"And I swear at that moment we were infinite"

This post started out as an "end to 2012 beginning of a new year" sort of post. But half way through it I realised I didn't have it in me to share so much. So I won't. But I still want to write something, because I've been writing so little lately. Maybe because I've been afraid of ending up with a similar post to the previous ones. Because that's how I still feel.

I'm still terribly restless. I still have the urge to flee the country, to go to a busy city and get lost in the crowd. I want to escape. Even though I keep telling myself time and again that running away does not solve problems but only moves them to a new spot. You cannot run away from the past.

You can go to a new city and create a new name and a new identity. But even if you convince everyone you're the real Amy Winehouse, and only pretended to be dead to get out of the public eye, well you would still know the lie. Every time you look in the mirror, every time you answer to a fake name, every morning when you wake up, you will know. And the memories of regret, and the memories of the people you loved, and the people you've hurt they're all going to be there. And you might be a winner in your new life but you'll know that you'll always be a loser in the first one because you didn't stick it out.

So what should I do? I might not be leaving the country but I keep escaping the real world. I escape into a land of make believe. And I escape into books. And I escape into movies. And I escape into other people's problems. As long as I'm away from mine.

And now more than ever I understand why Peter Pan ran away to Neverland. And I share his same confusion as to why Wendy would want to return back to the real world. And I envy Alice for being able to escape to Wonderland. And Ariel for having two worlds from which to chose. And more than that, I understand the writers for writing such stories, for they too needed to escape.

I'm reading The perks of being a wallflower, and I know that the phrase "And I swear at that moment we were infinite" is way over used. But I want that feeling, I want to feel infinite. Just for one second.

So I will end this post with another quote from the same book. Because why should I try to rephrase something that to me is already perfect?

So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I'm still trying to figure out how that could be.” 


Just smile and wave...

Sometimes, like in movies, you can see that people around you are growing up. They're becoming more like adults and are moving on with their lives.

But then you realise they're moving on without you. And while they walk away, you're stuck in a sand dune slowly being enveloped in the soft, warm particles of sand.

And as they turn their backs on me, there's this tiny jealous voice that yells out  "Hey that's not fair. I'm supposed to be the one to move on. I'm supposed to be the one who leaves people behind."

I have the big dreams and the big ideas but instead of helping me they seem to act as an anchor, making me sink down faster.

So they keep going, become tinier until I'm not sure it's a real image or a mirage. And I'm stuck in the middle of the desert, unable to move forward or backward. And the past is catching up with me as the future looks more distant. 


Slothing Around

This isn't one of those deep posts I usually write. Seriously it's a post about nothing. I just wanted to write something so my readers, those few faithful ones that seem to keep wanting to read my stuff, won't give up on me. I could act cool and pretend that I don't care if my blog is being read or not. But I do. Just a little. Just enough to make an effort to write a blog when I really have nothing to say.

My creativity side has been in a bit of a coma lately. I can't seem to think of anything new to do, and everything else is boring me. I've been reading books and watching TV series as if my oxygen intake depends on them. I seemed to have regressed to the deepest stages of being an introvert. I read and read, trying to absorb the life in the characters of the book to give me the energy to keep going. I watch shows because it manages to silence that tiny little voice belonging to my conscience saying that I should really be doing something useful.

The only reason to get up in the morning seems to be because I have to. Nothing seems to excite me anymore. I diss every idea of fun that might come my way. I criticise other people's ideas of fun yet I cannot come up with a better plan. I feel like I'm in a state of lethargy. Every step I make seems to be against the current. I feel like a sloth. The real ones, those eternally slow creatures, not Sid the Ice-Age sloth. I mean if I were like Sid, I wouldn't be half bad. He's an idiot but he sure knows how to have fun.

So maybe my aim is to move from the state of real sloth to Sid the sloth.

I aim to be Sid.

Sid, the sloth.

Sid, the cartoon character.

I aim to be an idiot cartoon character.

Oh dear. Watson we have a problem.


Stress relief ramble

Sometimes my brain needs release. Too many thoughts, too many what ifs, too many buts and theories and just too many of everything. And that's when I turn to ink on paper. It's like opening the tap to a shaken coke bottle. But sometimes writing is too hard. The need to write finds a great opponent in the lack of words. And trying to write feels the way Harry felt when he had to write 'I must not tell lies' with his own blood. His scars show on the outside mine are etched on the inside. It's like a missile has been released in my skull and it is bumping into anything it finds creating havoc in my little brain. And the only way to stop it is the only way I can't. Words. There are so many words in the amazing English language. Yet when in need, they elude me. Instead even the simplest sentence is an effort. I become a blabbing fool. And movies and books are of no use at such time. And talking, well I'd risk uncovering every little bone I have hidden in the dark corners of my closet. So I wait, like epileptics wait for their seizure to be over.

And I wonder many times, what it would be like to be normal. Without this need to write, this addiction to literature.

But then again I'd be nothing without my words.


