In the dark, the only sound is the drip, drip, drip of the kitchen sink. It drills into my brain and I turn left and right, but my eyes wide open stare at nothing. I don’t know how to fix the leak, so I let the water go where it wants, maybe a river or sea far, far away, leaving here to get peacefully polluted in the sunshine.

In the dark, I make up shapes of nothing and feel so empty that I think, maybe there’s a leak in me too. I can feel it, the quiet throbbing at the back of my head where something is escaping. I think, maybe that’s why I see no colour and the trees are grey in July. I think, maybe that’s why my heart never flutters and there’s no butterflies in my stomach, only ever-sleeping worms.

I don’t know how to fix the leak. If you could open me up, spread my ribs apart and plunge your arms elbow-deep, would it be warm? The blood moving around, bubbling around your fingers, maybe it would feel alive, urgent. Would you find the leak and fix it, fix me up again?

I think of all the good things that leaked out of me as I listen to the drip, drip, drip of the water. It tells me, you and I are one. That’s why I never feel the rush, or the sorrow, just the boredom of an unremarkable life.

While you’re there, my chest cavity open to the elements, my heart naked and beating, vultures circling above in anticipation, would you kiss me to see if I come back to life?

The bodies around me sway at the rhythm of the music, a wave of flesh moving in unison. The bass pulls me in, low and slow, sweat pooling at the base of my neck. I cannot see anything but shadows, and when the red lights come on everything burns, and my skin is on fire.

I sense you standing next to me, so I look at the band, I look at the dark silhouettes dancing, I look at the darkness even so that I won’t look at you. My heart pounds in my chest, the heat is suffocating. I try to breathe but you won’t let me.

The drums pick up the beat and I give in, turn around. Your eyes meet mine, hungry and delirious.

The guitar weeps as you touch my cheek, I want to resist, I want to pull away but there’s no air in this room and it’s killing me.

I finally reach for you and when your lips reach mine the room collapses, the roof crumbles and the people disappear, a slow-motion explosion that touches everything but us. The world is a memory and all that’s real is you.

Your fingers trace the seam of my dress as I wish time to stop right then.

But you let go. You let go and I can still smell the sweetness of your skin.

The singer’s voice booms in my ears, and now he’s screaming, he’s pleading, he’s begging I love you, I love you, I love you.

You retreat into the crowd and the wave swallows you.

I turn back around and mouth the words:

I love you, I love you, I love you.

my chest has turned to wood

you can measure my heartbreak by counting the rings

one, two, three, four

the air around me cracks and there’s no space to breathe

the memory of your smell scratches my throat

-

I never believed in heartbreak

I thought movies were dramatic

music was sentimental

Literature was wrong

and poetry was a facade

because how can a hear shatter when it’s just flesh and muscle and blood?

-

And yet mine breaks over and over and over

with every breath it cuts me deeper

and I don’t know where to bury the pieces

-

Maybe I was delusional

maybe I was a fool

or maybe I was just in love

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September days ebb and flow like water, trickling down my fingers, the drip drip drip of time passing, of life happening.

Like Artemis’s daughter I too feel my skin exposed to the elements, to this Autumn that fell on me way too fast, and now demands to be heard above the gusts of wind and showers of rain.

I only ask that the new season be gentle, be patient. A whole life happens in a day. Today, I will sit down, and listen to the birds sing.

I have been thinking about change, change of season, change of routines, change of a home. My heart aches for a place I’ll soon have to leave, my home of two years, the nest to so many joys and heartbreaks, the spring of so much love. A place that always welcomed me with open arms and allowed me to do the same for the people around me.

Change is upon me, forcing me to look at my days, my hours, my minutes. It’s true that life is made of small, ordinary moments, so I try to cherish the quiet, the boredom, the slowness, I try to cherish the wait. I look at the trees swaying like ocean waves in the storm, and I think— enough, this is enough.

I try to bring this knowledge with me as I move through the days, the knowledge that everything has value if I choose to see it, the playfulness that anything can be an inspiration, a source of light, if only I let myself experience it.

I am at my most creative when I look around me, at the clouds in the sky or the puddles beneath, at the houses and the way they glow in the early morning. May the sunshine lay on my cheeks for just a moment longer.

What does it take to build a home? You buy the flowers, measure the furniture, open the curtains and watch the light spill in. You might paint the walls or fix that crack in the ceiling. But a home won’t feel like one until there’s laughter gathered up in the corners like dust, until you’re clearing away last night’s drinks, not until you’re washing off the food someone spilled on the floor.

A home doesn’t fill like one until it’s full, full of people and full of memories, full of the love and warmth that the people within feel for one another.

Now I find myself in the process of emptying, packing and packaging this home, the forgotten treasures at the bottom of a drawer, the long-lost memories at the back of a picture.

I will carry them all with me, open them again in a new space and let them breathe in new air. We will look in each other’s eyes, whisper words made of infinity, and we will start over. We’ll be home.

I feel the excitement of a fresh start underneath my skin but I’m not ready to let it bloom just yet. I will save that sweetness for a later moment. Today, I will take comfort in the nostalgia, wrap it around me like a warm blanket.

I dream as the days grow darker.

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Growing up Shy: A Brief History

One of my earliest memories of socialisation dates back to 2005/06. I was 4 or 5 years old, the sun shining high as I played on the shore of my local beach, I the maker and destroyer of sand castles and various other constructions. Other children played by, laughing and splashing each other with sea foam.

