people tend to want to be called a paradox
and i guess that is cool
but there’s nothing romantic about
staring at the sunset, miles away from everyone
with your car engine quiet and friendly,
thinking about revolutions and all those
aritcles you read this morning about politics
and the planet shattering day by day;
there’s nothing romantic about
dancing around in your kitchen,
thinking about how useless your existence is
to the issues of the world, which need your help and
his help and her help and everybody to wake up;
there’s nothing romantic about
painting the sky and lounging about,
thinking of all the times you keep breaking your own heart,
and there’s nothing romantic about
wishing you were not at one with your own self,
wishing you were a pArAdOx

time, summertime

summertime which tastes like

lips which taste like oranges,

which taste like laughter and shadowy cuddles at 2 pm,

which begin to taste like sunsets and the sunburns of a day,

which begin to taste like the driest eyelids which taste like peaches,

which means happiness, right?

summertime which tastes like cherries, strawberries, raspberries,

and all the berries that your nan could find and mix with 10kg of sugar,

in order to fill jam jars, car boots, and soul boots, and bellies.

summertime which tastes like lemon vodka, white wine, and secrets at midnight,

which means comfort, right? perhaps, maybe even liberty and the absence of solitude,

although, not exactly because Solitude is always within you.

summertime which exists in the form of moodboards in your brain,

because it doesn’t really exist at all, since it’s all in your head really, and you don’t really know

how to deal with the emptiness

of the streets at night,

of the people, which you’ve turned into homes for your soul, but without their consent.

summertime which happens with yourself, somehow

inside and outside of it.

summertime which leaves you longing for rain because nothing ever is enough,

and the sun is but an annoying cousin that leaves you longing for some shadow, or some ice on you belly, to fight away existence back to its hole.

summertime which brings people and which doesn’t bring people, who share secrets in the face of a puddle, who get drunk on the smell of linden and the excitement of colours.

summertime which doesn’t make sense since time has stopped and everything that is happening within or without you is not real (can’t be real/can be real/is it real and if yes then oh my days)

19 things I learned before I turned 19

  1. Trusting my gut feeling. If I’m feeling that a person, a dress, a movie, a situation is not worth it – I leave it.
  2. Holding on to the people that matter and getting rid of the toxic people is what everyone should always be doing.
  3. Going out of your comfort zone is truly liberating, so do it.
  4. An aesthetically pleasing life means surrounding yourself with art and people who are more than small talk. Chase that.
  5. Leaving situations, people, and places, which do not make me happy, makes me happy.
  6. No one can really know who I truly am and that’s fine. I don’t know who I really am and that is fine too.
  7. Acknowledging anxiety is okay and it should be embraced and learned from.
  8. Time passes by exactly in the pace it should.
  9. Literacy is key.
  10. Even if you write shitty poetry, don’t give up. One out of the hundreds bad poems you write, might turn out good.
  11. I should always tell the people I love that I love them, even if there’s a lump in my throat.
  12. Kisses and wine are good for me. Within limits.
  13. Social media is poisonous.
  14. Life is pretty so stop and look at the stars, notice the wind, listen to the tone in someone’s voice, love the sun on your skin.
  15. Coffee and chocolate are fake friends.
  16. Being yourself is the hardest thing for a teenager but we’ll figure it out.
  17. Being patient with people. Everyone works differently and that should be respected.
  18. You can’t change a person, no matter how much you try, and no matter how much they let you.
  19. Being a cliché is not always a bad thing.

Images pt.2

A/N: I wrote a poem a while ago about images I had of me. I didn’t know what they meant. I wanted to write a new poem about images. I still don’t know what they mean.

Me, in the face of the
little girl on the train who sits in the middle,
cuts out the heads of footballers while the
whole world around mumbles down on her.

My reflection in the lights of the city,
the view of the street from above;
bad wine tastes perfect enough
but burns me whole.

Me, making pesto pasta in a beautiful kitchen,
for a beautiful friend, after a beautiful day,
which makes me wonder
if the concept of stress is fake news.

Me, walking down a foreign city,
falling in love with peace and self-care,
giving my heart away
to places and moments.

I am torn between
what is and what might be.


It’s 6 am on a weekend. Why would you be awake? Did all your anxieties keep you from sleeping all night long? Not letting you snooze for more than a minute? Get out of bed then, you. Stop feeling bad about yourself.

Get up. Get your scarf out of the back of your wardrobe and wrap your delicate neck with it. Put on your warmest coat and boots and go out. I know how tempting it is to get out your phone and scroll through your social media for hours. But don’t do it. Get up.

