Spilled Writing - Blog Posts

The book so far consists of messy notes and pieces of different plot ideas that don't fit together built up over two years. Most of them are my frantic half asleep scribblings that don't make any sense lol. Now i just need to build my Frankenstein.

Screw it , I'm going to write this book.

Screw it , I'm going to write this book.

These where the random notes/doodle from the first idea stage for my WIP 'Dead above'. Does anyone else begin brainstorming by thinking of pieces of dialogue first and then creating characters and plot around it.

Sometimes people drift so far away. Friendships that used to be sleep overs and chasing each other around the park after school, are now liking each others posts every once in awhile. Friendships that felt more like a sisterhood now feel like barely a friend of a friend from work you once knew, memories of us are so much sweeter than this distant present us. We've turned tepid and bland. We've faded.

Excerpt from wip Dead above

Sometimes, I go to the store at night, just because the streets are empty and there’s a kind of loneliness that feels almost comforting. But sometimes I’ll see girls, laughing, glitter in their hair sparkling as they spill out of pubs, all bright-eyed, all full of life. It hits me hard, that ache in my chest, that longing for something I can’t quite name. I wonder what it’s like, to have a group of people, to drink and laugh and feel part of something.

I emptied the photo albums and all the pictures from the frames. I took them with me, because life moves fast and time fades most of the past, but those childhood memories I dare not try to erase, least of all your face. Even though alot of the memories are filled with fear and tears I still cling to a time when you where clearer than a faded photograph.

We connect with people without words everyday, some hold a door open, you share a smile with someone at the bus stop or  when passing by each other on a walk, we say I don't know you but I see you, here we both are living together on this little rock, living this little life that is all to fleeting but so worth it.

It reminds me of a friend I had in school. Diane moved from Russia when we where 13, she didnt speak much English, and the few Russian speakers at our school where so much younger than her that she barely saw them. I remember seeing her in the corridor outside our first science lesson, she was leant against the dark green tiles lining the walls, her school uniform brand new and her hair dyed auburn. Everyone had already grouped up with their friends, talking and laughing so loudly it created this mass of sound that only kids can make just before a lesson. My science class was rather chaotic and hyper. Diane stood silent away from everyone.

I wasn't known as the most outgoing in our class, if anything most would have described me as shy, but really I just never had much to say. Seeing her there though, I knew I had to say something, I knew none of the other girls would try and bring her into their social fold, so I went up to her.

"Hi, are you new" she looked at me hesitantly as she tried to piece together bits of language in her head "Yes, I'm Diane" 

"I'm April" there was a beat of silence, neither of us knew what to say and I wasn't the best at small talk, so instead I just looked towards the rest of our class and said "they're a little" and I made a large frazzled gesture with my hands, trying to encapsulate the chaos. She looked from me to them and laughed nodding.

After that we'd sit with each other in all our shared lessons, at the beginning I would write her work for her and I know I probably shouldnt have. but when your 13 and your friend is freaking out over homework being due or not having her notes written down you just end up doing it. Eventually we realised she could write her English assignments in Russian then put them into Google translate, and then I'd re-write them  grammatically correct. This wasn't perfect but it's not like she had a language aid or anything so we made do. Our jokes usually consisted of calling each other suka or using our made up gesture - a sideways palm from the centre of our forehead down to the table. It meant get a load of this nonsense, ffs or I'm an idiot, usually used when someone was making a fuss in lesson or when we'd make a silly mistake.

We didn't need words, not when we had laughter and silly little gestures, sometimes I felt closer to her than with friends I'd had for years. I guess what we have now is a language made up of vine and tiktok references, that you could giggle with someone over even when your language didn't translate. And in some ways we're more connected over those trends and references than anything else despite the language barriers. We connect over joy, humour and humanity.

Diane moved back to Russia before we turned 16. I don't know where she is now or how much she remembers of me, but I do treasure our friendship. Wherever you are suka I hope your okay. I miss you.

I haven't really got much outside of this, and this is just me speaking to everyone and no one all at once, it feels shallow. I was going to say I felt just as shallow, almost empty but that's not really true, if anything I feel like I'm about to burst, I'm filled with so much longing and hope and just want, I just want so badly. For more laughter, more connection, just more. There really is nothing like the small moments you share with your loved ones, those inside jokes that leave you folded over and cackling loudly, while strangers judge you at the social absurdity, but it only makes you laugh harder. Or those times at school you'd ask me to draw on your hand because you liked the sensation and then you'd play with my hair, you'd braid it. I feel ravenous for those moments. So maybe what I really feel is hunger.

When I think of you I think of red, the red of our kitchen walls, the red that you always chose to colour your lips with or wear with your clothes. I think of my red blood rushing past my ears, I think of the sound it made.

Having a creative hobby or goal honestly keeps the serotonin present. Keeps me mentally present and reaching for tomorrow.

