BIRTHDAY DEJAVU.

I remember last year when I wrote a blog post about how I had to change my ‘about me’. I had to change the age from 19 to 20. About two seconds ago, I was visiting my page and realised, that’s not me anymore. I’ve been 21 years old for the past month. It was time to edit my about me again.
Looking back on that post from a year ago, https://annikatague.wordpress.com/2014/10/21/a-slight-change-in-my-about-me/, a lot of things have changed and a lot of things have not.
I still worship Stephen Markley as a writer, but only recently have I begun divulging back into this passion. Some crippling anxiety was holding me back; as a writer and as a person in general. I feel like I’m finally on my way back and hopefully I’ll be finding new and exciting things to write about. I’m 21, I’m young, but I’m getting on, and I think it’s time I put some focus into the things I love to do, and work out how to spin them into a successful career. Look, I’m not stupid. I know that this is going to take some time, I haven’t even finished my degree for christ’s sake– I’m just feeling itchy!

For the past, I’m not even sure how long, I’ve felt pretty lost. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I think this happens to most students in the midst of their degree. I feel like I’m not doing anything with my life, while actually, I’m doing a lot. I’m just starting off. But I guess, for me, I wish the launching of a career path ensued lots and lots of dough, meaning I could travel and learn all at once. I know, I knoooooow, “go on exchange!” everyone tells me. I really don’t have an excuse not to, except that I don’t really want to? That’s legit enough.

Some of my friends are moving out of home– to Sydney, to London, to anywhere but here. And I guess I feel a little trapped, and when I say trapped, I mean trapped by myself.
I’m not scared to leave, I just don’t know where I want to go. Moving out of home would require transferring university’s and would mean zero savings for travel. That just doesn’t seem like an option at this point. I have to buckle down for the next 2.5 years and finish off this degree, because if I defer, I don’t think I’ll ever go back. My good friend Elle has just made plans to polish off an intensive personal training course, and then she’s jetting off to live in New Zealand for three months-indefinitely. My boyfriend’s brother is going over there with some friends around the same time as well, and if Abel hadn’t suggest that we go and visit them for a few weeks during my uni break in June/July, I just think I would go crazy. Finally I have something to look forward to.
It’s crazy how quick things change, how we easily change our minds about what it is we want to do, based on certain circumstances. Earlier this year, Olivia and I were planning on setting off to Europe in two weeks time, for a crazy, drunken, winterland escapade! Neither of us predicted falling in love and settling into committed relationships (a little cocktail of vomit and swoon, I apologise).

I honestly don’t know what the point of this ramble was. Scroll through my entire blog and most of my posts wind up this way. They start out promising- full of purpose and with a solid point, and end up being a super lame spiel about my current emotions. I’m gonna peace out before this gets super sappy and I start talking more intently about love– because I’m known for that these days.

YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE A MERMAID.

 

I know that this is new,
Something unfamiliar.
But I promise not to scare you—
I won’t hold you too tightly,
Underneath the water.
I won’t wrap your face in seaweed
And make you feel like me.

I promise you can keep your legs,
If you decide you’re getting tired
We can just stay here for a while.
I’ll nurse your head, I’ll stroke your face
I’ll tread for two.

I promise not to scare you,
Because this is something new.
The waters are wide, and they are deep
But they’re not too fast,
For your little feet.

 

POETRY

This uni session is finally over; praise that lord, wherever he may be (nowhere lol). The first nine weeks of this semester ate away at my very being, but I have come out the other side, not quite a new person; but perhaps an evolving one.

I had to take a poetry subject, and although it terrified me, it was also very therapeutic and surprisingly cathartic. I think I’ll share some of my poetry with the blogging world.
Firstly, here is a poem I wrote for a different subject. Not so much “wrote” actually, but the task required us to gather quotes and sayings from our immediate world, and construct them into a poem with a message that seemed quintessential of our time period. Here it is.

LOVE OF PAIN, AND VICE VERSA

I asked myself what I felt above all else,
I could think only of loss
of things forgotten though never known,
sacrificed though never held in hand.

Grief is better to keep inside—
working like bees or ants
building curious and perfect structures
complicating you.
Because maybe nothing is
an easy thing to feel,
but a difficult thing to express.

And maybe nothing is chaotic;
because chaos is more freedom;
in fact, total freedom. But no meaning.
I want to be free to act, and I also
Want my actions to mean something.
But sometimes when you have
To sacrifice something precious,
you’re not really losing it, you’re just
Passing it on to someone else.

That’s when you know you’re not alone,
When you know you’re in love.
You can no longer sleep
Because for once, reality
is finally better than your dreams.

They say you know when you know yourself,
You can only ever be yourself because everyone else is
Already taken.
To be yourself in a world that is
Constantly trying to make you
something else
is the world’s greatest accomplishment—
It is better to be hated for what you are
than to be loved for what you are not.

