Drunk Ramble

You know what I hate most about people, not selfishness, not attitude problems, not arrogance no they're not nice, true, but the worst of it all are the double signals.

 All of you know what I talk about. We've all been through it.  The ones that leave you up at night and give you those dreams that are so beautiful while sleeping but screw your mind when you wake up. 

I like you I think. That's what I feel on facebook. When I'm liking your statuses and flirting on the facebook chat but then I see you in person and i change my mind. Oh I'm ok fucking you when I'm drunk but kissing you when straight forget it dearest.
Loving you in the bedroom ok, meeting my parents HAHA you wish my darling

And its not only men that do it, everyone does it. Women, children, mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, brothers, sisters. We all have double standards, double meanings and double personalities. That's why there are so many double personalities. Why should you actually care when you can pretend and let go when it gets too hard.
I'll put that lock of hair behind your ear then I'll tongue another one. I'll tell you personal secrets then describe the ideal person as the total opposite of you.

Yes this is a drunk ramble and yes I'll probably regret it tomorrow but this is what I feel so here it is!



Sometimes I wonder how people live their whole lives following the same routine. How they can spend 30 years in the same job and feel happy and satisfied. I...I get restless after the first month of routine.

Maybe it’s a subconscious fear of getting settled, of making a decision. Maybe it’s influenced by the people around us, maybe seeing my parents go through quite a number of jobs themselves during my childhood influenced. (Yes I admit I'm studying psychology and I am using what I learnt and proudly so mind you)

Or maybe it’s a genetic disease like Parkinson's and it gets worse as time goes by. Maybe that explains why as I grow up I always seem to want more, my amusement is satisfied for a shorter span of time and my hunger for the unknown and the new is growing much greater.

This disease might explain why I've had such a varied choice of cliques and why I can never disclose my deepest thoughts and fears to anyone. Is it because I don't trust them? Funnily enough it’s more because I don't trust myself. I don't trust myself to depend on someone because it means giving up a part of me that I'm not ready to let go of, and maybe I'll never be. That thin wall I keep around me, it’s to keep me from getting too attached so that I'll never rethink my dream of leaving this place. Also I cannot forget my dear friend cynicism who believes that nothing stays the same, that people change, and friendships don't last forever.

I am now incapable of doing just one thing at a time. I need the TV on while I read, I have two windows open on my laptop while watching a DVD, and I have music in the background while writing this. I'm restless and my attention span grows shorter each day.

What used to captivate my attention and fascinate me now bores me. The bands I used to love are now forgotten. I'm always in the search of something new, something better. Just like antique collectors keep searching for that unique thing to add to their prized collection I keep searching for that thing that seems to be missing in my life.

While finishing writing this my leg is starting to twitch, as my mind starts thinking of the next thing to do, the next story to write. And I wonder if my thirst for something new will ever be quenched or will I be like the adrenaline junkies who are always in the search for greater heights to jump from, higher mountains to climb. Will my restlessness ever be placated or will I keep searching for something, a new relationship, a new job, a new life.

Maybe I'm bound to live the lonely traveller's life going in and out of other people's stories without having one of my own. Maybe I'll be known as the girl who was only stopped by death. Or just as a person for whom nothing was ever enough...


The Doll House

They where in the kitchen looking at each other yet their glassy eyes not really seeing. A family of five, the mother, the father, 2 boys and a little baby girl. They also had a dog and a cat. They lived in a lovely house and had everything they needed. The children had their toys, the mother had her wardrobe filled with clothes and the father had his couch in front of the TV. Even the animals had their bowls for food and water. Everything was good, everything was perfect. Not even the eye staring at them from the window disturbed them. Even when their front wall was opened and a large hand approached the father all was good. They all kept their Cheshire cat smile. The large hands manoeuvred them to a room on their own, the children in the bathroom to get washed, the baby in the cot for it was bed time for her, the woman in front of her mirror giving her perfect blonde hair hundred strokes to keep its shininess and the man in their personal bathroom shaving off his beard.

Then they are all placed at the table where they were offered a shiny plastic turkey with even shinier vegetables as a side-plate. And they ate in silence as the eye watched them like a god.  When finished the mother was placed by the dishwasher, the children in bed and their father on the couch. Everyone was where they should be and soon the mother joined the father on the sofa at the other end of the room and finally they where sent to bed, and the large hands closed their wall and left them to join her own game of happy families.

And inside the house the dolls start shifting slowly. The woman and man looking opposite directions. The smile, ever perfect, stamped on their faces. While outside the shouting began followed by crying and silent sobbing until the house was silent as the habitants of both houses got lost in their own dreams. For both acts where played by strangers connected only by their puppeteer.


what if god was one of us..

Living in a place where the first words you learn after mum and dad, are the bedtime prayer, its impossible not to talk about god. Growing up we're thought to believe in this powerful invisible guy who is everywhere. Being a little girl it makes you feel self-conscious each time you remember that he is watching. And of course to be powerful you need your soldiers, the guardian angels. When I was younger I even used to sleep at the very edge of the bed so that my dear angel had somewhere to sleep. I believed wholeheartedly that someone was actually watching over me.