50 shades of voices

I want to write and yet words don't come to mind. A million stories in my head yet they don't want to connect the dots. Should I write this or that? Should this story take this path or that? Should she be named Jamie or Lily? Should this be just another silly love story? Or yet another one of those finding self stories? Horror is out of the question. Comedy fails me miserably.  Non-fiction? Who cares about that shit anyway?

Should his mother be a bitch? Should her brother be sick? Should the father and daughter be estranged? Shall they lose their family? Isn't it too depressing? Isn't it too stupid? Isn't it just too much of nothing?

The characters, they mock me.

"Ha! You're a writer? If so where's your writing oh dear creator? "
"I doubt blank papers count. Unless you intend for the words to be written down by magic."
"Yo smarty pants what should I do now? Shall I leave her and break her heart?"
"Honey will I ever find my son?"
"So what now? Shall I jump or take the cowards way? I cannot stay here forever you know!"
"I will not marry this guy. Do NOT make me marry him. He's gross."
"Fine writer you'd make letting your characters take over!"


Screaming to an empty room because of voices in my head. Like a madwoman.

"Hey that might be a great story. Can I be the madwoman?"



Disappointment. Sadness. Lack of recognition. All sum up the look in their eyes. I didn't rob a bank. I didn't kill a man. I am not a junkie. I am not an alcoholic. I am not a failure. Yet that's how they look at me.

I fucked up a little. I took some steps away from them. I decided to walk the trail I chose not the one laid out for me. Is it so surprising? Is it so awful? That I have an identity of my own? That I'm tired of taking orders from others? Doing what others want me to do?

Are my opinions so avant-garde that they require that frown on their faces? Are my ideals too much? Are my dreams way too big for little Malta here? Well good that's how they're supposed to be.

I could be the yes girl. I could say yes to anything anyone wants. May I borrow your notes? May I take your lunch? May backstab you? May I treat you like dirt and then demand your help? May I walk on you and clean my shoes, I don't want to dirty my mother's good carpet you see. May I look down on you like you're a nothing? Yes.

No. No. No. I can't do that anymore. That girl is gone. Dead and buried where no one can find her.

Did I disappoint you? Did I surprise you? Did I shock you? Good. You do not know who I am anymore? Even better. Because the more you knew who I was the less I recognised myself in the mirror.

 I finally learnt to utter the word no.


To Italy with love

Another 12 hour shift is finished. Dead tired and knowing there's another one waiting for me tomorrow. I try to think happy thoughts. My mind instantly goes to places I want to visit. And then it goes to Italy. With all the busy days I've had it seems no more than just another day dream. Another place that has an unticked box in my bucket list. But it isn't a dream. And I haven't made it up. Pisa, Florence, Rome. I was in those places.

 And no it wasn't a movie-like vacation. They never include things such as rain or getting sick in a movie. They do not include a full day wasted lost in the middle of God-knows-where. Nor do they show two souvenir shop addicts getting lost because they lose their sense of direction whilst in a shop.

 And that's good. That's better. That's what makes me sure that they were real. The squabbles with my friends. Being drenched in Florence. Throwing a coin in the Trevi Fountain so quickly you're not sure you wished for a real wish or just not to get soaked once more. The endless supply of croissants. Being hit by a chocolate bun on a train. Trying to find a place were pigeons do not roam.

All these are a proof to me that it is not a figment of my imagination but I was really in Italy. I did walk on the Ponte Vecchio and was ambushed by an old man talking about locks and how it is a symbol of marriage. I did rub a a big bronze pig's snout to make sure I go back to Florence. I did go to the Vatican. I was in the capital city of Italy. I was under the leaning tower.

I was there.

That hunger for travel was fed. And yet instead of being satisfied it just grew more hungry. But most importantly, at night, I will not have to bring up images I got from movies about places I want to visit and pretend that I'm there. All I need to do is think of Italy, of the sound of the train, the incredible scenery and the fond memories that are sewn in.


Dreamland or Mind-fuckland

Dreams are our inner most desires and fears materialised in a scene. Some say that it's the only way our subconscious gets relief. It's how we can relieve the pressure of all those pent up emotions. Sometimes I agree. Yet other times I think it's just our mind placing us in a dead end road and make us face all that we try to hide during daylight. Because really Mr. Scumbag brain why would we want to visit something that we've been trying to suppress? Doesn't that seem a bit stupid? For all the intelligence you have, well, you can be quite ignorant.

Why would someone we're trying to forget dash into a dream all shiny and perfect reminding us of all the reasons why they were in our life in the first place? Why not make them look shitty and horrible so that we'll feel good with ourselves and that we made the right choice? Why would you allow the widow to dream about her beloved husband just so she'll wake up feeling a bigger void than before? Why would you let a father dream of his lost son when all it will do is make him hear the silence in his house ten times more? Does it really make sense?