“Why don’t you go and play with them?” my mother asked, hovering behind me.

I shook my head no. I was fine by myself. And the thought of initiating a conversation was too much to bear. Before my social skills had a chance to develop, I’d already given up on them, and accepted a life of solitary contentment.

The word ‘shy’ was thrown around a lot, by parents, teachers, numerous adults I knew pitied me a bit when they said it.

That day on the beach, my mother took matters into her own hands, did something that no child wants to witness. She walked up to those girls, crouched down, and spoke:

‘Can my daughter come play with you?’

The girls nodded, out of politeness I assume, and out of the same spirit I joined them. I might’ve been shy but I definitely was not rude. And so we played for a little while, but I could not relax, I could not enjoy this newfound friendship, for it was stained with insincerity, it felt disingenuous.

My inability to make new friends only became more apparent as the years wore on, forcing my parents to intervene on multiple occasions, until I grew too old for it to still be appropriate, and I was left on my on devices.

I cannot pinpoint how and why mu being shy has started. I was always like that as far as I can remember. Maybe having an older sister made it so I didn’t need to step out my comfort zone, so I never did, I never learnt how.

During my teenage years, ‘shy’ turned into ‘socially anxious’. It was 2015, deep into the mental-health-Tumbrl feed, and this new semi-medical terminology made it feel somewhat more legitimate. Not a childish trait, not laziness, but a larger issue, so rooted into who I was at the core, I could never dream of changing it, never dream of letting it go.

Except that I turn 25 in four months. And I’m damn ready to let it go.

I’ve come to realise that I actually love meeting new people, I love the initial small talk, the excitement of knowing nothing, of discovering little by little, charting undiscovered territories in search of friendship. But it has to be on my own terms. It has to happen if and when I want it to, not just because I’m expected to.

So why should I deny myself this small happiness? By hiding behind the ‘shy’ label for so many years, I’d become complacent with an identity that doesn’t belong anymore, I’ve sheltered myself when there was no reason to.

I had to do something. I had to speed-improve my social skills, catch up on the many years I’ve let go by without ever trying to change.

A guide to kicking social anxiety in the ass:

Disclaimer: these tips are by myself for myself. They work for me, they might not for other people, and that’s ok!

1. For the love of God, make eye contact!!!

   Why are you so scared of looking people in the eye? Nobody’s out to get you, I promise. Nobody’s going to catch you unprepared. Smile at the cashier, ask them how they’re doing it. Look at the bus driver as you say good morning. Stop hiding from people, they’re not so scary when you actually look.

2. Say stuff out loud

   Externalise your thoughts if you can. Practice small talk, and you’ll get better. Like the barista’s shirt? Tell them! Think that girl over there has a nice skirt? Ask her where she got it! You might enjoy a little bit of conversation, and you might come out of. your shell a little bit. When has it ever gone bad for you? Exactly, never! Most people are polite and kind, so what are you so scared of?

3. Stop trying to make yourself invisible

   You’ve grown up believing you had to be small, be quiet, don’t disturb, don’t bother. And now the thought of people perceiving you is terrifying. Well, this cannot go on forever. When you go out, you don’t have to hide in a corner. You can be in the centre of the room, enjoy the view, nobody will hate you for it. Take space, be loud, and let other people do the same. This is the only way you’ll ever feel part of a community.

4. Make the first move

   Meeting new people is scary, I get it. What’s even scarier is making the first move. It’s easy enough responding to someone that’s talking to you, but. what about talking first? You cannot go on waiting for people to notice you. You cannot go on slowing your life to other people’s tempo. Ask for that number, make the plans, and stop overthinking so much, it never helps.

5. Remember, sometime your brain lies to you

   It’s easy to always think negatively of yourself. To always think other people won’t care, won’t listen. But you’ve just got to start believing in yourself a little bit. Things change, you can change. It’s all up to you, always.

And that’s it!!

I’ve had a summer full of plans, events, and socialising! I’ve really tried to push myself out of my comfort zone, and so far, so good!

I’d love to hear what other people do to try and overcome social anxiety, or simply to make new friends. Let me know in the comments! :)

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In case you’ve missed it…

Lately, I feel like a ripe peach. The white sun shines high as I swing from a tree branch, cheeks plump and red like a child’s. The fuzz on my skin buzzes with electricity when I hear birdsong in the early hours of the morning, the possibilities and the dreams of a new day pumping through me like blood.

I surround myself with people, let them touch me, feel me, I see their white teeth as we laugh together. I see the love around me and I want it all, all. I want to open up and let them look through me, leave nothing behind.

Tell me I’m sweet, tell me I’m soft between your teeth. Your words resound loudly in my ears but I see the footprints in the dirt below. I ripen and the ground gets closer, I fly on a bird’s beak and watch as the fall gets higher.

I lay in the sun and let it warm my face, I feel it tingle and I know it’s burning, but I cannot leave, I’ll happily face the pain if it means I’ll feel alive, if it means I’ll feel the warmth when I lay alone in the dark.

I am ready to be devoured yet I bruise so easily when your lips touch my skin.

Come taste me before it’s too late.

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In case you’ve missed it…

The past predicts the future. A mirror into a destiny that could’ve been stopped, if we’d bothered. If we’d bothered to look at ourselves, our reflection, however ugly, shameful. We avoided it for too long, and the shame has sneaked under our fingernails, it’s taken roots in our veins, it cannot be scraped off.

