Broken strings & Pretty things

The world, seen through a young girl's eyes.

Archive for the month “October, 2013”


I was never the kind of girl to let the past dictate my present, so I refuse to let your ghost jeopardise what is in front of me.

Because lately I’ve been walking down dark corridors, wondering whether I dare muster the courage to open yet another door. I’m being confronted with the same towering exit as before, and I don’t know whether I can risk facing the same fate  if I unbolt that lock.
Because you burned bridges for me. You built walls without my input, invisible to me until I realised some people just couldn’t pass through. Though we have not spoken, and probably will not speak, your sickly spirit dwells in every crack and crevice of every relationship. Those faded grey eyes streak every touch, and that faint caterwauling of your voice still whispers in my ear.
“He’s just like me. He’s holding you just like I did. He will do the same as me.”

I’m haunted, and in dire need of an exorcism. Because no matter how many times I embrace the calmness in the emerald of your eyes, I fear they may suddenly grey. I’m scared your clumsy mumble will stiffen and shriek. I’m scared I’ll open that door and fall into yet another chasm of betrayal and false hope, even though I know that you are safe.
Though I am certain that you are in no way like him, I can’t shake the clenching fear that you could one day change, just like he did.

Because all it takes is a flicker of light, a change in the weather, a drop in the ocean, for a person to change. All it takes is a step too far; a barrier too close to be broken for the light to burn out and fade. A fair face can just as easily become a scowl.
But I trust in you, and I trust your words. I will believe sense over zealous sensibility and refuse to let a sob story eradicate a happy ending. I will never stop saying it: you are worth it.

As the key fits into the lock, I prepare myself not for the worst, but the very best that I know you are.


The second time you fall in love.

The second time you fall in love is by no means like falling in love for the first time.

The second time you fall in love, you will look up and surprise yourself, because falling in love for the second time makes you realise your heart has the capacity to love more than one person. You realise those times you told yourself that you could never love again were wrong, because after you falling in love with someone for the first time, you can’t possibly imagine that you could love someone again, let alone have someone love you back. So you become happy with half-decent relationships and forced smiles and hands that hold that bit too loose. So when confronted with the situation that you had always been so dead against avoiding, or even believed would never rear its head, you stand stunned in the gaze of the eyes before you.

The second time you start to fall in love, you may want to bolt. You start to feel the familiar exposure of vulnerability and realise that you are finally in the position where you can be broken again; that this time a tub of ice cream or a night out or a phone call with a friend won’t be able to get you by if everything turns sour. No, this means emotional investment, and this is  frightening because the only other time you fell in love, it ended with you not being able to be left alone in a room in the fear you may quite possibly drown in the pool of your own loneliness. So rather than wanting to face it all again, you’ll want to run and escape this person who has somehow harnessed to ability to penetrate your carefully constructed walls. Because sometimes you feel it would be easier and nicer and generally more pleasant if you keep people at an arm’s distance and laugh at a few jokes than really truly feel something.

But the second time is nothing like falling in love for the first time. The first time is, yes wonderful, but equally crazy and damaging and not knowing how to place a whirlwind of such vivid emotion. The first time you fall in love is spending half the time trying to find a place to put all the emotions, whilst the second half is spent throwing your arms wide and yelling to be loved. It’s spending life on a cloud and not coming down because who’ve never experienced heart-break before. You’re pure, untainted and unweighed by baggage. The first love is always a dream, until it ends and reality finally clicks over from on standby.

The second time you fall in love, it will feel more ‘adult’. It will (hopefully) feel right. It will be being able to relinquish any previous ties to the past and realise that you don’t have to judge everyone by one thing someone else has done. The second time you fall in love, it will be harder, but it will be so much more profound. It will be hesitating, asking to be loved back until they suddenly decide they’ve had enough: in that case they can give a few days notice for you to pack away your emotional baggage and get the hell out of there. But once you’re there, you can’t ask for any more. First loves can be insane and demanding, but by the second time round, you have a vague understanding of what fits. You know how to give rather than take it all in, and you learn not to take love for granted.

Falling in love for the second time is like getting back on a bicycle after not riding it for several years: it’s shaky at first, but you never really forget. And after this initial shock,  everything works out wonderfully. You begin to remember the feeling of kissing someone you truly care about, and you realise just what burning bridges prevented you from acquiring: the feeling of not having to pretend to be the best possible version of you, but being able to be comfortable in your own skin. It’s being able to hold another body in your arms and treasure it. It’s wanting to give yourself over and not wish for anything in return, because you’re happy to do so. You’re not mad or crazy or even deceived by your own emotions. You just want to do it because you care.