 And why would you project the everyday fear into an every night dream? A recurring dream were we walk with dread knowing something bad will happen but we don't know what? And then when we remember it is all too late? Why make me dream of wolves through most of my childhood? Why make my beloved dog turn into my enemy? Why make my family die?  Why make me fight with my friends? Why do I regularly end up alone? Why make me wake up in shock every night for as many nights as you please? Why make me wake up with a smile only to realise it was just a dream? That that beautiful scene, those arms around my waist were all just figments of my imagination?

Why can't it be a simple dream? Why can't it be a silly cartoon? Or maybe the future as we want it to be? Or just a walkthrough the past? The good past not the bad past? Or why can't they just be black outs? If we need to dream then so be it but why must we remember it?

Oh brain you are a many splendid thing but tactful, that you are not.



There came a point where he realised that he had no more feelings to feel. A point where he could see things and actually have no opinion about it. No hurt. No guilt. No shame. No happiness. A big hole of emptiness. Just like the house he just bought.

He sits and sips his beer as he watches the street starting to stir. People take out their garbage. The neighbour walks his dog. Kitchens light up and you can see the women making coffee and lunch, and the families joining slowly. Some soft chatter for the house that slept like a baby the night before. Silence and passive aggressive pounding of mugs as a result of last night's fight in another. A cat goes through the trash. The perky neighbour finished her stretching and starts her jog and flashing him with a set of perfectly white teeth as she passed. The road cleaners come and he listens to their chitchat. More houses stir. People leave for work. Others start cleaning. Children go to catch the bus.

 And he sat there on the porch. Cigarette in one hand and beer in the other. He remembers dimly what it was like to be like them. To have a family, to have a purpose. To wake up with a plan. But the memories were cushioned by a cloak of numbness. It was like watching someone else's life.

And he wondered when it was that from a young man full of life he became a cynic old man too numb to feel sorry for himself.




I never felt this kind of hatred. It grows from my stomach and spreads through the whole body like fire, making me tremble. It feels horrible. It feels good. It makes me nauseated. It gives me thrills.

I hate you. I hate your goody-two shoes act. I hate that you make yourself a martyr. I hate that you pretend to feel other people's pain. I hate your cowardice. I hate your voice. I hate your shitty opinions. I hate the make-believe stories you try to feed me. I hate the soap opera life you think you have. I hate hating you. I hate the fact that I'm tainted with this awful feeling. I hate the knot in my stomach every time i see you. I hate the fact that I have to pretend to like you. That I have to smile. I hate that I can't tell you what I'm feeling because you can't handle it. I hate how you turn everything about you. How you think the world revolves around you. I hate the fact that I still care about you. I hate that I don't want to see you harmed although you've perished a million times in my mind. I hate how you hurt me. I hate how you ignore me. I hate how you don't even have the tiniest idea of how I feel. I hate that you think everything is peaches. I hate that you think you can treat me this way and get away with it. I hate that I let you get away with it.

I hate myself. I hate myself because I'm writing this blog. I hate myself because this blog means that you got under my skin. And just to be specific you doesn't stand for 'int' it stands for 'intom'. I hate all of you that got under my skin. I hate that I got to know what hatred feels like. I hate that I see myself in your eyes. I hate that some of the most important decisions, ideas and values were influenced by you, because I didn't want to become like you. I hate that I ever loved you. I hate the fact that deep down I still do.  And most of all I hate the fact that you'll probably keep affecting me through all my life.

 You'll be the ghosts I'm running away from. You'll be my shady past I won't want to talk about. You'll be the ones I'll blame when relationship after relationship goes down the sewer. And yet I know that doing that would mean that I have become just like you.

I hate the fact that I seem to be stuck in a vicious cycle and there's no way out.



Two people came to work today wearing tags saying something like sister of the something.. something ..of JESUS CHRIST etc. To be honest I couldn't see exactly what was written without rudely staring. But the Jesus Christ part was very eye catching. And well it made me wonder. Why do people wear things that show off their religion? There are so many people that come with crosses around their neck, the Verbum Dei pinned to their clothes and rosary beads worn as a bracelet. I wonder, do they really need to show the whole world that they are Christians? And not only that but they seem to assume that you believe like them. That we are related just because we believe in the same man.

And sometimes when I'm talking to a nun I feel like blurting out the words " I don't believe". I feel like waving my arms and shouting " Hey look at me. I'm a non- believer. Will you shun me now? Will you think of me differently? Will you ask for someone else to be of service to you?"

Because I do not think less of a believer. True, my skin seems to repel nuns and priests but I guess that's from past and present experiences. I mean seriously last time a nun left the shop with 10 euro worth of stuff she was supposed to pay! But that's beside the point. My point is why do believers look down on me and think of me as a lesser person when I accept them as they are?

They pity me because for them I'm a lost soul. I pity them because they're naive. Sometimes, just in those moments of crises when the problems and the loneliness hit you like a knife in your gut, I envy them. I envy their gullibility, their credulity, the hope and trust they put in what I see as fairytales. Because, sure I would love to unload all my problems onto someone else. I would love to say a few words and let others solve my problems. But that's not how it's done is it? And we Maltese have two expressions that I always thought showed the tiny doubt edged in the enormous land of belief.  "Fin-niżla kull qaddis jgħin " and "Għin ruħek biex Alla jgħinek " which translated lightly means that you still need to work your ass off to solve your problems.