We saw it coming. We read the books, saw the signs. Heard the voices in the distance, longing for peace. We did nothing.

I lay down on the asphalt, I can’t get up, I won’t get up. I have no power, my ideas are empty and they will die alone, in the cave of my heart. They will suffocate, along with the hope that this world could be better, if only we wish it so.

Powerless, I close my eyes.

I make my way through the days, through the grey dust that coats my lungs. I cannot breathe, why should I? Why should I breathe, speak, live, if my God has left you to die? Who is He who condemns some and saves others? I did nothing to deserve this body, this home, and yet you perish for my negligence.

Feed the hungry, clothe the poor, give water to the thirsty, have we not heard of these teachings? Have we not preached this over and over? Yet we have taken the children away from La Lupa, her milk spilled and spoiled in greedy hands, while we hear cries of hunger on the horizon. How dare you.

Speak up, I need to speak up, I should speak up, scream, shout, tear my hair off and beat my hands in a bloody pulp, just to drown the noise of silence around me. Silence pressing on my tongue and urging me to fold over and sleep. My words are made of sand, they crumble as they leave me, sand only made solid by the water in my tears.

Death, death, there is so much death inside and outside of me, death at my fingertips, death on the screens, do I need a new soul? Death under the rubble and under the blue skies of a land once full of beauty.

Whose turn is it? Where does responsibility lie?

I reach for answers in the corners of my room and grasp at cold air. I rub my eyelids and hope something will fall off. It never does.

I peel my skin back and try to read the pattern in the blood, mine looks no different than yours. There’s nothing here.

Once again, we will wait for better Gods1

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I have been thinking a lot about guilt.

We use the word ‘guilty’ when talking about criminals. We condemn, we point fingers. we have the farce, the evidence, of the wrongdoing.

We can also ‘feel’ guilty, if we’ve mistreated someone, if we lied, if we regret our actions. Guilt acts as a sort of moral compass, we apologise, we make amends, and we release ourselves of the shackles of guilt. We are our own judge, jailer, and saviour.

I have been trying to trace back the steps of my guilt, find the evidence, the indisputable fact, find the date, time, place.

But I was good, too good, I left almost no trace, the evidence is flimsy, ephemeral. You might see it on my father’s face for a moment, a split second, a flash in the eye between the first and last syllable of goodbye. You might find it in my childhood bed, raise the covers, under the mattress, the foul, incriminating stench of the past.

For every action there’s a reaction, my reaction is guilt but that won’t cancel the past, it only gives it more focus, more power.

Every criminal has a motive, and so do I. Motive is not absolution, so it doesn’t matter, it’s not enough to get me out, get me free. I cannot deliver a sentence, I cannot pay for my crime, I cannot absolve myself. The shackles have rusted on my wrists and it even hurts to write this, it even hurts to breathe.

My victims are silent, they won’t admit to what I’ve done, I hear their whispers in the night, my eyes springing open but it’s quiet once again. They call my name again and again begging to be seen and be forgotten.

There are no apologies. No amends. I have to live with my guilt and I’m scared it will swallow me.

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In case you’ve missed it…

I see those lips of yours, born from the sweetest honey, delicious gold begging to be consumed. I kiss you and feel the bees on your tongue, poisoning you with my spirit as your cheeks grow red and your feet tremble beneath.

I stand in front of you, pleading you, be witness to our bond, to our history, you insist on believing in myths and fables, can’t you see that this is real? Can’t you feel the cold knife on your throat?

You feign ignorance of my name, turn a blind eye to my presence, while I learn the geography of your body, for that’s the only home I have, the only refuge I need. Let me lay on your chest and feed on your beating heart.

Feel me, believe me, this is where I’m meant to be. Bone against bone, lips against lips. There is no other ending for me, for you, for us. It was always going to be this.

It was always going to be you.

It was always you, Helen.

This short piece is inspired by one of my favourite movies, Candyman (1992).

The title and subtitle are direct quotes from the movie.

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I also write essays and NF. Check out my latest piece here:

I know absolutely nothing on how one writes a book. I’ve never been published, my name has never been printed out. The one (1) short story I wrote got rejected a million times (it wasn’t very good…).

And yet, I feel more confident in my work than ever. The more words I write, the better I feel that this book will go somewhere, it will get published. I just cannot accept of version of my life where that doesn’t happen.

Some have called me pretentious (you know who you are). Well, what if I am? What if I’m delusional? What if this is the only thing that’s propelling me forward, this crazy, self-obsessed attitude that defies reality? I will stop at nothing to finish this novel and I truly believe I will succeed.

I’ve started this project in 2023- worked on it for a few months and then managed to abandon it for a little more than a year. I’d lost all faith that I was capable of writing a book. No experience, no degree, nothing to prove I could do it. How could I think I’d ever be an author?

Then, I realised that I was on the right path to become an old woman with unrealised dreams, with bitter regrets. I was about to become one of those people with ‘a book in their bedside drawer’ that would never be written. I couldn’t let that happen to me. I’d rather die today than live with that kind of regret. That kind of disappointment in myself.

And so I’ve started again. This time with a precise goal: to have a finished first draft by my 25th birthday, this December. I am now 50,000 words deep and I’m sure I will reach my goal. This project has taken a force on its own now, it has grown so much that I can’t do anything but let it. It drives me forward, and not the other way around.

