Tag Archives: Teens

Romanticising other things.

snow

Source: weheartit.com

I haven’t written anything on here in over 2 months.

I totally get that these moments of total writer’s block happen from time to time. I’m only human, my brain can only spew out so many melodramatic metaphors before it gets tired of itself. There’s only so many cliches I can avoid before I become a walking one.

I’m not sure why it’s been so long. I’ve been writing things down, obviously. Disappointed little scribbles in my journal. At one point I experimented and wrote out an entire paragraph whilst under the influence – there was a lot of wiggles and a lot of pent up angst, wow.

I lost my muse…well, my muse lost me. So I’ve had to kind of learn to romanticise other things – like the suffocating smell of festival toilets and the feeling of new socks on cold feet. But over my brief hiatus from publishing anything on my favourite corner of the internet, I’ve managed to write down a few short little blurbs.

So here it is; Harriet’s random 2am/ every day thoughts: an anthology.

On places I’d rather avoid:

“I equate places with feelings. And if it were up to me, the train station where I last saw you would be simultaneously the favourite and most despised place in my entire world.”

In an email from my grandmother:

“I went to New York when I was 20 to see if it was any different from Nottinghamshire. If it was the same, I could always come back and settle down. Instead I found your grandfather and no, New York was not the same as Notts.”

I went to the edge and found you.

On weekends that turn into melodramatic moments:

“It’s almost tomorrow and I don’t want to go home.

Ever have one of those weekends? The spell-binding, soul-searching, over-the-moon kind of weekend? I am at the end of one and I’ve got this sinking feeling that I’ll never feel something so definite, so completely euphoric. I feel my youth creeping up on me, I can feel the fire start in my heart and I can feel my toes curl as I yearn for moments that last.

I don’t want to stop being 21. I want nights that beat the sun and glowing embers that don’t know how to die.

I want to carry on living this spontaneously forever.

It’s almost tomorrow and I don’t want to go home.”

“I’ve had a weekend.

A destructive, ridiculous, incredible weekend; filled with sobbing and catchphrases and loving people despite it all.”

shhh

Source: weheartit.com

On people who don’t know how to stay:

“I can’t blame you for walking away. How can I possibly? We both know I burn too brightly to be extinguished. There’s a ‘no vacancy’ sign just for you hanging over my vibrant, unbelievable, explosive life.”

“Because our entire existence was me trying to hold on to what you used to be, and you trying to show me how much you’ve changed.”

“I hope when you retell our story, you describe me as ‘the girl who screamed poetry at you when you told her to run, even though she was never yours to walk away from.'”

“I’m glad you’ve found ways to smother your grief for humanity, but don’t you dare do it at my expense.”

On what they never taught me in school:

“In 5th grade English class they told us to write down everything with as much detail as possible. They told us that parts of speech were imperative, adjectives meant something.

They never told us that, in reality, adjectives are just as superficial as their intentions. And some people will say anything just to gain a piece of your soul.”

On how much can change over several months:

“I am not the person I was last November. I am nowhere near the girl who blushed electric at your empty cosmic promises.

I am not who I was last November. I got ripped from that body by circumstance and change. I got pummeled into this shape by disappointment. I am not who I was last November.

I am not last November. I haven’t written poetry in months. I don’t believe in shutting out the world any more, I let the cold seep in to wake me up and chill my bones.

I am not who I was last November. I am not a Mississippi sunset, I am not burning up as I race down a wooden dock towards you. I am not superlunary, I am not yours.

I am not who I was last November. I have run out of time; you wasted it. You, and all those after you. I have run out of time and sand and clock hands.

I am not who I was last November. I have an iron soul that can’t be thawed and eyes that flash sunlight. I will burn you up. I will make you miss me. I will drive you insane, kiss you catatonic and then leave you to combust.

Because I am not who I was last November. I am not who you pretended to love. I am not even myself.”

On how much better everything has turned out to be:

“If I end up living a life that is anything short of vibrant, I won’t survive. Tonight I braided a man’s hair whilst sitting on the floor of a bar. I drove around my neighbourhood yelling promises at strangers, I kissed my friends goodnight and flopped onto my bed. I am blissfully surprised at how wonderful everything has turned out to be.”

The bit about festival toilets:

“There’s nothing more carnal or cathartic than finally having a poo in a festival porter-loo.”

And despite all these ridiculous metaphors, here is my final WTF moment:

“Squeaky swings sound like children screaming.”

(What the fuck, Harriet?)

Think of this as a farewell to all the moody posts about something that is now a nothing.

There you have it. The sneakiest peak into my drafts folder.

Not much else to say, except goodbye.

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I am cursed and blessed with feeling everything so intensely.

large“Can you see me? All of me? Probably not. No one ever really has.” -Jeffery Eugenides

I’m currently on a strange journey of self-reflection. I think it’s healthy to indulge in such things every once in a while.