So that leaves us where? Me the non-believer on one side and you the cross holder on the other. But is there really a difference between my world and yours? We both get sick. We both get heart-broken. We both have douche-bags and bitches. We both have people that we cannot see our lives without but one day we will be forced into it. So why the smug face? You're no more privileged than me. Clouds rain on me and on you. Wind blows both of our hairs into tangles. The difference? You blame your God for all that happens, I say fuck it and move on.


2, 4, 6, 8, 10

7-hour shift. 6 days a week. Morning. Evening. Same old same old. After swimming through the endless questions on the price of an object in a shop where each wall is adorned by posters stating "Everything for 2 Euros", the arguments about the injustice of pricing a bag at 25c when they have millions at home and the priceless list of lame jokes you're left with a built up of frustration and anger and a bigger hatred for this little island and its close-minded people.

And it’s so easy to get lost in the monotony. The same routine, the same rhythm. You fall in a trance. 2, 4, 6, 8, 10. Endless pointless chitchat. 2, 4, 6, 8, 10. Stupid arguments. 2, 4, 6, 8, 10. Unnecessary blaming. 2, 4, 6, 8, 10. Sheepish looks of repent.

The only thing that keeps you from turning brain dead are the few regular customers that keep it interesting.

Like the suicidal old man whose wife is dead and all he wants is to be left alone with her spirit or better yet to reach her wherever she is.

There’s the lady with the horrific laugh that gives me goose bumps. It’s like nails scratching on a surface. If she doesn’t get you out of coma then you’re a hopeless case.

There’s the sweet English woman who used to come and buy 3 bottles of cola and a big bag of crisps. I wonder what happened to her.

There’s the 2-bottles-wine-2-bottles-pepsi guy. He’s quiet and nice. He never looks up as if he’s ashamed of his shopping and the trembling hands from years of drinking wine.

The Adams family. Very pulled together. The women of the family wear their long black hair parted at the sides and let down.

The big-nosed headmaster who comes and buys food, always for one person.

And of course the hooker family. Now to be completely honest I really doubt any of them are hookers but that’s how I see them in my head. The mother and the elder daughter are both blonde. The mother looks like the slutty after-the-happily-ever-after version of Goldilocks. The daughter is more sophisticated. There’s also a second daughter, a brunette. She wears tracksuits, while they wear dressy clothes. She wears her hair up and no makeup while they’re always dolled up. She wears headphones to ignore them; they look at her like she’s a disappointment.

The rest of the work hours pass in a whirlwind of trembling hands, weird money holders, strange relationships and numerous complaints. 2, 4, 6, 8, 10.



I shouldn't. It's not healthy. It's the number one sacred rule on self-help books. It's stupid. It's a waste of time. And it breaks me more after. But I crave it. I need it. It's what I look forward all day. To get into bed when everyone's asleep and make believe.

I pretend. I make up stories in my head. I picture memories and twist them in what they could have been. I impose what ifs on my memories. I impose what ifs on future. I allow myself to have a little happiness. I allow myself to pretend I'm someone else. Someone who's got a clean slate. No regrets. No scars. Not broken. Someone who still has faith in humanity. Not a cynic. Someone who believes in love and in happily ever after. Someone who believes that there are things that actually last forever.

And it's addicting. And you start to lust after those little snippets in your day when you can fall back to your freshest dream. 

 It's sick. It's painful and sick and crazy. Because every time you're brought back to reality it seems even worse. And now I know how Dorothy felt in her greyscale world. And I understand why Alice would make up a whole new world filled with talking animals and plants. And I wish I could do like Peter Pan and fly away and fight with pirates and talk to mermaids and Indians and make-believe.

Because the monotony of reality crashes down so hard around you that you feel like the walls are closing in on you. And you start to understand why people feel the need to write stories, produce films, read books, watch TV shows.

Anything to escape for half an hour from reality.

Anything to feel light.

Anything for a few moments of colour.


the invisibility cloak

Sometimes this place gets to me. The provinciality of it. The predictability. The conformity. The religion. The harsh language. The  people. The traditions. The weather. The humidity. The lack of privacy.

Sometimes I would like to go somewhere and do something crazy without being scared that there will be someone who recognises me or that I will reencounter the people there. Sometimes it's nice to be invisible. To walk around in a place where no one knows your name. You have no history and people will judge you on what you look like and how you act not on who you know and what you were. Sometimes it would be good to take a plane and start over again. A clean slate. No baggage.

I could be anyone I want and no one would ask questions because they wouldn't know better. No one would ask me why I am quiet, or if something's wrong with me, or why I'm all noisy and boisterous. No one would know if I take up a new personality and act a character. I could invent a character in each city and no one would be surprised.

