A Short Philosophy on Writing
Writer A.B. May once said, ‘To write is to have conscious totality over yours thoughts, and pure awareness of how you see your world, and absolute control over how your pen expresses your universe and existence onto the page.’
She was unnoticed. That was the way she wanted it stay. She seemed to blend in with the portraits on the walls. The people didn't know who she was, where she came from or why she was there. Her mind was a chained to deception bay, swimming in the bottomless sea of her manifested indecisiveness. She nursed the rim of her wine glass with her index finger, surfing the crowd with violet eyes. As though expecting to see a familiar face. She watched as the lost dancers wove webs in and out of each other, tangled in a net of one night stands.
It Flickers in Oblivion
You know the idea of letting go? Well, its’ a lie. There is nothing more impossible than letting go of someone you loved, or love. The only advice I can give you on the lie of ‘letting go’, is that the only alternative us to forget or to replace, but ‘letting go’ in itself is painfully and impossibly unattainable.
Dylan's Chocolate Cake
4:35am. I woke up in Dylan’s bed. Which wasn’t unusual, we had been friends since the age of six. Now at the age of 23, Dylan’s bed had become mine over and over again. The bedroom smelt like hash and incense. A whisper of the sunrise could be seen over the suburbia, I stretched, arms reaching up, up, up, to the ceiling.
Escape To The Imagination Island
Disconnection has always meant connecting with an intangible space, another realm that exists not in but above my head. It’s not heaven, its more like a life that could have been, or once was. I can’t touch it but I can see it, distinctly For me, disconnection is inner peace, it is the quiet that I crave during the insanity of the day. I get there by writing my sentences and scavenging for old photographs and piecing them together in a book that probably won't translate much meaning to anyone else.
What Grandad Jack Built
I got to the farm close to 4:00pm, there were cars parked on the lawn, the driveway, all the way down the country road. The sky had started to blush and the cockatoos had begun their end-of-day pilgrimage across the bush. I parked at the end of the country road, Grandad had always been popular, it was no surprises that today of all days would be as busy as a funfair.
When I was eighteen, I was in the peak of my youth and having just been freed from the clasps of school, I packed a bag and lived solo in Cambodia for six months. The first moments that I spent in Cambodia, from stepping off the plane to sitting on the gutter with a lady who had no teeth but the biggest smile eating amok are the clearest in my memory.
Woman and the Shower
When I was little, about four or five, I used to take showers with my dad. It was a 70s style shower, nestled into the corner of the bathroom, with a glass door and dark blue tiles. We would sit on the tiny shower floor and play with plastic bath toys. We would pretend to be witches and make potions out of conditioner and soap. There was no shelving, so all of the shampoo and conditioner and soap bottles were kept in a corner on the floor; that to us became a castle, a mystic fort of our kingdom. Sometimes we would create a wild flood scene by sitting on the drain, or there would be a battle between the farm animals and the dinosaurs. We would sit there, in our square meter world and play until the hot water ran out.