This actually causes me real heartbreak...

...And the test paper's bare

The tap of pen against desk

The constant parting of lips

As my breath meets the air

The beating of heart in chest

As the clock hand moves

And the test paper’s bare

Sums laid out before me

Might be Ancient Greek

For all I can tell

Should have studied, I think

I open my mouth and let my chest swell

To release a sigh that’s deep and

Filled with regret

Pen touches paper

I consider

I have half an hour yet.

Thought I'd try my hand at some poetry. I haven't written any in a while.

Online Window Shopping and Other Silly Things

A while ago I found a website called ModCloth. It's this website that you buy clothes on. Specifically, a website that women buy clothes on. And I've found that, should the urge strike me, I can spend hours browsing its pages and staring longingly at the dresses and pretty cardigans that I can never buy.

Now normally this would be a habit that I... well that I would keep to myself. But this time I think I cam across something worth sharing.

So there I am, comfy in my trackydacks and curled up under a blanket, in bed because I'd finished exams the day before and promptly planned to do nothing for the next three weeks. There I was, flicking through pictures of your average, run of the mill, pish posh dresses when I came across something magnificent. Truly, I adore this dress more than words can accurately describe. 

Because really, isn't it lovely?

It has pictures of space on it! Like Hubble Telescope pictures of space! I want it!

 I find it to be quite charming really. Just charming.

Night Time Writing

For a few nights at the beginning of the year, I made a habit of looking out the window before I went to sleep and writing what I saw. Thought I'd share the results. 

*

Lying in bed at night, I look out the window and watch the sky. It’s almost a full moon so I can see the clouds, my eyes following them as they travel in and out of my line of sight, feeling the weight of fatigue settle on me as I do.

The ceiling fan spins above me and as I feel it beating air against my skin I find myself imagining I am aloft among the clouds, the force of the wind propelling me across the sky.

I decide this feeling’s quite nice.

*

Tonight I find myself longing for the lustrous moon and her always-moving clouds. Yet when I turn my gaze to the window, for the first time in weeks, a curtain of rain ripples through the street, glowing with the light emitted by the luminous lamps that line the now-glittering road.

It looks thin, as though the rain drops are lighter than they sometimes are, small and soft where others are bulbous and piercing. But a powerful wind pushes the water through the air; little waves rolling through sheets of rain. And I know then that regardless of when the rain stops, it's late, and the cloud cover won't leave until sometime after I've fallen asleep.

I release a quiet sigh, something in my chest deflating, my stomach aching like it hungers for something.

I love the rain. But tonight all I wanted was the moon.

*

Clouds again tonight, blanketing the sky in their dreary grey, so different from how they are during the day. I love cloudy days, cooling the air and reminding me of cosy things. I just don't like them when they take my stars away.

But at least the cover’s thin, so the moon manages to shine through. Its brilliance is clearly too much for the clouds to take, I muse with a quiet spite. It's a full moon tonight. I think I'd like that were I not having to stand at my window and crane my neck to see it peeking through. I think I'd like the full moon, illuminating sparse clouds and accompanying glinting stars. Sky a brighter blue than most nights.

Tonight, defeat draws a sigh from my lips and resignations makes for heavy bones. My body slumps against the pillows piled at my back and I feel oddly like crying, but I don't. Funny, I wonder when this came to mean so much to me.

Ah well, perhaps tomorrow, I think. Perhaps tomorrow I shall go to bed with the sky clear and be treated to the moon's muted gaze, lulling my restless mind to sleep.

*

Tonight there are no clouds, which is refreshing, I think. An edging of white is on the horizon, dulled in colour and lacking the movement I crave. I think it's leaving, heading away to other cities outside other windows to drift across other skies.

And above the sky is clear, speckled with a dusting of stars and illuminated by the blinding presence of the moon. It's a full moon again tonight. So I should be pleased. Should be. But the clouds are silent and still. There's no movement, no breeze, not even a whisper. So I think perhaps, that I wanted both the moon and the clouds. The cool beauty of Lady Lunar casting her light on them as they skipped past my window, like a silent film revolving a beautiful image just for me, simply with the purpose of sending me to sleep. Perhaps that makes me greedy, I don't know.

But my point is that I'm disappointed. Again. It's funny how you think you want certain things, but end up finding that you need others more.

The One Where I Like to Draw

Sometimes I draw. Well, that's not really true. I always draw. Have done ever since I was able to grasp that crayon in between small, pudgy fingers. 

I love drawing. And sometimes... sometimes I share what I create. Though I'm not saying these drawings are especially good, because they're not. But my point is rather, I think they could be. . 

So, for fun and because I needed incentive to improve, I set up an instagram account; on which I post pictures of drawings that I do, with the interspersion of random photographs I take that I think others would enjoy. 

It's called drawing_this_bliss and I encourage any of you who are reading to check it out (and, you know, you can follow if you want ;)). There are some pictures from the account bellow, I've only had it for a number of days so there really aren't that many. But I hope you enjoy them.

Also, sorry for the lack of posts. I have a big workload at the moment but I'll try to do more.

Wishing you all the best!

Shadows

I lay on my bed, pillow behind my head,

And I stare into the dark, eyes caught on looming shadows,

At night the world changes, warps into something of dread,

Something that moves and breathes and grows.

So I lay atop my doona, ready to run unbound,

Should one of the silhouettes reach out and pull me from the safe and sound,

  

To the place where monsters tread,

  

Rain splatters the window pane, the streetlamps turning the water’s spray gold

I long to see the shimmering curtain pounding the roof above my head.

But I scarcely look, for fear that when I do the shadows will take me away to damp and cold.  

Something Funny

That moment when you very randomly stumble upon something utterly hilarious while searching for pictures for your English Assignment.