I would like to be in a place where not being religious is no big deal. Where not fitting in the crowd is not a big deal. Where I don't have to pretend. I would like to go somewhere where I could disappear in the background without someone pulling me out of the corner. Where I could analyse the human relationships and investigate more. Where I could watch the popular girl, the filled-with-hot-air guy, the socially awkward girl, the shy guy, the oblivious-to-the-world couple. And I could see how this play is acted out without having to read my lines.

It might be a coward's life but it's a life I occasionally yearn for.


There's an elephant in the room

Shall we pretend that nothing happens? That actions do not count? That the quote 'sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never hurt you' is not a cock-a-bull story? Shall we waltz around our lives playing minesweeper?

Shall we make believe? Shall we act our way through life like the greatest actors? Shall we put up the biggest pantomime were everything is how it should be and we are all perfect? I am perfect. You are perfect. He and she are perfect. Even it is perfect. And of course it goes without saying that they are perfect and therefore the maths of this solution arrives to the conclusion that we are all perfect.

Come, join me please. Let us make up stories together. Let us invent this normal standard and assume that we all fit under it. Let us all be the same, like soldiers marching into the future. Let us be united and strong so that no one will break us. Let us become one so much so that we cannot recognise ourselves from a crowd. And most importantly let us hide those who don't fall in the standard. Those who don't follow the code. Those who dare to be different, who try to object. Who do they think they are that they can just come up with ideas on their own? This is not what perfection is based on.

Let us play happy families, let us be all bffl's. Let us pretend that we love each other and that we don't know what hate means. Let us smile and wave just like the penguins in Madagascar.

Let us ignore the majestic elephant in the room.


100 days of Summer

This summer I look forward to: 

The smell of sea.
Learning how to drive.
Finishing my book.
Lots and lots of photo shoots.
Thinking I'm going to die of laughter, over and over again.
Dye my hair a crazy colours.
Watch TV series, fall in love with the characters, laugh, cry and urge them to succeed.
Lots of lazy nights with friends.
Work, meet people, study them and write about them.
Earn money.
Go to Gozo.
Behaving like an idiot.
Get drunk. (Just a little)
Have fun.
No drama.
Listen to music.
Write, write and then write some more.
Learn new things.
Learn a new language.
Meet new people.
Finally understand how to use that little bitch of Photoshop.
Cuddle with Patches.
Did I mention write? I'll mention it again just in case.
Feel alive. 
Just be.


From Hero to zero

How does one get here? How does your perception of a person go from holding them on a pedestal to being almost revolted by what the person is? How does one go from being a superhero to being the bad guy?

I mean don't get me wrong, I know it's stupid to hold people on a pedestal. 'To err is human' right? And putting people in a shrine is a sure way to be disappointed. I understand that. What I don't understand is how your view of a person can go from one extreme to the other. It's like all the good things you thought the person had disappeared and instead their character contains all the aspects you really detest.

So how does it happen? Is it just that people change? Is it the things they go through? The pain, traumas and hard times they survived that changed them drastically? Or is it us that change? Is it the things that we had to go through that changed us so much that we're no longer compatible with the people we adored before?

And the most ironic thing is that we still love them. Even when we realise they're not the person we thought they were, even when our admiration turned to pity we still love them. We've already been ensnared into the trap. They've engraved themselves into our lives too much, they're a part of us and we can't do anything about it.

So we find ourselves having to live with the fact that we can love people and yet not like them. And the only decision left to take is not whether to stop love them or not nor is it if we're capable of cutting the strings and leave or stay, but whether we can learn to live with the facts or whether it will destroy us slowly.

 We can run away, we can put thousands of miles between us and them, but we only need a phone call from them asking for help and we're on the first plane back.

And the worst part is that we can never tell them how deep the resentment we feel really is. How can you watch the person you love break slowly as you explain that you hate their attitude, you detest their voice, that you couldn't care less about their opinions on everything and everyone. How can you watch their face crumble and the tears running down their face?

After all it’s not their fault either that they went from hero to zero bit by bit just by doing what they always did.



Regret. Remorso. Repentir. Bedauren. Lamento.

It's what keeps you up at night. It's what makes you cringe when a memory passes in front of your eyes. It's the worst feeling in the world. It's something you cannot erase. It's something you'll carry with you all your life. You'll have to live with it like the scar you got from falling over on the same place every time. It's like those invisible bruises that hurt more than the blue blobs that show up on your skin.

There's no control over it. You cannot stop it from coming and the pain never gets less. You just learn to act like it hurts less. You learn not the flinch your face when it attacks your heart like someone crushed it in their hand.

I wish could believe that one day I'll wake up and be able to repeat Edith Piaf's words 'Je ne regrette rien' but that's like believing that one day you'll see a unicorn. 



Studying is a funny thing. It brings out the quirkiest, creepiest and most hilarious parts of a person's character. You never really know a person until you go through the stress of exams with them.

You know how when you lose someone you go through 5 stages of grief? Well the same stages can apply for most students during exams.