Growing up you start facing certain harsh truths like the fact that the men and women of god are not perfect. Yes I am talking about nuns and priests. While we're taught that they're the messengers of god, hearing of their sins make you start doubting if all that you've been fed through your years was just bullshit. When things go wrong and you cannot see a ray of light you doubt if there's anyone really who gives a fuck. Because face it if you were god would you allow all these deaths and wars? The answer we're given is that he leaves us with the liberty of deciding for ourselves. But really that's just plain irresponsible. A mother doesn't let her child do anything she wants or else they'd probably end up dead!

Then again sometimes, I feel quite sorry for god. He has the whole world to take care of, so many millions of people talking to him, requesting favours, trying to make bargains, swearing at him, crying for his help. We humans are quiet the handful. And maybe he hadn't planned  to be god. Maybe he didn't want to live forever always on his own. What if he had very little say to his destiny. What if god woke up one day with a post-it note attached to his forehead saying "You are god. You're responsible for everything and everyone."

And then again my god is different from your god and her god and his god. We all have different versions of the same guy, because we all need different things. Because that is what god is first and foremost. He's our backup guy. We depend on him to give us what we need, comfort. The lonesome need to believe that there's someone who gives a shit, those who fuck up need to know that they can be forgiven when they're ready, those who are scared of death need to believe in the afterlife.

And what if, we believe in the wrong god, what if Buddha is the right one, what if the Hindus are actually hitting the nail on the head with their religion... What if we are all wrong?

Sometimes I think that this god might not be so special, so kind-hearted. Maybe he is just bored, all alone. After all eternity is such a long time and being invisible makes it a bit of a challenge to communicate. Maybe he's very ironic and sarcastic. Or maybe he's melancholic and pessimistic. Maybe after all this time watching us screw up he's given up on us and has decided to stop taking things seriously and fuck around with us.

Maybe he's just like us, he has good days and bad days. Maybe he also has preferences. Sometimes I like to believe that those very pious people who like to dictate other people's lives annoy him as much as they annoy me, maybe that's why he sends them with us, because he can't live with them around him. Maybe we all were angels that annoyed him so much he sent us as far away as he possibly could. Maybe he's one cool dude, with dreadlocks, reggae in his heart and smoke in his lungs.

Or maybe, just maybe, he's as much a story as Cinderella is, maybe he'll disappear once our life ends just like Cinderella runs away at midnight. Maybe he's just a plain frog, and no amount of kissing will make him a prince. Maybe he's just a dream, a belief, a myth...


The "Pretend" Game

The "pretend" game, is a very complex game. It involves lots of brain work and power of suggestion. Its a game we're thought to play from the moment we start talking. It's a fundamental survival skill in our society, really its as important as breathing.

From the very start of our life our parents force us to pretend. Pretend our family is a happy one, pretend your Nanna loves you, pretend we're god fearing citizens. We also learn that pretending involves lying. White lies at first. Like no I'm not hungry though actually you're starving. No you take the last piece, really I'm sure even though you would love that last piece. The next stage is weaving in the underlying messages. These would go something like no you take it I'm getting so fat. Yeah you eat it you fat pig.

Its just a game to convince each other of our perfect lives. Yes of course I care, yes I love you dear, no I'm not jealous, It's ok mum it doesn't matter that you forgot me and I had to walk it home in the rain, no sister I won't tell mum of your cuts on your arm, I promise I'll help you hide your eating disorder big brother . The fiancé who pretends she still loves him because its too complicated to leave him, the husband who says he's too tired from work for sex while he's been banging the secretary. The girl who pretends she loves her boyfriend because she doesn't want to be alone. The guy who pretends he cares but is in fact just too comfortable in the situation to try something new. The jealous bitch who tries to sabotage her friend with a big Cheshire smile on her face. They're all a game, a defence mechanism to keep people at a distance. To stop those eyes from looking at you with pity when they hear that your parents have separated, your aunt has died, your cousin's in prison. We'd do anything to pretend that we're normal, that we're ok. She'd go out of her way to show that she's forgotten him, his smile, his goofy laugh, the way he made her heart flutter with just a glance. He would even pretend he's somewhere else, not to listen to the same words again, to forget that annoying thing she does when she's nervous, the same thing he fell for her in the first place.

The "pretend" game is also a very dangerous one. Sometimes we try so hard to make other believe our lie, that we start doubting if it was a lie in the first place. When the stories have been twisted in such a way that it forms one big knot, its easier to believe your pretend story then try unwind the knot. She would rather play happy families than live on her own, he would rather be quiet and suffer then tell about his uncle's abuse. We would all rather keep playing the game then come out clean. Because in the end who needs the truth when the game is much more fun?