Go for a walk. It’s February so the sun’s not out yet in the early hours of the morning. Walk through the dark and see the sky change colour. Go to the lake, sit on a bench and remember to breathe. How great is the fact that you’re here? Life’s pretty good, isn’t it?

The grass is green, the weather is cold and you don’t need any more adjectives. Sometimes they’re a waste of time.

Let your mind wander off. But don’t feel pressured to do it.
It’s fine if you think about the now. You are an observer and that’s fine. Sometimes even better. Don’t think about where you wish you were, because you and I both know that you love it here. I know sunny beaches, icy drinks and funky music is what you’d like to be doing, but admit it – you wouldn’t like that all day every day, would you? Don’t dream of spring. Winter is just as pretty. You don’t even like spring. So why do you keep looking towards the future and not looking at the now? Look how much is happening!

There’s nothing better than being warm. And there is nothing better to know that you are the one responsible for your warmth. Does that make sense? You should know. You love your coats, you love your jumpers and your tea.

There’s nothing better than taking care of yourself, is what I mean. The fact that you’ve cared enough to put on your gloves, a hat, your warmest jumper, a coat, some fuzzy socks and make yourself a cup of tea just makes me so happy.

Now, close your eyes and imagine the world has stopped moving. You never feel it anyways, do you? You never feel it spinning but once you’ve sat down and there is no one around you do. But it’s okay, time is not real. But you know that already, don’t you? Are you real? You must be? But how can you be sure? The only thing moving is the sun that’s showing behind the cloud. That’s all you need. And your cup of tea.

Don’t be afraid of clichés. Life is made out of clichés. It should be made of clichés. If everyone avoided them there’d be no clichés. And sometimes they’re just too good.

Think about that first kiss. Think about the second kiss. Do you remember your first kiss? Is it a blur now? Think about the first “I love you” and how you trembled and said it out loud with your eyes closed. Not because you didn’t mean it but because it was bigger than you.

Think about your naked body and how vulnerable it was the very first time someone else saw it. Did you mind?

Was your first time special and does that even matter?

Don’t think of boys if you don’t want. Think of your mother and the way she always knows what you need and think of her warmth. Think of your father and your conversations when he’s driving you somewhere and you kind of don’t want to get there. Think of your sister and how she loves you so purely, with no prejudice and no selfishness. Think of how you love her back and you should call her sometime and tell her that.

Is everything alright now or is thinking about things even more stressful?

You can’t make someone love you. Sometimes you can’t even make yourself love you. But no matter how you feel – take care of yourself. That’s what most important. Always. And being warm.

The three dead sparrows

I wanted to write a poem
about the three dead sparrows.
I would’ve compared them to
a sad face;
a sad trumpet;
a broken heart;
a lonely day.
But their death is more
than what you do to me;
and it’s more than a tool for me
to create a poem,
to tell a story,
or to show an image.
The three dead sparrows
will be left unremembered
and unrevenged.
My poem doesn’t do justice
to the way they stopped breathing,
losing their selves to the
Kingdom of Sleep
to the way they bled out by the canal,
and the world was still;
to the way their eyes closed
accepting their faith.
Dear sparrows,
I’m sorry.

Lack of inspiration

Being surrounded by creative people could be quite stressful. I have been feeling a bit silly when everyone just effortlessly seem to be able to write a 500 word short story and I just keep staring at the blank page thinking “How do I get out of this emotional black hole?”.

It’s not as easy as everyone imagines and makes it out to be. They say that claiming that you lack inspiration is just a lazy excuse for not writing and that makes me feel really anxious. I do want to write. I get ready, sit in front of the blank page on my computer/notebook and just cannot think of a word to write down. This has brought me to lots and lots of anxiety attacks.

I tried writing literally anything that pops into my head but sometimes it’s just too empty. This always happens when I consciously fall into a routine. When I do the same things every day, when I feel a bit low (for days and for weeks), when I feel like the most uninteresting person in the world – my head just turns hollow.

What is the solution? I don’t even know. Every day I try to answer this question myself. I have gotten quite good at describing things I see, however that’s not what I want to do. I want to write fiction stories, create fictional characters and think of fictional plotlines. This is a thing that I used to be quite good at. More than a year ago, and the years before that, I used to be able to write chapters and chapters of original work in just one night, with such an ease that I felt so good about myself and I knew that this was what I wanted to do forever.

I still want to do it but it’s just x100 times harder.

Did I really just rant about my lack of inspiration and used it as an inspiration for a new blog post? Yes, I did.