The first stage is denial. This is, I think, the longest phase of all of them. It starts at the beginning of a semester and leads up to approximately a month or less before the exam. Some stay stuck in this stage even up to the last week before exams. During this phase students talk about how easy the subjects are, miss classes and grumble that their lecturer is way too boring. Their general behaviour is 'Bitch please'.

The second stage is anger. Most of the anger is usually directed towards the lecturer. Students are angry because the lecturer are no good and because they don't give them notes. They cry 'Da fuck is this shit?!' There's also an itsy bitsy pinch of anger towards themselves for having wasted half the year playing cards in quad.

Next is bargaining. This, I think is the most hilarious stage. Students spend this phase in the library, making up impossible time-tables with 36 hour-day slots and flipping a coin to decide which topics they're going leave out. Freddie mercury's meme 'Close enough' would be quite complimentary to this stage.

Depression is next. This is the 'OMG I'm gonna fail' phase. It's when you see students huffing and puffing outside the library on "cigarette breaks" when in reality they're just too depressed to study. You can see people in front of their computer screens writing on facebook about how sad and awful University life is. And others with books open, pens in hand and staring off into nothing.  

The last stage is acceptance. Acceptance that it's too late to do anything. This is where a meme geek (yes someone like me), would place the 'flipping tables' image.  You can see who has reached this stage because they're usually sleeping on their books in the library. Others are sitting in the group area getting told off by the blonde librarian because they're laughing like maniacs. Or making fun of the 'sorr-eh' librarian.

But with studying there's another phase. It's the 'euphoria' stage. All students who finish their exams and are in the 'like a boss' stage. They're so glad it's over that they don't care whether they've passed or failed. They stay in this phase until a new semester starts or results are received. And then it's back to the denial phase once again. This rollercoaster ride continues for the span of time students spend in University. Because although we're supposed to be very intelligent people, we never seem to learn.



A web of lies they spin. A complicated mess of lies they need to believe to be able to live. It's the basic survival kit. And when things get too bad, when the lying doesn't match, when it gets out of control, that's why they go mad.

And I pity any poor soul that believes the lies. Because they get caught up in the mess. And they forget that they need to lie too, white lies, nothing too bad, just enough to get you through the day or more importantly through the night.

No, your husband isn't cheating, he's just away on business. Of course you like your child, what kind of mother would you be otherwise? Yes you love your life, you gave up everything you loved, all your hobbies, all your dreams, but it was worth it. Of course this is what you want, you dug your heels into the ground, the little stubborn eejit you are, and admitting that you were wrong will only make you a fool.

Lies, lies, lies. Are they bad? Are they good? Are they necessary? Is your childhood built on just lies? Does it really matter if the happiest moments in your life were lies? They made you happy didn't they? Wouldn't life be an awfully boring place without lies? Just plain facts? Now, now honey isn't this living the dream?


Turning 20!!

I'm turning twenty in two days time. 20. Two decades. I will not be called a teenager anymore. I'm an adult now. Oh shit.

When you're younger you think that twenty is something very far away. And as a little girl I thought I would have conquered the world by now. Well we can all say that that plan didn’t work out!

And for twenty years I can't say I have a lot of success to show for it. I mean apart from the years I spent in nappies and following that potty training where are my accomplishments? I have O'levels, ECDL and A'levels but everyone has those. I have an expired first aid certificate. I have a quite a few unfinished stories and an unfinished book. A year at university in a course I hated. Hair, which I can't remember its original colour, and approximately the same height since I was fifteen. I've basically never been abroad (I mean seriously who counts a day in Sicily as being abroad?). I don't have a license and I'm half way through another first year in University. And the only thing I'm using out of all this is my x2 timetable for my very tough and mind boggling work at Tal-lira.

That's not much is it. I mean you'd think you would have accomplished more in twenty years for fuck's sake! But maybe I did. I don't have a gazillion of certificates. The only kind of identification I have is my I.D. which still has a big fat 16+ on the side because I'm too lazy to go and change it. But I do have memories. I have a huge library of them. I have a collection of laughter, tears, happiness, anger, disappointment, pride. I'm surrounded by very special friends. I have a family who loves me. People who seem to think I'm worth keeping in contact with. People who trust me with their secrets, who have shared their best and worst moments with me, who seek my advice. People who make me think that maybe I'm not such a failure after all. People without whom I wouldn't be who I am today. People without whom I would be still a little lost ugly duckling.

That said it doesn't mean I'm anywhere near being a swan. But I do know I've changed. I've gained more confidence. I can defend myself. I'm no longer the quiet girl everyone forgets about soon after they met. I'm still not a social butterfly and at this stage I've accepted that I'll never be one. But that’s not a disappointment. I'm surrounded by great people. I may not know everyone but I do know the people I care about well.

I have scars left from bad experiences. I have numerous of embarrassing moments, most of them having booze as a protagonist. I have memories which leave a warm feeling in my heart. I have gained enough confidence to start this blog. I have aims and projects and plans. I look forward to my future without being scared. I have the weapons needed so that in another decade I won't say I have nothing to show for it.