A new beginning, a fresh start. Bye bye vice, hello dear freedom.  Its so easy to believe that we can do it. The first few days are wonderful. Keeping away from It makes you feel strong. You can say no, you can do it. You don't need It. You don't depend on It. The first few days are the worst, they say. Yet the withdrawal symptoms only start mid-week the need, the crave, the tremors, the mind bargains. Just for today, you've managed almost all week one day won't hurt. You hear It calling, crooning, lulling you into Its spell. It opens Its arms wide for you to find comfort. Why be confused when It makes it so simple, no one needs to know, no one will care. Why let go of such an old friend, why leave what you know to step in the unknown. Maybe its not as good as it seems. Maybe it won't make you feel better.

The sickly sweet feeling of surrender. No more inner fighting, no more pros and cons. The exhilarating feeling, like finding oneself once again in the arms of a long lost lover. Those first few moments, where caution is thrown to the wind, its just you and It. Its a drug, its a vice, its home, its a nightmare, its safe, its .

And then the guilt, the quiet despair, the silent screaming, the tearless crying. And its back to the start. Back in Its clutches. Like a siren's call It beckoned you and like those helpless sailors you fell for it. You're under Its claws, back in the silk draped cage. Comfortable yet suffocating. And you wonder how long it will take for you to gain back the courage, the will power, the strength to leave. How long will it take to restart that vicious circle, the rollercoaster ride of emotions. How long for hope to start sprouting its roots  in your heart once again. Maybe next time will be the time you escape.

 Or maybe... maybe you'll finally give in to Its whispering and let It take over your life once and for all. No more worries, no more fighting, no more guilt, no more hopeless hope. Just It and you together, forever.


The Nightly Visitor

The little girl sat at her window. It was dark outside and it was past her bed time. Her parents were already sleeping after having given her a bath and told her a story. She could hear her father's deep, heavy breathing and her mother's light one, accessorized with an occasional snore. As the old grandfather's clock in their living room struck the twelfth stroke of midnight she knew that she had the world to herself.

At this moment, when the people were all asleep she felt like she was all alone. Yet instead of feeling sad she felt happy. The world was silent for the first time in the whole day, no one fighting, shouting, talking. No uncomfortable silence just a silence. And then the night becomes alive. The cats come out to play, the starts shine more than usual and the moon smiled down on her recognising his dear friend who keeps him company. If you listen very well you can even hear the neighbour playing softly on his violin in the attic. 

The little girl stood up and started dancing on her tiptoes around the room. Her smooth and graceful moves made the stars smile and the moon had tears in her eyes. The little girl, her eyes closed, danced away, imagining the violinist playing just for her. She stopped suddenly and the moon looked on worried. But it was only her nightly visitor come to have his promised dance. She bowed and he offered her hand. And as the violinist played a waltz, they danced around the room in counts of three. The little girl smiling, knowing she was in safe hands.

The music stopped and so did the girl. She opened her eyes and her smile turned to disappointment as she realised that her visitor had once again not allowed her to see him. He always disappeared when she opened her eyes. The stars shined the light in her room and she looked up and smiled once again, as the moon silently comforted her. She entered her bed sheets and laid down her head on the soft pillows as the music started once again playing a sweet lullaby just for her. She closed her eyes and smiled. As she entered the land of dreams and once again her dear Peter Pan was waiting for his dance.


First Impressions

What should one say on their first post of their new blog? Should there be a long analysed description of the person's self and their activities? Should one start with a joke to break the ice? Or just get down to business and start with the deep stuff?

A million and one questions run through my overcooked brain. What if no one likes it? What if its not what they expect? As a person who spent most of her life trying to please others, self-doubt is a big part of my life. Should I say this or that? Will I sound to foolish, too stupid, too conceited? Am I so full of myself that I think that someone would want to read what I write? All these thoughts have made me postpone this blog again and again.

Because first impressions are important. To say anything else would be fooling oneself. You could retort by saying don't judge a book by its cover but how can I put my hopes on that when I, an avid book lover, pick up books because their cover tickles my interest. Are first impressions always right? No. Does a first encounter weigh heavily on a future relationship? Pretty much. And this does not just apply to human relationships but to any relationship we may have with objects. Yes I did just say that we have relationships with objects. Well at least I do. I have a love/hate relationship with all my things. I cajole them into working, and shout at them when they don't. Sounds crazy? Probably but I always thought things worked better when you showed them you love them.

Coming back to the whole point of this rant. First impressions do matter. And as a person who is a confessed people pleaser  this can be nerve wrecking. I have learnt during the years that trying to make everyone happy can never work. Mainly because we humans are never satisfied, we always want more and more. Stretching myself thin between all those people was not really working out. I have the scars were I was starting to tear as a proof. Does this mean that I have stopped trying to please others? Well I wish. The fact is that such in-depth vices are hard to crack. What I have painstakingly learned though is that the guilt of disappointing others hurts less when I actually believed in the decision I took, in the words I spoke and in the way I acted.

So I am here writing this blog not because I think that I'm an amazing writer, but because writing makes me happy. My writing may not be up to standard for certain people, and it may not be of liking for others but it is for my liking. So this is my introduction. I am Shyan, I am recovering from people-pleaser addiction. I judge books by their cover, songs by their title and bands by their name. I am a certified homo sapiens and this is my first post.