Love looks not with the eyes,
but with the mind,
and therefore is winged
Cupid painted blind.
And let me ask you this—
Have you ever been in love?
Horrible isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable.
It opens your chest
and it opens up your heart,
And it means that someone
can get inside you and mess you up.
You want to tell everyone and no one—
There is no greater agony than
Bearing an untold story inside you.

Reality continues to ruin
Our lives, but to really live
Is the rarest thing in the world.
Most people exist, that is all.

But there’s no use going back to yesterday,
Because I was a different person then.
I am still my own, I must remember
That I belong to nobody—
Til I look through the mist
And see the shape of you,
And I know. I know,
That I’m in love with you.

My body craves you,
And my soul,
Craves death—
Sadly, it’s the same thing.
Depression is the result
of overthinking,
The mind creates problems
That didn’t even exist.
So, I hope you find someone
that knows how to love you
When you are sad.
Because the world is a mess,
And I want to laugh,
Because all I can thin
is how horrible,
And beautiful it is.

 

THROUGH MOUNTAINS WITH LOVE.

A piece of micro-fiction I wrote, enjoy!

Vanquishing the land that mother earth had given him, the young boy threw shovels of dirt behind him. Surely she will understand that I am ruining her gift for the sake of my happiness, he thought. Towering far above his cranium was the peak of a mountain—too high to climb, he thought. Best go through it, he thought. The horse that stood behind him continuously interrupted his progress. Brown, tall and chivalrous, he reminded the young boy of the difficult task that lay ahead. “Sure,” the boy said to the horse, “it might not be easy, but I’ll see her on the other side, waiting for me, and she will have to love me.”

WHEN CUPID QUITS.

It was dark and it was draft, but rather exquisite in the way that it fit their needs so perfectly and unintentionally. A soft bass played in the background, high above their heads, with the lyrics loud and looming nearby. She pressed her rear on the edge of a high, wooden stool and used her feet to boost herself up properly; holding a tight grasp on the edge of the table, organising her body into position.

His face was distracted, pointed towards far corners of the room as if he had seen something possibly recognisable, but gone too quickly to trig his memory. As his mind raided itself, flicking back and forth, he slowly made his way over to her. Placing the wallet in his left hand on the table, and his right on her knee. His thumb slowly circled in one spot on her delicate skin and she silently thanked herself for remembering to moisturise.

His eyes slowly stopped flicking and he managed to focus his attention to her face. Bronzed, smooth and with a subtle gleam. Her eyes stayed clear, an image of sea glass in colour. Cheeks flushed, her tongue ran over her bottom lip, slowly spreading the small amount of lipstick that remained from hours earlier. He fought the urge to press his lips upon hers and taste the crimson red for himself. Instead, he lifted the hand from her leg to her face. His fingers cupping from her jaw to her temple with his thumb continuing to stroke her skin. She blinked; lasting a second longer than the times before, managing a jagged exhale as she did so, but slowly returning to a face of composure. Eyes locked, he licked his lips, wanting so badly to take the lunge, until the heat of her face stopped his heart cold and the immediate whim overwhelmed him completely; forcing him to drop his hand from her cheek. Her eyes fluttered to her fingertips in response, focusing intently on the chipping white nail polish.

I sat perched on the ceiling beam, my legs hanging freely; invisible to the others, though unsure that I wanted to be. It was at this moment that my assistance was most required, before the boil would reduce to a simmer. I’d been completing these tasks for longer than I cared to remember; piercing hearts together, mostly to coexist in harmony until cause of death. It was unlikely that the bond I offered didn’t last, but it seemed to be more common these days.

I watched the boy slurp down the remainder of his beer, slamming the glass on the table as he finished. His head slowly turned to the girl, and he inhaled the look on her face like he wouldn’t see those eyes, those lips, ever again. Pointing to her drink, he told her to finish it and they would go home. She obligingly nodded her head, resting her lips on the rim of the glass and forcing the thick fluid down her throat. It tasted bitter, like a soap; it didn’t seem to bother her however, just a mere reminder that it would cleanse her insides in a way that other things couldn’t.

My arrow was pulled taught against the string of my bow; the feathers on my wings fluffed in preparation for a swift flight. Their eyes locked once more. I wanted so badly to help, to fulfil the duties required of me, but self pity is consuming and it came over me like a heat I had never known. It filled my lungs, my throat and it burned down to my stomach; skipping over the emptiness of my chest that separates me from all the rest.

I lowered my bow, releasing the tension, turning it in an angle I had never before. My arms positioned awkwardly, a sharpness resting across my abdomen. An inhale, an exhale, and a release of the string. Pierced in the stomach by my own whimsical misery, I would no longer be the jewel maker of hearts.