This novel has now taken control of every part of my life. Every book I read and love becomes a source of inspiration and unit of measurement for my own writing skills: Can I write something as good as this? How do I do that? What can I learn etc etc etc

Every interaction I have becomes a source of reflection, whether I’m thinking about dialogue, or relationships dynamic, or character development.

Every new place I visit, every new face I look at, has potential to be included in my story, or will become object of my analysis so that I can extract useful information from it.

On paper, it sounds exhausting, I know. But the reality is that I have never been so excited about something. Everything around me has now a new quality, has become special. I’ve become a better observer, a better listener and, hopefully, a better thinker.

Working on this novel has given me purpose, has given me a framework through which I can enjoy my life to a deeper level, I can stop and notice the little thing that make up the world in which I live in.

So, yeah, who cares if I’m a little pretentious.

Sometimes, being ‘humble’ is not the right thing to be. What I thought was ‘humble’, was really just lack of faith. Deep down, I just didn't believe I could do it. So, I didn’t put that much effort into it. I wrote, and kept telling myself it would go nowhere. I couldn’t even call it a book for the first year, I kept calling it a ‘story’, because uttering the words book or novel felt embarrassing. I felt embarrassed at the thought of actually believing in this project. I felt embarrassed at the thought of people hearing the word ‘book’ and sneering, laughing, as if you could ever write a book.

I have spent my entire life doubting myself, lacking self-love, or straight up hating who I was. Well, no more. That attitude will gain me nothing but a lifetime of regrets.

This year is the year I’ll have faith in myself no matter what. I’ll hold nothing back and that’s what will make me succeed. Even if that makes me stubborn, arrogant, or annoying.

There’s nothing wrong with being a little bit pretentious.

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You can also check out my other work! This is one of my favourite pieces:

My hands cannot contain the blood pouring out and I feel weak, oh so weak and I don’t like who I am, and I don’t like this hatred I feel bubbling within, I don’t like this bitterness that stains the world an ugly colour and tastes bitter in my mouth and makes you bow your head and turn away.

I can feel myself unravel, a wool sweater caught on a sharp hook, stuck in between two worlds, stuck in between the remembered past and the imagined future, scars opening back up under the magnifying glass of the self.

I can feel myself unravel and I’ll leave the pieces of me at your feet, say a prayer before you put me back together so maybe I’ll turn out better this time, so maybe I’ll be good this time, so maybe I’ll make you proud this time and I won’t have to cry, cry, cry over the violins serenading my pain

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In case you’ve missed it…

I needed words because unhappy families are conspiracies of silence. The one who breaks the silence is never forgiven. He or she has to learn to forgive him or herself.
-Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Can Be Normal?

Things my mother knows about me:

• my name, age, location etc etc

• (roughly) what my job is

• (roughly) what my degree is

• how much I weigh

• how much I should weigh

• my favourite movie when I was 6

• how many times I have disappointed her, and how

Things my mother doesn’t know about me:

• I’m writing a novel and I have a blog

• what a day in my life looks like

• the name of my friends

• what I am proud of, and what scares me the most

• my favourite book and/or movie

I have always been told that me and my older sister never cried when we were little, never threw tantrums in public, and never made too much of a fuss. I struggle to believe this was ever true. Is it possible that 2 year old me already understood when and how to be quiet? Is it possible that she understood not to take too much space, not to be a bother?

I have always been told that me and my older sister were always obedient and respectful. Was it respect, I ask, or fear? At what age did we learn that being quiet was the safest option?

I grew up in a silent home. Silent not as in calm, tranquil, serene. Silent as in desolate, decrepit, devoid. Silence covered every surface like poisoned dust. You breathed it in and it hurt your lungs, it scratched your throat. Silence was a weapon, it was warfare. Silence bubbled up, it swelled for days and days until it erupted into anger. If I tried to break it, to stop it from covering the entire house, the anger would come sooner, and it would be much stronger.

Eventually I learnt to turn silence into artillery of my own. I used it to my advantage. I learnt what not to say, what to avoid, I learnt to turn the truth into an acceptable version of itself. I’m not lying, I would tell myself in absolution, I am protecting myself.

I understand now that lying is a normal part of development, for children and teens alike. We lie to test boundaries, we lie to avoid consequences. But I felt my lying was deeper than that. It was a survival tactic.

I left my home six years ago and brought the silence with me. It has stretched for miles, for years, and has now turned into an impenetrable wall between me, and them. War ended but I keep hiding. I hold the artillery close to my chest and shiver from fear remembered rather than lived.

In spite of the technological advances that keep me virtually close to my family, I insist on keeping my life at a distance, on concealing my true self behind a curtain. I share the necessary and the harmless details of my every day. I work here, my partner’s name is this, today I have eaten so and so. Never the personal. Never the beauty. Never the love.

How long before my real self and my acceptable self are unrecognisable, irreconcilable? And when that time comes, who will they see when they look at me? When the curtain finally drops, will they accept she who stands in front of them?

I complain that me and my family aren’t close and yet I insist on keeping the truth away form them, still scared to show myself fully. And maybe I have a right to be, maybe they won’t love me warts and all. I still fear my mother’s anger, or my father’s disappointment. But is it better to be loved for a lie, or despised for the truth?

There are so many things I keep wrapped in silence. I haven’t told them I dream of being an author. I haven’t told them I won’t have any children. I haven’t told them how much I love my friends. They don’t know how happy I am, nor how sad I used to be.