I like turning off all the lights in my bedroom, lying on the floor and thinking about my place in the universe; how I’m supposed to impact the world and the people around me, how I expect myself to behave in certain situations and wishing I could behave differently in others. Lying on the floor probably has some deep poetic meaning behind it that I’ll come up with at a later stage when I want to make my life seem more like a novel, but really I just like the feeling of a different perspective and how worn the carpet feels under my fingers.It’s as if people other than me have lain down on that exact spot and felt as misunderstood as I do.

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That’s the teenage angst talking. I think I’m more ordinary than I think I am. There are probably millions of 19 year old feelings out there who lie on their backs and cry over songs and carpets. It’s an unspoken rite of passage.

Tonight I’m lying on the floor and thinking about a conversation.

“You thought quite deeply about that” he remarked

I pause, “I think about everything deeply.”

I haven’t decided yet if I like this about myself. Often it feels like I live in a world where showing emotions is a weakness and yet the very core of my being demands to feel. This makes me too emotional, too insane, too passionate. Nothing I do or say is meaningless, in this fast-paced, cold Earth I don’t believe in brevity or being numb. I agonise and overthink every misplaced semi-colon, every pause in a sentence, someone’s tone of voice and the underlying intention of their actions. I am cursed and blessed with feeling everything so intensely.

That, in a nutshell, is what I am lying on my bedroom floor thinking about.

Can you see me yet?

No?

You probably glanced over me, heard how I talk about things like they’re incredibly important, noticed how I like to burst into people’s lives with poetry and how I force them to have feelings or how I pry something beautiful from their mouths. I like soul searching, I like learning how dark the deepest parts of people’s souls are and then adding some light to it. You probably skimmed over all this and decided I’m crazy. I’m not crazy, I just think too deeply.

I look for people who see at least some parts of me, who look past the superficial, who want to sweep away my inner cobwebs and let in a little sunshine. I look for people who don’t ask me my favourite colour or my favourite food; they ask me if I had an imaginary friend, ask me what my biggest regret is, figure out what makes me sad and the things I’d change in the world if only I could.

These are questions I ask myself when I’m listening to Youngblood Hawke and trying to figure out who the fuck I want to be when I grow up.

When I grow up I want to be understood.

k

 

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Running away…or at least fantasising about it.

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“I’m running away” I announce to my mother who’s kneeling down on the bathroom floor washing my little brother’s hair. I had been given a time out and was marinating in the injustice of it all when I marched up to her, drew myself to my full 6 year-old height and told her of my intention to leave and never come back.

“Perfect,” she says, “which suitcase would like me to pack for you?”

Sheer terror and I haven’t felt the urge to leave since then.

Yet recently, I’ve been feeling this incredibly strong pull to be anywhere but here and, perhaps, anyone but me.

This year hasn’t exactly gone the way I planned. In fact, if I could go back in time and talk to the me who existed in the beginning of this year, the one standing on the doorstep of independence,  I’d say “don’t get your hopes up kid, in fact, it’s better if you don’t even ring the doorbell.”

But how do you tell the hopeful, fresh out of high school little girl that she’s about the walk into a house of abuse and intense loneliness? That she’s going to lose so many friends and that just when she thinks she’s found where she’s meant to be and the people she’s meant to spend time with she’s going to have to leave them too? This girl has just had her heart broken, she’s just gone through hell to get to a point where she truly believes that everything will be better only to be told that nothing gets better, nothing gets fixed, nothing feels okay.

Nothing feels okay.

18 years old, standing in a crowd of people who feel and think less than me, with my heart and pride smashed like a beer bottle on the floor, only to have it taped back up and thrown against a wall, just so it can be stood on almost a year later. Lying under a tree, surrounded by people who think and feel less, cradling my shredded soul with what I have left. I wish someone had told beer bottle girl to watch out for the liars and the name-callers, the crazies and the manipulators, the friends who make her feel worthless and the boys who refuse to make eye contact even when she’s a kiss away. She could have been told that if she carries on believing too much in people she would eventually find herself alone with only a tree to cling to in the world, trees don’t hurt like people do.

Tree girl got on a bus yesterday. Unfortunately the furthest it would take her was Monte Casino and back but the thought of catching the next flight out of her circumstances and away from her problems was the most hopeful she felt in a while. But how do you tell the girl who’s about to step onto a plane away from all her problems that she’s about to go somewhere that’s exactly the same as the house she got away from? How do you tell the girl with the crooked soul, the crippled heart and the constantly blind optimism that wherever she goes she’s going to get hurt?

You can’t. She has to figure it out for herself.

“Which suitcase would you like me to pack for you?”

I don’t care. Just stop this feeling.

