Summer Breeze

This music is touching, the string are prominent,

The notes rage like an undying cry.

You may hear it’s tone, but do you feel its story?

Sing like the birds on a crisp spring morning,

Wake like you have a purpose.

Pluck the string when all others are deaf to your calling,

Breathe like the summer breeze that dares to touch your skin.

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University (THIS POST MAKES NO SENSE)

Okay, I’ve finally done it. I have finally hit that stage where I can no longer endure University without ranting about it. I have officially became “one of them”.

So, none of you are aware of the fact that in September, I enrolled to university to study Animal Science & Welfare, and just like everyone else, I was excited. I enrolled, moved into my new accommodation, Freshers was awesome! ………………… annnddd then real-life began to kick in.

Now, there’s only so more immaturity I can bare within the space of six months. I may be sounding a little grumpy (well, I am!), but let me explain; first of all, there’s the people who you are bid to share a floor with. Yes, I’m fortunate to live in a room of my own, accompanied with the sweet solidarity of my en-suite, but it’s not enough to drown out the sound of blaring, irritating music at 4am on a constant basis. Now, I’m not being a Grinch here, but the music was so loud I’m sure I could feel the headache for the next day.

My time living with the Cave-Trolls has been an experience and a half. Some okay, some terrible. Nothing has seemed to be “amazing”, other than the fact that everyone like the shortbread I made. In short, student halls has been so frustrating, that I wonder why I even bothered in the first place. Yes, it’s an effective way to meet new people, but it’s also a good way to find out just how many noisy buggers can cram into one tiny kitchen. And to top that all off, it is SO. DAMN. EXPENSIVE.

You thought the £9k tuition fee a year was bad enough? Well, here’s another £1.5k A TERM to get you by, and that doesn’t include the £2.80 wash cycle and the £1.80 dryer (I can hear my mother sopping as we speak, for some clothes did not feel the sweet release of cleanliness).

Okay, so as per usual, none of this makes any sense, and my writing is far less sctuctured than usual as once again I’ve been awake for 24hours playing Super Smash Bros. rather than finishing off my work or adding the final tweaks to my novel (which should be done soon, I’ll keep you updated… if you ever care… please care I worked really hard on it), but you get the jist.

Now, some of you may not have stepped foot into Uni yet (or college), so please don’t let me put you off (you can do that yourself). No, University is great when done right, and clearly I didn’t do it the right way. I can see how this type of environment can be stimulating yet rewarding, if the shoe fits. If your degree is good, then bravo! If your living experience is just as good, then I envy you.

But seriously if your degree is any good please let me know, as I’m about one grammatical error away from locking a lecturer in with an agitated Chipmunk.

Defining a writer

There’s nothing more painful than reading success stories, while your unfinished project remains open for the fifth year.

It’s probably best not to read into how J. K Rowling’s success came out of the blue, but I suppose there’s some inspiration to take from it. After all, if we don’t believe we can get somewhere, then there’s no point in doing anything at all.

I’m forever flicking through countless articles of what makes a writer a true writer, but in all honest, most of them are filled with over the top money making schemes that takes away what is essential in the art of writing – personality.

What is the point in trying so hard to work out the ways of the novel? What do we benefit from taking lessons on how a certain character should act? Not much, in my opinion. There’s a delicacy involved when creating your own world. It is literally taking a part of your self, and bleeding it into electronic ink so finely, that you can call it your own. Taking away the creativity and adding in structured lessons you found online, is just taking away what makes you a true writer.

Yet, there are other issues I need to face other than originality. Patience and determination is just a few amongst dozens of others. But perseverance is the most important. One day, I’ll get there, and I’m sure it will be awful and lacking of all correct structure and dialogue. But it will be mine, a part of me that I plucked out so carefully, and crafted it into something worth my own time.

As usual, I’m babbling, but I hope there some form of clarity to be found. Don’t define your stories based on what other deem useful. Write about what you want, not what you think is essential.

Sometimes

Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing,

Then there’s someone who will correct me.

Sometimes I stare into blank spaces,

Then there’s someone who changes my focus.