There’s a part of me that hasn’t forgiven, or forgotten. Regret and resentment stand between me and them and make the silence even harder to break.

I left my home six years ago and I have grown up faster than I wished to. Faster than my silence could, and the real bits of me are now spilling over and I can’t contain them. The need to speak up is getting stronger and stronger. But I’m not ready yet.

Maybe one day. One day.

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Look in the eyes of a Mirror

And they’ll be a pit of black regret

Spit at them with anger

And they’ll cry blue tears of the future

Look in the eyes of a Mirror

At the dark eyelashes falling one by one

At the lids drooping with the weight of your stare

Look in the eyes of a Mirror

And you’ll find nothing of value

but the shards of glass at your feet

making you bleed, bleed

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In life, I like to be prepared. I liked to be prepared for exams when I was in school. I do my diligent research before an interview. I don’t even go to the pub without listening to my ‘getting ready’ playlist, to make sure I am in the right mindset, the right mood for the evening. I don’t enjoy surprises, and I don’t enjoy being caught off guard.

When I walked past the opening of a new exhibition on my way to dinner, I really wanted to go in. However I put it off, on the excuse that I needed to ‘read about it first’ and ‘find out what it’s about’.

The next day, I met with a friend and we were short on things to do. So I suggested we go to the exhibition. I told myself I could read about it afterwards.

James Joshua Li’s Blue Stigmata was a small, intimate exhibition in the heart of Brighton. We entered the room and the only person present was the artist himself. Immediately, I felt like an impostor. How dare I enter this space, take up room, when I don’t even know who the artist is? When I never heard of him until just the day before? How dare I look at these pieces with no understanding of their meaning, and the context that brought them to life?

And yet, while these questions swam around in my head, I couldn’t help but adore what I looked at. The colours, the brush strokes, the tenderness I could feel behind the canvas touched me deeply.

I surveyed each piece as I realised I had been asking all the wrong questions. “What does this mean” and “What does the artist want to say”, instead of

“How does this make me feel?”

I had been neglecting my own experience and my emotional response, in favour of the artist’s own interpretation of the piece. I had assumed that there’s a right way and a wrong way to look at art, and I had somehow internalised the notion that my way was always going to be wrong. That my interpretation of art was always secondary, negligible, unimportant.

I will admit I have never been an assiduous museum-goer, except when I’m on holiday. And when I do, it feels almost pointless unless I can afford the recorded guided tour. I rarely read about art, and I don’t like documentaries.

And yet I now ask myself: is it because I am not interested in art, or because I lack trust in my ability to engage with it?

When it comes to paintings, or sculptures, I feel as If I need permission to experience them, I need to be prepared, to study, to be as informed as possible before I lay eyes on them.

I don’t put the same expectations on myself when I read a book or watch a movie. I trust myself and my tastes without much thought. I am able to enjoy a book even without knowing who wrote it; I can love a movie without searching for the director’s name and filmography before-hand.

I’m not implying that we should completely disregard the political, cultural, or historical context behind the art and the artist. Learning and researching will always give us a deeper understanding of the piece and enrich our experience. However, I am just starting to recognise that I can still enjoy a piece of art even if I know nothing about it.

For my whole life, I have adopted the wrong attitude. That I have been actively stopping myself from learning, from experiencing, from living, because I feel unprepared to face what’s in front of me. And I don’t just mean this about art.

How many times have I not made the most of an opportunity, because I felt I didn’t deserve it? How many times have I put off engaging with something because I needed to research it first?

Visiting Blue Stigmata has taught me that I need to be braver, to face life with no parachute, with no safety net. I need to listen to myself more, to trust myself and my instincts. It has taught me that I cannot always wait for someone to tell me what to do, what to think. It has taught me that I am capable of making hard decisions by myself, and I don’t need anyone’s approval, anyone’s permission, but my own.

If I had prepared before going to James Joshua Li’s exhibition, I probably wouldn’t have thought this much about it. I would have taken his vision at face value, and disregarded my own feelings in the process.

Now, I’ll go ahead and do my research and read about Blue Stigmata. Not because I have to, but because I found the paintings to be beautiful and poignant, and I want to know more about them.

But next time I feel scared, or unprepared, or intimidated by a big opportunity, I can remember this day and tell myself:

Just make the jump, and see what happens.

Thank you so much for reading! If you’re in Brighton, I highly recommend going to visit Blue Stigmata, it it genuinely gorgeous.

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The thing with me is that I always thought of potential as existing in the future, in a realm always in front of me, out of reach. I thought of it as a thing, everlasting and eternal, ready to be grabbed just as soon as I caught up with it.

It never occurred to me to think of it as a point in time, a predestined date in which my dreams were to bloom in full, like the magnolia tree in my garden is about to. It never occurred to me that potential might come with an expiration date, and that if left unexplored might spoil, might go bad, turning sour like forgotten milk at the back of the fridge.

Since this less-than-favourable thought has taken root in my mind, I have thought of little else. If there is a date and a time in which the universe has decided I will bloom or I will rot, there’s only two scenarios. That day is either in front of me, or behind.

If I want to approach this dilemma logically, I can almost safely assume that it is not behind me. I mean, statistically speaking, I have only lived through about 30% of my life, so the odds are in my favour (I hope).