I'm living on the breadline, in fact I'm so far past the breadline its a dot, its a crumb(couldnt help but add a friend's reference). Most days I don't even know how I'm suppose to pay all these bills, because when I do I'm left with minus the amount it cost for even a week of grocerys, and if you've ever done a weekly shop you release that the end total adds up far too quickly and far too high. So you end up living off porridge, beans and what ever hope you still cling to. But sometimes the hope runs out, so I do this, this being tumblr, or I'll picture the little future aspirations actually happening, maybe I'll write that book or buy those paints, maybe I'll do something other than just this stagnant waiting.

It feels like sitting in a waiting room but your number keeps getting pushed further back, like that scene in beatlejuice, so I sit and I wait. But while I do I hum made up songs, I'll doodle on napkins with the last of my ink, I'll ramble poetry and memories on tumblr. I'll try to remember why I wait.

Even though I'm literally falling through the gutters of society I have this one thing that can't be taken away, that remains mine and for now that's enough, if anything it's the end goal. I'll remind myself to live not just survive.

I worry

I stress

I am a pylon

I am tangled in cables

I am no longer connected to the grid

Energy is lost

It's falls through a sieve

And all I'm left with is dust and static lint

I barely rinse

I Repeat

the same defeat of sinking into my bed

I am animated meat

suspended over my own stupid once avoidable mess.

I'm teaching myself a new skill, its going as expected, I'm running into a lot of walls and I'll find myself tracing paint marks or picking lint of the carpet than actually making an effort.

So I keep reminding myself that in five years the time will still have past anyway. Or that sixe months ago I would have had a little foundation already, if only I stuck to it. So yes you'll feel frustrated at the beginning or halfway through, yes you'll have days or months of procrastination of feeling like there's no point even continuing, but the time will pass regardless. So in a year you could have bits and peices of a project, or you can have nothing at all, you could have a baseline of understanding for a new skill or none. It doesn't matter if you think that the payout won't be much, because it will be something as apposed to nothing. Rome wasn't build in a day as people say, so don't measure your own progress to harshly, just continue to build at your own rate, but if you believe in your project don't give up, progress is still progress.

Have I become addicted

to the sadness,

has it evolved into a hybrid

of apathy

of melancholy.

Will it stitch itself to my eyelids.

Will it clog up my narrow veins.

Is this the type of pain,

that drives my buried hope insane.

The new year feels like a broken clock that speeds up when you want the world to slow down. It doesn't care how heavy your heart is or how you fail to catch the light with your flimsy hands, it just approaches whether you're ready or not.

It spins forward and we spin with it and it sometimes feels a little unnerving, how evrything keeps moving while you’re standing there counting how many breaths you have left. But it's also comforting, It’s like a little nudge saying hey by the way, you can hit reset whenever you want. and you can, there's no universal default start date, your beginning can be when ever you want it to be. Maybe your new year starts when the winter months are long gone and the flowers are in bloom, maybe you begin when the sun baths the ground with new life and the glow of it all makes everything feel easier.

Maybe this year you don't think about beginnings or endings but just let yourself enjoy the middle. Time doesn't care when you start or how, it will push you along regardless. This year will be what it'll be, things from the last year will be carried along and some left behind, we just have to have hope that it'll kind.

I want to live not just survive, here's to 2025.

Each year I have a new resolution and I can't help but have another. For the past four years it was to have enough food to eat, for a bed to sleep on instead of the hard floor, for my mother( where ever she may be) to be okay. This year I want to feel like a bird let out a cage, I want to shed the apathy from me, I want to peel back a layer and expose myself to all sorts of possibilities, I want to feel the heat of it on new skin. I want to live, not just survive, here's to 2025.

If your business is healthcare and you end up with more people dead than alive, because you purposely turned them away so you could take in more profits, then you have completely failed on a human level. Not to mention your entire business is in complete contradiction with its supposed purpose. You say you're in the buissnes of healing but all we see is death and greed.

I'm going to be honest, I'm not happy. Instead I just am. Just here. Just there. I'm, just. I spent way too long picking the colours for this blog instead of cleaning my house, I spent way too long worrying over my poems instead of worrying over the bills, I spent way too long writing about things that have happened and not about what could. I reply with flowers under comments because I'm worried I'll sound too blunt without them, but sometimes it feels fake, because I'm not that person alone, I don't think in pretty colours, happiness doesn't bloom behind my eyelids in pinks and yellows. Instead my thoughts are blunt and apathy stuffs itself into my ears and covers my eyes. It encases me in a womb, and I'm just waiting to be reborn. Into what exactly I don't know, just more awake I hope, less rotting in bed and more laughing in a field somewhere.

I'm older than you, but you scare me sometimes. I worry about this anger that manifests inside you like a black hole, sucking in all the negativie feelings you have and spitting them out at the slightest trigger. You are better at talking about your feelings now, the black hole isn't as active. I feel like I've taught you alot about it being okay to be vulnerable, we've learnt alot about what we mean to each other and our intentions. But sometimes that black whole starts up again and I'll be none the wiser and that scares me sometimes.