Sometimes I sit and day-dream too much,

Then there’s someone who tells me I’m deluded.

Sometimes I feel like this world isn’t for me,

Then there’s someone who tells me I’m damaged.

Sometimes the world tries to define you,

Then you wonder why they control you.

Nothing Feels Right

Nothing feels right,

My clothes feel like skin that shouldn’t be there.

The air feels intrusive like microscopic invaders,

Nothing feels right.

I don’t want to open my eyes and see my life broken into hours,

Nor do I want to fall asleep and enter a new world with the same horrors.

Today is a new day, only with added memories,

And even those don’t feel like my own.

The Final Angel

I hide behind my hair to stay away from the view. I can hear my mother’s frail breathing as she gulps down the air, only for her to find that she needs even more. I dare not look, as I’m afraid that a single glance will be the last. I’m afraid to even listen, but my head is forcing me to cling onto something, even if it pains me.

“S… Sarah?” I hear her forever tiring voice call out my name. I’m frozen in my seat, so much so that I don’t think I’ll ever stand again. She calls for me another time. I shudder, but refuse to look up. I know what is it come, but I don’t think I have the strength to say goodbye.

“Sarah, sweetheart, please…” My father’s comforting voice appeared just beside me, along with a reassuring hand. I can hear the hurt in his voice; can almost hear the tears forming. I shook my head defiantly.

“Come on, now, remember what we talked about?” He stroked the back of my head. I could feel myself falling towards him, desperate for the safety of his embrace… but nothing would be enough to make all of this fade away.

This morning, my father knelt down beside me, his hands on my shoulders, smiling so delicately it told me something was wrong. He told me about “The Final Angel”, as he had always done since I could remember, and how she was there to take care of us all once we had reached the end of this life.

I remember asking all sorts of questions all those years ago: “Why do we have to go?” “Is she an evil Angel?” “Is she coming for me?!” My father would always laugh and hug me, saying “No, sweetheart, she’s not evil; she’s just there to show us the way. She’s like a light in the dark, a lone flower in the dessert. She’s there to make sure we are safe”.

Safe… I think to myself over, and over, and over. How can she make sure we’re safe if she’s taking us away from those we love, allowing them to be alone forever.

“Sarah…” The pained voice of my mother came once more. Come on now, Sarah…  be brave… you’ll regret it if you don’t go over…

I force my hands away from my knees, and part my black hair, pushing both sides behind my ears.

Thank you.” I heard my father whisper in my ear as he gently kissed my cheek. I stood up, my legs trembling. I was surprised that my feet held my body up as I stepped forward. The steps were shaky, but they were brave.

“There’s my sweet girl.” My mother turned her head to the left to see me as she smiled weakly. She was so beautiful, even now. I tried to speak, but my voice croaked. “Shh, shh, don’t worry, I’m always here.” She was just able to lift her arms up to signal a hug. For a moment, I hesitated, finding myself stuck once more, but a word came to me yet again. Brave.

As quickly as my feet would move, I leapt forward into the arms of my mother, burying my head between her shoulder and neck. The tears finally emerged, and my, were they more defiant than I.

I could hear my mother shushing me, trying to calm me as he hugged me as tightly as she could, which wasn’t very tight at all. She was weak. She needed help… She needs taken care of…

My mother broke from the hug rather suddenly, as though she were sick of my presence.

“Don’t go…” I managed to say as I rubbed my already red eyes.

“I’m afraid I must.” She smiled at me, this time strongly as though nothing had even been wrong. My father held me from behind, wiping away the tears I had missed. “I’m proud of you.” He sniffed as his tears began to fall.

“Sarah,” My mother giggled, which took me by surprise. “Would you believe it if I told you she was here?” My mother grinned, pointing to nothing.

“Who’s here?” I asked, looking into the empty space.

“The Final Angel!” She beamed. “She’s come to take care of me.”

It was then that everything made sense. My mother wasn’t sad, she was happy. She knew that this wasn’t the end, so, perhaps she’ll be ok. After all, she’s not alone.