Okay, so, let’s say this day is ahead of me. That in three, five, ten years, whatever I want to do with my life will either happen, or it won’t. I’ll have published a novel, or I won’t have. I’ll be financially stable, or I won’t. I’ll feel satisfied with my life. Or I won’t be. That in four, fifteen, twenty years my own, personal Day of Judgement will come, and all my achievements and all my failures will be laid down on a scale and measured in front of my very eyes. And then, I’ll know. I’ll know whether it was all worth it, or all for nothing. Whether I was right to believe in myself, or whether I was a fool, and still am.

I find myself frightened of stillness, of quiet. The fear of never blooming thick in my veins, choking me whenever I pick up my pen. The words on the paper might never be as good as I want them to be. Willingness doesn’t make for good writing, and neither does desperation. I can pray and kneel and light a candle but what I dream at night might never come true.

What if, What if, I repeat endlessly in the mirror, What if today is the day, what if it’s tomorrow, and I’m not ready, I’m not ready. Unfelt regret like the Ghost of a Future Yet to Come wakes me at night, weakens my knee into a tremble.

Days, minutes, seconds are heavier than they’ve ever been with the weight of responsibility, with the liability of every day, minute, and second that lays ahead. Every moment that I’m not writing I feel it’s a lost chance, a lost hope, the probability of success going against me.

Siege the day, live as if you were to die tomorrow, carpe diem, every day could be your last.

These words tumble and run in loops and wrestle with each other in my head, I need to be good, I need to be big, I need to be relevant. I need to be someone, and something, and I need to be it now. There’s no time to waste because time is a finite resource and it’s all we really have, so how could I relax, how could I repose in the light of this huge expectation I have put on my future.

It’s fear that propels me forward, rather than passion. Blood, sweat and tears shed so as not to feel empty. It’s urgency over joy.

And I know that at the root of these fears there’s a lack of trust, in myself and my ability to make good choices. It’s this lack of trust that makes me compare myself to every other living soul on this Earth, measuring my shortcomings as not to mess up the recipe to my creative actualisation.

I’d love to say that by the time I’ve written this I have overcome my fear, I’ve learnt to live in the moment and just have fun. But I haven’t. My fingers still hover over the keyboard, tempted to pull away because what if it’s bad, what if I don’t make it. All I can do now is keep going forward, forward towards that untouched potential, hoping that one day I’ll get to taste it, and it’ll be sweet.

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‘Right, I’m off then, should get home around 5, half 5 at the latest. There’s lunch in the fridge for you, just remember to defrost the meat for tonight please, all right? Maybe do the dishes if you’ve got time'. She stood in the doorframe, waiting for him to turn around and look her in the eye.

‘Yeah sure’ he mumbled, distracted by his latest sitcom obsession.

‘Doing anything exciting today?’ she asked.

‘Nah, not much, probably just playing some guitar later or something’.

She took a deep breath.

'Right, and how’s the job hunt going? Did you hear back from that interview a couple of weeks ago?’. She tried to sound chipper, but her voice cracked on the way up.

‘Yeah they called, but I didn't take it”. He still wouldn’t look at her.

She exhaled a long, hot breath and closed her eyes. Her knuckles went white around the door handle. She knew she was going to be late, and yet she couldn’t stop herself from asking.

‘Why not?’ she said through tight lips.

‘The pay was shit’ he grumbled ‘and to be honest the dude who interviewed me seemed kind of an asshole. I could not stand to be in the same room with him five days a week’. He changed the channel, but his eyes didn’t move from the TV.

She felt a balloon of acid inflate and explode inside of her.

‘Okay, that’s it’ she shouted as she threw her handbag on the floor.

‘I am done with this. Do you hear me? I am fucking done!’. She threw her hands in the air, feeling ridiculous.

‘I break my ass at work for 12 hours every fucking day to support you. To pay your bills, your clothes, your food. To put a roof over your stupid, entitled head. I can’t save for retirement, I can’t save for a trip, hell I can barely afford to replace these rags I’m wearing. But you… you choose not to get a job because they don’t pay well! When all you’re earning now is pounds on that fat ass of yours. You seriously need to get your shit together.’ she said all of this in one breath, and was now almost gasping for air. Still she tried to keep her cool, to look resolute. She straightened her back and looked in his eyes, which were now reciprocating her stare.

‘Do you think I enjoy this?’ he snorted. ‘Do you think I like getting money from you? Begging you for it? Don’t you think I’d rather make my own and never owe you shit ever again?. He waited a few moments, for a response that never came.

‘Even if I took this damn job I’d barely be able to cover the bills. I’d have no time for myself, for my music. I’ll find something better, just be fucking patient for once’.

‘Ah!’ she laughed, exasperated. ‘How could I be any more patient? This shit’s been going on for years now. I have to start looking after myself, you can’t keep depending on me’. She crossed her arms and stomped her heeled foot. A child in an adult’s body, trying to have dessert before dinner.

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‘I used to be young once, you know?’ he whispered.

‘Dad, please..’ she felt the tears starting to form, and hated herself for going down this road so early in the morning.

‘I used to be like you. I had energy coming out of every pore. I barely slept at night. I wanted to be someone, to achieve something. And look at me now, right? What a fucking shame. I know you feel it too, the shame. I know you’re embarrassed of me, that you resent me. It’s okay, you don’t have to lie. I know. You’ll understand too, one day. When you’ll reach my age and you’ll realise life didn’t go like you planned. You’ll realise that all those dreams that you had crumbled under your feet and there’s nothing you can do now. You’ll realise that everyone has moved on, and there’s nothing but hours ahead, hours of nothing, of emptiness and solitude. And you’ll look in your children’s eyes and see that sparkle you once had and you’ll find it fucking unbearable. You’ll just wait and wait but nothing more will happen. Life has already happened and it’s all in the past, it’s all gone.’