Just before covid hit my brother and I at 15 and 19 found our selfs homeless. I had a choice, my brother would go into care or we could stay together, but only if I took responsibility for him and had somewhere to live. So I applyed for social housing, the guy that processed my case was sympathetic and at some points I was holding it together better than him, do you have any other family? No, Do you know where your mother is? I wish I did, how old is your brother? 15 are you in any fulltime education? Not anymore. He looked at me like I was something tragic and I suppose I was, there isn't a metaphor for what I looked like that works any better than just what his naked eyes saw; a girl abandoned by her mother, her life in a bag on her back completely thrown on how to deal with everything, and all he could do was fill out a form and send it and me off. it's going to be okay.

Somehow despite the odds we where given emergency accommodation and a year later a property to rent, I suspect we where pushed up the list because of my brothers age, we where lucky, some people wait years in hotels or streets all over the country, living out of suitcases and rucksacks.

As lucky as we where, luck didn't cover all the things I suddenly had to know. I had no idea how bills worked or paying my taxes, I didn't even really understand what "taxes" meant until the final notices where piling up in front of us. It's something they don't teach you in school or at least mine didn't. They never taught us how to survive in a world like this, they assume our parents would be there to explain or we'd be much older before it mattered. what's more useful in real life, how to formally address someone in an email or how to keep the lights on or how to find food when a tin of beans is too expensive.

Though I suppose the email ettique lesson was useful for something in the end,

To whomever it may concern, I'm writing to you regarding my payment plans and how I'm choosing to fork over alot of money and won't be buying enough food to live off this month. My regards.

I don't know where you are exactly, but I know you're looking at your phone, I know you're probably alone. So am I. It's nearly 10pm and I've been scrolling through Instagram reels all day, I haven't eaten or gotten up. But I've cried over people singing in the park to passers by, one women lost her mother and felt comfort in the songs. I've cried to family reunions and mother's singing lullabys to their babies, Ive felt this weight of grief for the things I want to experience, which is to not be so alone. But I still lay here day after day, I still like videos about things I hope to do someday. I'm not okay but I will be one day.

I can't think about you for too long, but sometimes you climb out of my Amygdala and I let your face press against my prefronal cortex. Your presence is mostly wrapped in bubbler wrap, hidden in a back room, somewhere near the things I can't talk about and the things I should have. I've quietly closed the door, but it's not locked, I don't think it ever will be, I don't think I want it be. But that room isn't a place I like to visit, it only holds you and the things that shouldn't have happened.

How do you feel about kindness being filmed like they’re performances. Someone hands a homeless person a sandwich, and boom, the cameras rolling. I’m a good person, they say without saying it, but the thing is a sandwich can only last so long, yet you'll be dining on those social media likes all week. Sure,it’s lovely, helping people. But here’s the thing: It’s sad that the world’s become a stage for doing good when you have a camera in your face, or worse in the face of someone struggling to live each day, they are not the supporting actors in your new tiktok. We don’t just help anymore. We sell the moment. Isn't it lovely though getting credit for being decent when your not just doing good. Your doing good for the algorithm.

I saw @two-bees-poetry lady macbeth/macbeth poem 🌷and became inspired to try this format called (an okayish first attempt but a fun challenge) contrepulate poetry.

Dear 2025.

I write this in November 2024, but I know it will find it's way to you in no time at all, you have been approaching faster than I can keep up with.

I ask that you will take it easy and slow, I ask that you let me settle in before 2026 makes their way in. I know you can't control what the people do, but I ask you make the bad days soft, give us only a few.

Sincerely a hopeful heart.

The bad news is that it sometimes feels never ending and apathy whispers into your ear that this numbness is peaceful and to just sink into it's depths.

The good news is that apathy is a cold filthy liar. They want you to drowned, but they don't know that happiness is always around the corner, and it will yank you out of the dark water. I swear one day you will laugh so hard your sides start splitting and the pain will leak out of you. I swear you will sing and dance and feel something other than heavy numbness, the sunrise is golden and it burns, it heats up your heart until you feel like there's something to live for and it's just on the horizon. Wait for it. Please.

Do the people we drift away from ever return to us.

When my parents spilt up I didn't see my dad for months, during this time I would spend nearly every day playing with my friend Kelsey. We would get our hair caught climbing trees or make terrible perfume from her neighbours flowers. One time she pulled out a box from under her bed, it was filled with snails of different sizes collected from her garden "we're going to colour the shells". So that's what we did, we gently coloured around 20 in bright orange, red or purple, after that we put them near a tree by her house. We did all this to see if the same ones would come back, we thought at least 5 would. Weeks went by and we didn't see any colourful shells in her garden, they had moved on. Sometimes people leave and they don't come back, but you still hold the memories close, you still carry their mark on you and maybe they carry yours too.

Maybe somewhere out there, there are snails with brightly coloured shells and maybe carrying a piece of someone with you is enough.

I saw you there. Cigarette lit and back against the door. I watched you, I hadn't seen you in years yet you looked the same, But nothing between us was. I wanted you to notice me, I couldn't approach you, so instead I hoped you'd find my eyes and hold out your heart for me to love again. But our hearts didn't know each other anymore, so I left you by the door.