The second time you fall in love will be different. It won’t be as dramatic or maybe not even as wild, but that’s okay. Because that excitement was short-lived. The first time gets all your crazy out and prepares you for the long haul: for true love. For love which brings chicken soup when you’re red and watery eyed and still seeing beauty. It’s taking that train across the country even though you’re both students and could really go without spending that money or time. It’s slowness and compromise and not building your life on quixotic promises. It’s loving and holding and keeping space. It’s balance and it’s healthy and it’s natural.

It’s when the good stuff finally starts.


Write as it may be the last thing that you may ever do. Write the words which you are too afraid to say. Write when you feel: write when you’re scared or excited or delighted or sad or lonely or even hungry. Write like it’s only you and the world; like your criss cross etchings have significance and meaning. Write when it feels like no one is there. Write because writing fills the void in emptiness. Write even know when you don’t know what you have to say. Write everything. Write one word. Write to change the world. Write to escape the world. Write to show the world how you feel. Write to express your love. Write when it feels like there is nothing left to do. Write when it feels like no one will listen. Write in ink and get it all over your hands. Write when you feel blessed and need to remind yourself how wonderful life can be. Write down the days you never want to forget. Write down the things you do and then throw it away. Write your hopes and dreams and never let them go.

Construct deep and meaningful storylines with deep plot holes and twists and turns and bring it to a screeching halt with a hefty cliffhanger. Create intricate romances filled with clichés and beauty and tragedy and believe that it can all be true. Describe only the beauty you can see through a vast plethora of metaphors and similes and personification and anthropomorphism. Write with rhetoric, when you may not even know the answers. Use nothing but anaphora. If you’re feeling daring, venture into anadiplosis.  Use juxtaposition. Hell, use hyperbole. Hyperbolise and the juxtapose and finish it all with bathos.

Or just write simple sentences. Scrawl like a child in their first days of school. Write nothing but expletives.
Just show your passion.
Just write.  Because we want to hear your words.

Blurred lines.

Around this time I wrote a similar post to this  ( ), writing about how, at some points, it feels like you’ve hit rock bottom. It’s those days where nothing goes right, and these days can just merge into weeks of the constant numb of expected sadness. Maybe it goes on for a month. Maybe a couple more. But at some point, you finally awake from your lonesome-induced coma and suddenly see colour; the once grey shadows suddenly have somewhat of a glisten; the burnt-out edges and broken parts gain a form of clarity.
Because you realise the world gets better. It just takes a little time.

And a little while ago, I scrawled my feelings across an old notebook in the middle of a library because that’s where I finally cracked, and let it all out. Sometimes that’s all you need: to just let it go.
But something, somewhere, inside of the scrawl and ramble makes me still want to share it. Much like last year, I couldn’t just leave it. Not because I had ever planned to post it, but something intrinsically hopes that someone out there may relate; that someone feeling distinctly smudged out may realise that they aren’t alone.

And it went like this:

“I feel almost like a blur; nothing particularly peculiar or broken, but just washed out and faded. Everything around me is just passing by so quick and invariably and yet I’m the one that is blurry. I’m just kind of sitting here and watching it go by. I’m not moving. I’m not going anywhere.

And a blur is quite fitting, because I lack clarity. I lack a sense of direction or purpose or even ambition. I’m just randomly spread out, spilt out, with no distinct line or edge or colour or depth.  Just a blotch on some other’s piece of paper.

And it isn’t pretty. Because blurs are forgettable and have no true place in a person’s mind; they’re too indistinct to have value, and yet not cryptic enough to decipher. So instead, they tear out that page of the book, imperfect in the presence of smudged out fingerprints and it’s thrown away. After all, what use to a person is a smudge?

So I kind of just lie here, crumple and forgotten, laying in my own blurriness, not even sure what I am myself.”

And just as history wonderfully tends to repeat itself, it got better. Because it always does, and when we’re in the middle of something we’re just too ignorant or preoccupied with feeling down to comprehend that things can change for the good.

Because it’s these broken parts and blurry edges which make everything so much better. They make up the bigger picture; they make the detail. Sometimes you just need to take that step to escape it all.

Sometimes you just need to take that step to escape it all. Sometimes the fire exit is right in front of you. Maybe it means just running into the inferno.
And whether it means letting a few tears let loose in the middle of a library or running down the street or finally saying ‘yes’ to that outstretched arm, we can get through this. Those lifeless weeks slowly fade into the distance, day by day. Things get that little bit brighter, and soon you’re free.
Soon you gain that colour and freedom and you realise that you were never thrown away. You were never forgotten and you were never lost.

You still had it together.

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