The room fell quiet, the TV only background noise to their two beating hearts. She held her breath, scared to make a movement and reveal her presence to this man who she didn’t recognise.

‘Go to work now, you’re already late’, he grumbled and he turned the volume up.

‘Yes dad’. She hurried out the room.

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This piece was originally written for City Girl Magazine, who kindly invited me to attend the event. Thank you also to ErikaLust for inviting me and giving me the opportunity to reflect on this difficult topic.

Have you ever watched porn with other people?

I have, about 60 of them. At the local theatre, with a bag of sweet-and-salty popcorn and a large coke, essentials for any movie-watching activities.

We all have different opinions when it comes to adult content: whether it should be consumed or not, how extreme it should or shouldn't be, even legalisation of sex work is a highly divisive subject.

However, there is a shared understanding that the porn industry as it exists today has many faults. It is exploitative, unethical, and misogynistic.

But can porn ever be ethical?

That is the question I had as I sat down for “An Evening of Pleasure with Erika Lust”. The event started with a screening of Erika’s selected work, followed by a brief Q&A with Erika herself.

Erika Hallqvist, known as “Erika Lust”, has been making “ethical porn” for over 20 years. She writes, directs and produces adult films that focus on consent, safety, and fun. She uses her art to directly engage with feminist theory and the feminist pornographic movement.

The work that she chose for this event had been created on the basis of “fan confessions” sent on her website. This concept is at the basis of Erika’s work, and it is what sets her apart from other mainstream adult sites. She actively works on implementing real people’s fantasies and desires into her stories, rather than perpetuating the unrealistic portrayals of desire and pleasure that standard erotica has to offer.

Her movies have a soft, authentic feel to them. The relationship between the actors not only seems quite realistic, but the perspective of the narrative is for sure a female one. In Erika’s movies, women are active and enthusiastic participants of sexual activities. This cannot be said for mainstream porn, where more often than not women are portrayed as passive receivers of the act. The focus on enthusiastic participation is also true for the performers, who are allowed, and even encouraged, to implement their own desires into the story. Erika makes a point of showcasing each performer’s personality and needs, and does not simply hand them a pre-written, unchangeable script.

However, this raises an important question: are women's desires always feminist? Are they empowering by definition? We cannot deny that our kinks and fantasies are a result not only of our personalities but also of our environment. So, are these desires feminist, even when they involve self-deprecation, or the objectification of our bodies? Or are they a direct result of the patriarchal world we live in? And if they are, do they deserve to be honoured nevertheless?

Erika believes that yes, women’s sexual needs will always be feminist, as long as they are met with consent and safety. It does not matter how these needs came to be; it only matters that they are fulfilled in a fun and ethical environment. There is no topic she wouldn't cover in her movies, because everyone deserves to feel seen and to find something enjoyable to watch. What matters is the how-to, the creation process, and the respect of everyone involved in the making. Consent for ErikaLust is a number one priority. It is not a checkbox that needs to be ticked, as many people still see it. It is in an ongoing conversation that takes place at every part of the filmmaking process, from the very first interview up until shooting day(s).

Is this enough to make porn ethical? Can it ever be ethical to commodify sex and sexuality? It can be argued that the creation of erotica is still serving an audience that might not care about or understand the importance of ethics, or might not respect women’s perspectives when it comes to sexual activities. The porn industry has undeniably been built on a patriarchal system that profits from women’s submissions and exploitation.

Erika acknowledges the history of the industry she works in, and is determined to make a meaningful change. She plans on doing so by replacing the current available product with her own, which is much more sex-positive and inclusive of women and people of all genders and sexualities.

I came away that evening feeling a huge amount of respect for Erika. She is taking on a mission that is nearly impossible to succeed at, and she is putting as much effort and work into it as she can. She obviously has the respect and admiration of not only her audience, but her crew and her employees as well.

Whether we agree or disagree on the ethics of porn, we cannot help but recognise that Erika’s movies have a unique and quite refreshing ability to capture a woman’s vision of sex, and transform it into a fun and creative product which will satisfy anyone that consumes it. It’s a step forward in the right direction.

Cover art: Natalia LL, ‘Consumer Art’ 1973

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My scars shimmer in the moonlight, like tiny silverfish swimming in a pool of flesh. I never showed them to you, my most prized creation. The thick air covers my forehead in sweat, even at this hour of night, when no one is awake but the lonely and the wretched. I don’t feel like either, maybe I am both. You told me I had ‘lonely eyes’ and I told you, you have a witch’s heart.

The AC is on inside but I can’t stand a cold body so instead I leave another voicemail. You always picked up at the first ring, and you’d climb on this balcony with me at 2 am on Tuesday nights. We’d eat the flowers and lick the nectar off our lips. I’d prefer the pink ones, you the purple. I call again and you don’t pick up. I take a purple flower away from her sisters, but it smells of your neck and I can’t eat it.

I call again but you’re probably asleep. I don’t want to wake you up. If I could slide into your dreams and kiss the inside of your eyelids, I would, but I never learnt to be delicate.

The moon glares at me, angry at this invasion of her solitude, at this exposure to the human race when she’d rather die unknown.