I wrote this a few hours ago. I was mad at my cousin for cancelling our plans for the umpteenth time and feeling deeply melodramatic about the entire 1AM tree debacle. My mom came in to ask about dinner, read my post over my shoulder, saw my puffy eyes and just held me. She stroked my hair, called me sweetheart and held me like I was, in fact, 6 years old and had just been called “ugly” on the playground.

Apparently when I actually got into the adult world I was under the impression that it was something I’d have to face by myself. I’m too independent and hard-headed for my own good. Sometimes I don’t realise how hard I’ve been fighting to keep my head above water until someone finally comes along and tosses a life jacket and I’m able to crumple and cry tears of relief.

She took me to Bubble tea, spoke to me about everything else but the fantasy of me disappearing into great oblivion and I suddenly felt okay.

Being okay- being happy-  isn’t being kissed when you want to be kissed or having a perfect year with no disappointing people in it. Being happy is tea while it’s raining, having one’s hair stroked and, despite everything that’s happened in the past year, being able to make jokes and find things to laugh about.

Happiness is what you make of it, the girl under the tree has no clue how she’s going to feel about that moment next year, but hopefully she won’t still be damaged.

Plus she’s still got people to keep her at home.

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Filed under Adventures, Brain Poetry, Sometimes I Rant

Is it too much to ask for a trip to the Enchanted Castle?

I don’t need to tell you that chivalry is dead. I know that because you’re sitting here reading my blog instead of being showered with flowers and tickets to Disney Land.

No one’s ever gotten me tickets to Disney Land, or flowers for that matter, at this point I’d be pleasantly surprised to receive weeds. The prospect of the spontaneous phone call has been replaced by the impersonal text message and taking a girl out means pulling her away from the people she’s dancing with to ask her the very important question of “do you want to hook up?”.

Which probably explains why recently I’ve noticed that girls are afraid to admit that they want to be treated nicely. I’m pretty sure in 10 years time the majority of my generation is going to be married to people they met in a club because they went on a drinking binge and felt something “magical” while hooking up. I shouldn’t even be typing that, we shouldn’t be hooking up. Why would you show a pretty girl how you feel about her by giving her a venereal disease? What’s romantic about mouth herpes? Nothing.

My grandfather was engaged when he met my grandmother in an elevator, he decided she was the most beautiful woman in the world and subsequently dumped his fiance for a random stranger and they lived disfunctionally ever after until he died. My other grandparents instructed ballroom dancing and used to waltz around the kitchen until my gran’s artificial hip replacement.

These stories are real. The men in them were dedicated, probably took their women to see the Enchanted Castle as much as they wanted and definitely did not attempt weird club sign language with them like point to their lips and mouth “make out”.

I guess the glory days of chivalry are over.

And if you’re going to get me weeds, make them dandelions.

 

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January 10, 2014 · 9:28 am

How Privileged White Kids Find Entertainment.

There’s a first world problem that comes with the territory of being an 18-year old high school graduate with 2 terabytes worth of downloaded entertainment and a whole months worth of holiday ahead.

You get bored.

By bored I mean going through a late adolescent crisis in which you start planning what you’d look like with dread locks, researching the best places to go to get a tragus piercing and looking up tattoo ideas on Pinterest. I’ve hit rock bottom on the scale of teenage angst and all because none of my friends are in town for the holidays.

Another grand idea I’ve had takes place in the form of a 5-year plan and I came across it while on a website for The Adventurists. They are an organisation that raises funds for charity and at the same time “fight to make the world less boring”. They essentially create adventures. Not “holiday” adventures, not “ooh, I’m moving to South Africa, this is going to be such an adventure!” adventures, The Adventurists have created six, real life, Bilbo Baggins defeating Smaug, bringing the ring to Mordor, let’s kill Lord Voldemort, bad -ass adventures. Image

One of them is called The Rickshaw Run in which you and up to 3 friends have the opportunity to drive a rickshaw across India through Bandit country, dangerous roads and dodgy back routes in a turd of a vehicle in order to raise money for charity. There is no set safe route, and no telling exactly what can happen while driving one of these death machines. There’s even a disclaimer on the website talking about the risks of becoming permanently disfigured, seriously disabled or dead.

Which is why it’s part of a Five-year plan and not a Next-year plan. I figure 5 years is enough time for me to get all the experience I need in order to not die when I drive my rickshaw across India. At that point I’ll be a BA Graduate with a major in History and, possibly, a tragus piercing and a head full of dreadlocks. I’ll be unstoppable.

Now I just have to talk to my mom about this.

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If it weren’t for timing, I’d have time for you.

It can be said that all you need to start something good with someone else is chemistry and timing.

I have had chemistry on my side for many instances in my life but timing?

Timing’s a bitch.