So no I don't have any concrete accomplishments to show. There are no certificates attached to my life CV. But that doesn't mean I've wasted twenty years of my life. It's just means I've been preparing for the rest of my life. 

I guess that's not so bad after all. 


Pandora's Box

Isn't it awfully funny when you get that sadness deep in your heart for no apparent reason? Isn't it hilarious when in a few minutes you can go from being ok to being miserable? And isn't it extremely hilarious that your scumbag brain won't even allow you to cry though you're crawled up in a ball on your bed? I mean really what better way to end the day?

It's a big void. Like stepping into a black hole. It eats all you give and is never placated. Nothing soothes you tattered soul. Not writing this blog, not listening to your favourite songs, not even your little soft toy-like puppy. And when you think it’s too much, then and only then, the vortex of memories comes. And not one by one, no. They seem not to have learnt what staying in line means. Instead it’s a blast to the past, a blitz in your brain, enough to leave you vegetable, not enough to numb you.

And my brain face palm’s itself in disappointment. My heart sighs as it steadies itself for yet another long night, as the world around me turns black and I lay on my bed waiting for sleep.

Horrible unexplained emptiness. Loneliness when there are people who love you. Despair when you have everything. Anger toward yourself for being so stupid. Emotions. A lidless Pandora’s Box. And just a pinch of hope that tomorrow will be a better day.

I'm left rocking myself to and fro on my bed, a tearless face, an aching heart, a lost soul.



I want to travel the world.
I want to backpack around Europe.
I want to go on a road trip with my friends in America.
I want to grab a plane to an unknown destination.
I want to go somewhere where Autumn is really Fall so that I can step and hear the red crunching leaves under my feet.
I want to make a snow angel.
I want to stand under the Eiffel tower and have coffee and a bagel.
I want to start each year in a different city.
I want to go to New York, Connecticut, Los Angeles, Broadway, San Francisco, Chicago, Boston.
I want to walk in Central Park.
I want to go to London and see the Peter Pan statue.
I want to go to Africa and spend some time with each of the different tribes.
I want to photograph strangers from all over the world and put them on my wall.
I want to make friends with other wanderers with whom I'll never be in touch.
I want to photograph a war.
I want to sleep under the stars.
I want to eat spaghetti in Italy and taste 'vino' in the vineyards in Tuscany.
I want to have 'fromage' in France.
I want to go to Starbucks.
I want to visit a forgotten country in America and sit in the yet-to-be-remodelled cafeteria and write a book.
I want to wander.
I want to leave this place and come back only when I've had enough. Probably never.


The Dancing Puppet

One day he found in the attic four wooden plates attached to a tangle of strings and at its end a little lifeless, broken doll. Beautiful porcelain face, blue eyes, red locks and pink lips forming a perfect smile.

Hour after hour he spent on her. Untangling her strings, fixing her, making her dresses, turning her into a princess. And he'd murmur sweet nonsense in her hair in the hope of soothing her and bring her back to life.

Slowly his soft caresses started to effect her and she started to react when he pulled her strings. Her movements were coarse, his jabs where rough but they slowly got used to each other and fell into a smooth rhythm. He willed her to dance and she accepted, for she loved him and was grateful for his patience. Together they made a perfect match, bringing smiles on everyone's face as they saw here graceful dance and her lit up face.

But as time passed he started to get greedy. He wanted her all for himself. He didn't like all the attention she was getting. Because she basked in others' love and started to ignore him.

Hurt and jealousy turned into anger and it instigated revenge. So he went to a sorcerer's for advice on how to punish her.

The sorcerer gave him a potion that would make her dance forever. And she drank it because she trusted him. Thus cursing herself for life and with her he slowly realised he was cursed as well. For as her perfect smile turned into a frown his heart cried out for her.

But all he could do was watch her dance. So he went back to the sorcerer to see what he could do. And the sorcerer turned him into a puppet and he joined her in the dance.

And they belonged to him now but they cared no more. For now they were equals and were together forever.

Dance for me my puppets
Dance these steps I give
Dance until you can't no more
Dance the dance of death



I cannot do this anymore. It doesn't work this way. You take and take and don't give back. I'm spreading myself thin but it's never enough. How can I be someone's hero when I can't even save myself?

You want me to talk through the lips you yourself sewed together. You want my attention yet give me non of yours. You say you care but never listen. You want my confessions and then use the bullets to shoot me. How am I supposed to keep carrying on, just on words?

What do you want from me? Do you want a soldier? Yes, Sir. No, Ma'am. Do you want a lamb? Sitting and not speaking. Do you want a parrot? Repeating every word you say. Would that really satisfy you? Am I supposed to conform to your conditions? Be the clone version of you?

I can't.

I won't.

So all I can say is sorry. A word I know you loathe. But that is all I have. Sorry for not being who you want me to be. Sorry I'm not who I was before. Sorry I'm not who you thought I was. Sorry for being me.



Rage. Fury. Wrath. 