I touch the peeling wallpaper behind me. It was the same colour as your eyes when I bought it. The same colour you’ve asked me to wear at your funeral one day, as bright as an emerald, as beautiful as a fallen leaf.

The blood is now dry but my eyes are damp. I lay my face on the tiled floor, let the dust and the dirt and the guilt seep into my skin and eat me alive. Maybe I’ll melt right here, only a shadow left in my memory.

Hours pass and I call and I call and I call but you don’t pick up, not even when the sun blooms over the ocean and the cygnets near your house open their small eyes.

It’s too late now and I have to go. I’ll just wear black today if you don’t mind.

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I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me. I don’t even know if you’re capable of forgiveness, for the empty space I left in that room, where I should’ve been. Who will I blame for the empty space in my heart where you used to be?

The soft words I have spoken to you have evaporated, and now the rain smells of your skin, the thunder as powerful as your voice.

I wonder who you’re thinking of today; do you remember who your mother was? Do you miss your brothers and sisters, or have I been enough?

I’m scared to forget you. That day gets closer and closer and I am paralysed with fear. I don’t want to forget your face, your eyes, the way you walk, the way we shared a bed and a life.

Summer’s here, yet I sleep under many blankets, for all you’ve left behind is the icy reminder of your absence.

The thought that I’ll never see you again makes me want to disappear. I can’t remember if I said goodbye the last time I saw you, the last time I left you. How do I make up for all the time wasted without you?

There’s a sharp knot in my stomach, scraping my insides, and I know it’s you devouring me alive, searching for a meaning where there’s none, seeking revenge where all you’ll find is guilt.

I want to recollect the last touch, the eternal breath, but memories evade me so I feed on the dry breast of imagination, wishing a better ending for you than the one God has granted you.

Can you even believe in God? Can you believe in Heaven?

Think of me when you go.

I love you.

“What would the tiny anthropologist point to in our makeshift apartment where we lived without religion, without the web of family and its obligations to keep us in place? What would she identify as our rituals and ties of kinship, the symbols that constituted a sense of the sacred and the profane?”

-The Anthropologists, Ayşegül Savaş

The Bath

I get home from work around 6 p.m. and immediately turn on the bath faucet. I take my pick of bath soaks: rose water, eucalyptus, lavender. As the water rises and foams up, I gather the essentials: black coffee with honey, current read, a lit candle. For the next 30 minutes I am unreachable. Immersed in a world of prose and soapy water, I let my worries wash off me and say farewell to the day past.

Rituals

I decided to re-read The Anthropologists by Ayşegül Savaş. I return to this story from time to time. In it I see a reflection of myself, a way of life not so different from my own. The novel follows Asya as she tries to settle down in a new city with her partner Manu. They view apartment after apartment, trying to image what kind of life they want to lead: what routines will they adopt? what rituals will they perform, to give their life meaning and purpose?

Oat Mocha and an Almond Croissant

Today is Saturday, which means I get to enjoy a coffee from my favourite cafe. It’s my partner’s turn to pick it up, so I get to stay in bed and enjoy the sun on my skin while sleep is still sticky behind my eyelids. When the coffee arrives, it’s warm and thick and brings even more comfort to this sea of duvet and pillows I float in. My partner tells me the cafe was really busy, which makes me happy. It’s such a small place and I’m scared it will close any day. Going there every Saturday feels almost like a duty. To protect and to support local businesses. Secretly, it makes me feel important. I like the idea of contributing to the cafe’s existence. I daydream of the day the barista will now my name, and my order. Then, I’ll feel seen too. I will feel like I am successfully settled in, part of a community, because he will know I like a mocha with oat milk.

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Milestones

I used to think life happens in the big moments, the milestones. Going to university, getting an important job, a promotion, travelling. Anything in between didn’t matter. It was time spent in a waiting room, reading a vapid magazine, biding time until real life begun. I would sit back, and passively watch time pass me by, convinced that happiness would be around that corner, hidden in the next special moment, the next achievement.

Wanna get a drink?

Friendships blossom in the corner of a busy pub. Pint glasses piled on a small table, ashtrays and lipstick spread all over. We chat about nothing but my eyes glow, with joy or with tears yet to be born. I look at the people around me and I see the future in them. I see late night conversation and beach barbecues; I see moving vans and wine glasses; I see makeshift beds and hands that hold each other close. I see this pub and my home and somewhere I don’t recognise, but you’re there and so am I.

Looking back

I want to one day wake up as a 80 year old and be happy with the life I’ve lived. I want to be proud of the person that I have been. But I don’t want to just remember the milestones. I want to remember it all. The sunny Sunday mornings spent in bed. The cakes that I baked; that one time I went on a walk and saw a fox sleeping. I don’t want to remember a life of perpetual pause.

So I will make everything special. I will take the in-between moments and turn them into spectacles. I will take pride into cleaning the apartment, I will turn it into a beautiful home. I will cook and think of my family and the traditions they have passed down to me. I will not waste any time, and I will not think of time as wasted. I will find joy and happiness in the slivers of life that have fallen between the cracks.

Thank you so much for reading!!

Probably because the sun is finally coming out, I have been thinking a lot about ‘getting my shit together’ and working to build a good life for myself. Re-reading The Anthropologists (which I absolutely recommend) made me reflect on the kind of routines and rituals I have adopted in the past years, and how they have helped me understand myself, what I want and what I need in order to feel fulfilled. And so I wrote this little essay about my little every day rituals and how they have helped me find joy in the every day.

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