had to monitor them. I had to let them pass. They were still balloons but instead of creating claustrophobia, they floated by, through windows, out into the atmosphere. Sometimes returning, other times disappearing. I find monitoring thoughts identifies how you see yourself. Mine are extremely detrimental and cemented in the past. I wondered why I felt actions and friendships I felt years ago still remained sore. My thoughts clung to them. In a recent break-up, I tried to tell myself this over and over again, it was ‘the only time this person is alive in your life is through your thoughts.’ This is the power of thought. Immaterial but deadly. My thoughts are constantly trying to resolve or solve issues from ages ago. My thoughts are constantly attempting to predict future occurrences. Whether it’s coping or boredom or idleness, it is a part of me that never switches off. Could you imagine have a conscious voice in your head mirroring ideas, situations and perceptions just while you are trying to exist? This voice does not switch off for me and when it does, I feel serene, surreal and anxious. People say it’s overthinking, I say it’s a function of the mind, one that can easily tip into dysfunction. A highly evolved mind that lacks control. Will controls the mind and this, perhaps, has me thinking that we have a will of authority to place our thoughts in line. I think from thirteen I began developing this secondary voice, it is an interesting part of my brain. I can tune out of any place and sit comfortably inside my head, debating, discussing, conversing with my self. My collection of thoughts, perceptions and ideas. Ones I’ve picked up from the world around me. I write with the ability to put out conscious other perspectives, I write to put out the immaterial of a sense of self or selves. I find as I’ve gotten older it is important to be whole rather than fragments. Fragments feel like a freedom, it feels flexible but it leaves you piece by piece rather than an entire thing, most people don’t understand what it is like to have different thoughts spin and run through your head. My brain is always shooting messages across and in-fact, I write to convey these messages in a soothing and understanding way. Reading and writing communicate and validate these thoughts, if they don’t matter, they remain pieces of floating points. However, my thoughts are diluted by emotions. Emotions can be conflicting and lead irrational decisions to be made. I’ve made a lot of irrational decisions, a defective computer can do this sometimes when its running on automatic. Autonomy that’s infected is incredible hard to deal with. Perhaps this is what I’ve described as depression: the loss of control, the automatic emotions numbed, the sense of nothingness, reproduction of empty acts. I used to be ashamed and confused but there seems no reason to be any longer. I don’t think I have a mental problem but rather, a mental functioning that serves me both good and bad. If you are your thoughts, using Descartes loosely, it means your existence has a basis in thought and its process. Positive thinking can be delusional, but negative can be deathly. So do I choose ignorance or death?

Is there an in-between?

In writing this, I’ve learned that my mental processing of information is quick and tedious. Maybe this is why I find it hard to focus on topics that don’t gratify or stimulate my brain… especially elitist, traditional teachings. University has done this and pulled out a brain-dead research gummy bear, but this is not what I went to University for. I gain life from like-minded thinkers, not dead old guys who I am forced to read from 60’s ‘pioneering’ theories. Where is the contemporary relevance and why must I prove my ability to critical think through regurgitated others before me – pioneers, lectures say, who have dictated certain inequalities in my already unequal world. It’s still elitist, specialisation means nothing but agreeing and progressing idea before you that will continues to influence masses. Ideas that create power for elitist and leave the poor powerless. If anything, University has made me internally, quietly, angry.


Golden virginia, it’s Monday morning.


Cigarette after cigarette, parisian etiquette

Dancing tables, skin in sin

Where do you start

where I begin.

If my life was a crystal ball,

this would be a refraction of one part

and if my heart was a bowl,

I promise it wouldn’t be full.

replace the blame,

its no-one actually.

life so centred around pain and woe of love, maybe


time to move on?

love ain’t the be or end all and fuck this discourse on young love being like death,

I choose to rise, phoenix to skyline

alone but free –

I don’t want any trauma to become my identity.


A moment of silence for the death of childhood.

My despondent face looks into a camera. I ask why I have to be here. I wonder why I idolised adulthood in my mind. If only, if only, if only I was a grown-up. Now I’m here. It’s bleak. The hardest part of adulthood is the whole part. The mixed messages, constant desire to prove oneself, assimilating into a home place – a community. I ask why I have to be here. Where everything isn’t as it seems. Where everyone says what they do not mean. Why did I have to be put here. The biggest depressant of all time, the abyss of adulthood. The growth spurt from constant known to constant unknown. Who can prepare anyone for a time like this? I ask why I have to be here. My despondent face is the total explanation of my views of adulthood. There are structures in place in the forms of culture, tradition and ‘how it should be’. But who decides those and why were they placed before me. I had no say to exist, yet I must, my obligation is to keep going. Out of fear of nothingness. When I discovered what death meant. Oh wow, why was I born. Life is beautiful I lied up until eighteen. Afterwards the mediocrity of a family, house and work became too much to me. What do I exist as beyond the outside structures set up for me and why has the existence been hidden from me. I can’t figure out why I have a purpose pre-destined by the world for me. When did going from child to adult become so crippling to self-esteem, why were my mothers words not even enough to save me. I am listless in this place of unseen.

I’m born out of a womb that is not mine. I inhabit a body that was carved by microscopic fragments of intangible, malleable desire. I am art created by authors who have signed off on me with their signatures and their ideas and their thoughts, yet somehow I’m supposed to me. Does my body even belong to me? What a gift if I am constantly having it taken from me. Either pain, pleasure, hate, criminality, desire, perversion, spirits, conversions, something, oh something constantly wants to inhabit me. Am I so special or am I so functional? Who or what am I if I don’t even know who created me? I am told through others, feelings, passages, scriptures that all are so foreign to me. I inhabit a land that is totally alien to me. Yet I’m supposed to appease others by the gesture and tonality of my physicality. I did not choose the box I got stuck in. I maintain it as well as I can. I don’t even know how long it will last. Is this is a horror or a fantasy? I have this main role yet things appear to happen to me.

I am always faced with the same question. Twenty-three years old strong and the satisfaction of success feels so dry to my lips. I tried to be everything that society and elders and people in authority tell me to be. I give my own existence up to exist for people who won’t die with me. Is this biggest ballad of fallacy? I am not simple minded enough to just sit down and shut-up. I am not simple minded enough to keep quiet – keep those lips shut. I am an animal. I am conditioned before I even consider my conditions and yet I’m supposed to manage this with proficiency. What is the systemic problem that keeps tackling me, throwing me into the ground into dirt mixed with oil and gooey lust, leering and jeering from men and women alike, rubbing the soil all of the my body without me batting an eye. I see traps everywhere; I see dark spies.

What is the point. I cry up to the sky. If I live to breath and then that breath is taken from me. If I have a voice and it’s ripped from within me. If my soul is existing yet truly it’s trapped in this body I was given. Where is my peace? Surely. Everyone has a fucking opinion. Everyone is a fucking evil minion. Pushing their constructs onto my pale brown skin. ‘You are’… well, how could you, fellow human, know who I am? How could to take the hole of me and give it to me in a piece of your hand? How can you tell me my future with your own malicious air and the expect to saunter away and not care. I hate these figures of lies wrapped in white skin, I hate these men who test and test and try to get me to give in, you take parts of a whole and then replace them at whim, what the fuck – even women do the same. Who do I owe but the essence that brought me from dust and sin. Who do I owe but science created by a unfathomable thing, and who has the right to tell me where I start and where I begin?

When I was born, power was within. All the world seems to show me, as adult, is that it counts for nothing unless I prove it physically. What a fucking ridiculous story to be living in.