"It's bad to be angry", they said." You're scary when you're angry" they croaked. "Rage does not suit that pretty face" they mocked. Their faces were quite a picture, when she burst out in fury. Looking back 'twas quite funny. But she hated it. Made her feel like a monster. So she stifled her rage, locked it up behind giant doors, like rapunzel in her little palace. She rarely visited, afraid it would somehow find it's way back in her life.

Years passed. Her success was admirable. Except for little instances anger was kept well in check.  The little dude was never taken out to play. Little did she know, that instead of killing him she was giving him food. It grew like fire when given wood. The little dude was not so little anymore. Slowly it started to spread, around the door, tweaking at the bolts trying to find a crack, an imperfection.

And it did. She was weak and ever the opportunist, it thrust forward, creating bigger cracks in the magnificent door. And it finally broke it down.  It grew and spread like cancerogenous cells. After years of being bottled up it enjoyed it's new found freedom.

And her? She was tired. Tired of fighting it off. Tired of keeping all inside. But afraid. Afraid of what they would say. Afraid that they would mock. Afraid that this time instead of scared faces she'll get their backs as they leave. Not caring enough to stay and ask why. Letting her be consumed by this wrath, for which she knew she had herself to blame. For she made her bed, and now it was time to lay on it.


Mask of Deception

Every day she sits in front of the mirror and looks at the plain girl staring back. She nods her a silent good morning, whilst observing the dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep, the first signs of wrinkling on her forehead from worrying to much and the lack of life in her eyes. She tries to smile but the girl does not respond, that's not part of her job.

She bids farewell to the faults of the skin as she starts applying her makeup, slowly, methodically, a routine perfected through years of practice. As layer after layer is added the girl in the mirror changes. With each layer she becomes less recognisable, more normal. Evidence of last night's lost sleep vanishes along with any hint of worry.

The final touches are done, the mask is almost complete. She looks in the mirror and searches for traces of the girl there was this morning. She whispers sorry, as she fixes a perfect smile on her perfectly made up face completing the unflawed  mask of deception.



Some promises are kept, some are broken, some are twisted in a way that you forget what the initial promise was. But why do we promise? Why do we depend on them so much? We know we'll be disappointed so why do we still do it? Is it because we want to believe that we can keep stuff from happening? Stop the world from changing and people from leaving? We know we can't do that stuff and yet we still try. And then lo and behold we end up heart broken. Why? Because we realize that our life is not what it was yesterday, we find empty closets and a little note saying sorry, we hear the words we'd confided in one person in other people's mouths.

And then what? We sit down and cry and curse the world and life for being a bitch? It's our fault isn't it. Not the world's. The world shows us that things change every day, she gives us hint of what life will bring us. But do we take those hints? No. So then we lay in a corner licking our wounds hoping for a better life and better friends, parents, spouses, fiancés and better us.

And don't we look pathetic ? Aren't we a sad species indeed? Instead of getting up and get back on track we blame the others who broke the promises we forced on them. Well maybe it's time we suck it up and grow up and stop depending on promises someone made on a good day where everything looked doable.


Walking in heels on thin ice..

What do I mean by this title? It's easy really. Thin ice cracks just by normal pressure, wearing heels will make it even more difficult not to crack the ice.

And some people, well they make it that difficult to be around them. You have watch what you say, what you do, how to act, what to write well basically how to be yourself without triggering their reaction.

Why do we do it? Well, sometimes it's because you care so much about the person, sometimes it's because you care so much about what the person thinks about you and sometimes it's just because the explosion is much worse than walking on ice.

But how long can one keep up such an act? How long can you pretend to be someone you're not? Or that you're still the same person you were n years ago?

At some point or another something will crack. The question is will it be the ice or me?


We all go a little mad sometimes...

I don't know what I am, who I am, what I want, what I'm supposed to do anymore. I'm lost. And it's not all that bad. And that my friends is what Barney Stinsons would call a true story.

There's a sort of liberty that comes with the unknown. There's no plan to follow, no path to walk in, just a wide opening in front of you and you can do whatever the fuck you want. I used to be scared of such a thing. I thought getting lost was the worst thing that could happen to me. I thought that having a totally planned out future was the thing to do, staying focused was necessary not to go mad. But I've come to realize that there are different types of madness. The one I was most scared of is actually the one that came with all those plans. It's the one that makes you panic and hyperventilate because you're not where you had planned to be. It's the one that makes you feel like a loser, like you're unworthy, a nothing.

The other madness, the one that comes with being lost, is a different type of madness. It's the type of madness that gives way to creativity, it's the type of madness that allows you to let down your hair and twirl around in the fields. It's the type of madness that allows you to accept yourself as you are, good and bad. It's the type of madness that keeps your mind healthy, however contradictory that sounds. 

How can you feel so at home when you're lost? Maybe it's because you never had a home in the first place. Or maybe it's because belonging to one place, one thing, one person, is not your cup of tea. Or really it's just the fact that being lost means you don't have responsibilities, not really, because you don't really know do you?

And after all why do you need to know who you are when everyone's more than ready to tell you who you should be?

Why not just fuck it and let it be?