For instance, I wish I’d never gone to a fateful high school rugby match in the middle of March and I wish I’d never met someone else standing on my best friend’s porch in the beginning of May.  Because one of those instances ended badly because I was in the wrong place at the right time and the other one is now, 5 months down the line hanging in the balance of whether or not I’m on the right side of the wily mistress time and her bitch of a hidden agenda.

So what’s the moral of the story? Timing will break your heart six ways to Sunday that’s the damn moral, have you not been listening? Timing is a dirty hoe!

I am very aware of the fact that I’ve now blown this whole issue of time out of proportion, and that what I think might be bad timing could actually be a massive cliched “blessing in disguise”. As my good friend has just reminded me over voice note,  “Calm down, this doesn’t mean you’re going to end up with a dumb bench presser, I’m pretty sure you’re better than that.”

Maybe timing is my excuse? Maybe the time to start being genuine is right now, and I need to stop being lazy and frightened, pick up my cell phone, send a scary emotionally revealing message to that someone and make timing MY bitch. Perhaps we all blame timing because we all enjoy the drama of anticipation too much, or we’re scared that the timing is actually right which means we suddenly become responsible for our own happiness, not luck or chance, but good old-fashioned risk taking.

Perhaps timing is not a bitch, but a misunderstood little hussie with low self-esteem who can’t help but be mean because it makes her feel better.

We’ve just gotta give her a time out and some therapy.

That settles it, I’m going to go make my own good timing by taking control and being genuine! After exams though because I really don’t want this to blow up in my face and make me lose focus.

Actually I might just leave it.

Because as my gran’s refrigerator magnet says:

“One day my ship will come in, and with my luck I’ll be at the airport.”

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Filed under Romance or something like it

Mistakes and Nigerians.

Mistakes.

I find it weird how common they are, yet how hard it is to live up to them. I can say I’ve never gone an entire day without making a mistake. Even if I lay in bed for the whole day I’d be making a mistake because I would have wasted that whole day not making mistakes, which is, in turn, a mistake.

Therefore I can conclude that mistakes are inevitable, they’re regular, and yet totally unacceptable.

I recently made the biggest mistake of my life. Okay, maybe it’s not that big, but it was pretty big.

I let someone else’s mistake of not seeing my worth become my mistake. It’s going to take a long time for me to forgive myself for that. It’s also going to take a long time for me to actually trust myself again.

I think that’s so stupid! Mistakes are so trivial, and if we learn from them then they aren’t mistakes are they? And yet I am so hard on myself for letting that mistake happen to me.

I learnt though, I learnt so much from that little mistake that made me feel like my world was ending and I didn’t want to get out of bed or breathe. I even started “caving” which is what my mother calls me putting my head under my covers, crying and listening to Taylor Swift and the Cranberries. It’s not pretty, and I don’t do it so often that it deserves a name, but it has a name anyway.

Things I learnt from my little (really big at the time) mistake:

1. I deserve better

2. Never trust anything anyone says unless they show you they mean it

3. “Caving” does not help anyone

4. When in doubt, a hamburger helps

5. I need to let life play out. Most of the time everything is out of my control. If I try to control it, it’s basically like trying to steer those little kid car rides, pretty pointless.

6. Never make yourself smaller to accommodate for someone else’s own self importance

7. Twitter is bad

8. Always believe that something wonderful is about to happen.

As already stated in “Taylor Swift is A Terrible Liar”  and “Waiting For a Phone Call”  relationships are stupid. They make you gooey and emotional and just yuckie. Those are probably the biggest mistake makers on the planet.

“oooh, but I thought he loved me”

“Turns out he’s actually a dad”

Two of my friends actually always end relationships with the statement:

“I found out he’s Nigerian”

I have friend who wrote a poem, not about Nigerians, but about getting over mistakes and moving on, kind of.  I really like this poem so I tried to slot it in here.

Grasping Happiness
 
I have to learn to breathe
Just breathe…
and hold onto small details
like how quickly clouds move
and how sunlight can warm my soul.
 
Think of how much I’ve grown since it ended
not of how much I’ve lost
 
He doesn’t know what I look like on my worst
He has no idea how to love deeply and painfully
like I do
 
He’ll never look at the beauty of the jacarandas in autumn
and think of home
all he sees is how much better they’d look in bloom
 
And I will bloom, like a shriveled bud I will open and thrive
I will thaw my iron soul with sunlight and quick-moving clouds
I will grow and lose but still grow from that loss
and everyone will look and see how beautiful I am when I blossom
 
But he will never get to
Because he never thought of home when he looked at me in Autumn
but rather, how much better I’d look in bloom.
 

So learn from your mistakes people, and grow from them, and learn to forgive yourselves for the mistakes other people made in not seeing how cool you are.

 Because I bet you there are a whole bunch of people who looked at you in Autumn and still thought you were better than fresh gravy on a Sunday.

 
 

 

 

 

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July 23, 2013 · 9:09 am