If you can't see it, the speech bubble says: "All right, who's the smart-arse?" The man who's speaking is Captain Arthur Phillip, the Captain of the First Fleet to land in Australia. The painting is a parody of a famous depiction of the First Fleet's arrival, a parody because the flag raised isn't the Union Jack, but the Aboriginal Flag.

It gave me a laugh, and I felt like sharing. 

For Forever She Will Never

A tribute to a girl I once knew and recently lost. 

She’ll never grow up.

Grief is sporadic. In a way I never expected it to be. In a way that, in retrospect, I never could have fathomed; never could have grasped.

I've always wondered how I’d react to the death of someone I know. How it would differ now that I’m a teenager, with stronger emotions and deeper understandings, rather than when I was that child at a funeral; bemusedly surveying her grandparent’s headstone. As children do. Would I care? Would I cry? Would I react the same way I did when my dog died? Waking up in the middle of the night, choking on tears because for a moment I forgot he was gone.

She’ll never leave school.

There are moments I forget, my focus distracted, then I’ll remember. And then there’s this weight dragging in my chest, bearing down on my shoulders; pressing a curve into my back. My limbs are heavy with something I cannot see and my hands tremble incessantly, for no reason at all. All energy will leave me, and I’ll feel so incredibly weak.

She’ll never see her dreams come true.

But then other times I’m numb, as though I’ve distanced myself from the event so completely, that it doesn’t even register with me. It reminds me of the reason I believe I remember so little of Primary School, it was such a boring and lonely time in my life that my brain decided to block it out, for the memories were of no use to me. It scares me to feel like this.

She’ll never get a degree.

I met her in primary school. A bit more than a year before the end. She was the happiest girl I knew and the kindest of the lot. Primary School was kind of like a black hole for me, monotonous and shadowed by my timid insecurity. But she was a bright spot.

She’ll never have a career.

She was my friend. For a while. She was the nicest person in all of year seven, with the biggest smile, and she wanted to hang out with me of all people.

She’ll never fall in love.

I’ve only seen her once or twice in the past three years. We lost touch when High School began. But still, we talk from time to time. Text on birthdays. Comment on Instagram.

Or we… would talk. Would text. Tenses. Have to remember tenses.

She’ll never start a family.

I don’t know why I’m crying honestly. Why I’m reacting like this. It’s been three years, so really I barely knew her. I don’t even miss her really, she wasn’t a presence in my life anymore. I’m just… sad. Really, really sad.

Because I barely knew her.

She’s frozen where she was three days ago, where she will still be twenty years from now.

I barely knew her. I barely knew her. I barely knew her. I bare-

She will always and forever be…

But she was my best friend.

Sixteen.

Open Stage (Or the one where I am exhausted).

Tonight I am exhausted. Profoundly, utterly and completely exhausted. Because for the past week I have been participating in a delightful programme aptly named Open Stage. This is a five day workshop run by Opera Queensland and involves professional opera singers training high school students to perform five different songs from a number of both operas and musicals. Five days.

My school condensed it into four.

Four.

Not to say that it wasn't a load of fun, because it was. I got to know people I wouldn't have otherwise, forwent school work for singing and I learned some things about myself. Like how I actually do enjoy performing, a great deal more than I thought I did. It just takes some confidence and being willing to give it my all instead of being hesitant when uncomfortable. When you put everything into it, it actually becomes... pretty fun.

Though I do think I prefer the creative aspect of it all a bit more. I'm more interested in writing then I am performing if I am to be honest with myself. But I do think, if I were to become an actress, I'd be in musicals. Or Opera. If I ever developed my voice enough for it.

The workshop also increased my confidence when performing, and I learned a number of great songs:

America from West Side Story

Gossip Chorus from Elixir of Love

Breaths composed by Sweet Honey on the Rocks

Heart and Music from A New Brain

All of which are great pieces of music. So I broadened my repertoire and experienced something new, an opportunity I would have regretted passing up if I had done so. Hence I am, overall, quite happy with the experience. 

However, not sitting down for hours on end, and singing and dancing without many breaks in between is a wee bit tiring. You know, just a bit. Today, for instance, was our last chance to rehearse and get everything together before the performance. So I was dancing and singing and walking and standing, for seven hours. Seven. 

I. Am. Exhausted. 

When I arrived home at 7:00 I curled up on the couch under a blanket and stayed there for an hour, aching all over, with a pounding headache, and a queasy stomach.

So unless you are serious about a career in acting or singing, particularly in theatrical performances, I don't recommended it.

It's really not for the fainthearted. 

At Sundown (A Poem)

At sundown white grass glows golden,

A beauty to the sun beholden;

Red ground ignites in shining colour,

The earth's awakening from her slumber;

Leaning gum bares pale skin to the light,

Dry leaves falling drift left and right,

And bark gleams a silver shimmer,

The tree sways and its branches shiver.

No Air to Breathe: Or the one where I write more flash fiction.

This piece is basically exploring that feeling of claustrophobia that one can get in a social situation. You know, that sense of being stifled by too many people talking to you and at you and around you. When all the noise and light and sound just gets to be too much and you need air to breathe. 

I'm sure not all can relate to that, but to those who can, I hope you enjoy this.

~oOo~

She could feel her stomach rolling as she hastily exited the restaurant, the cool air hitting her like a bucket of ice after abandoning the stifling heat of a sauna. A shaky hand reached up to wipe her forehead and it came away damp with the perspiration that clung to her clammy skin. She felt nauseous, her mind foggy and her eyes unable to focus in that way one is only when they're on the verge of vomiting or collapsing. Either seemed possible at this point.

Swallowing painfully she plonked down on a bench sat not five feet away from the restaurant door, which would occasionally swing open and expel light, laughter and chatter into the quiet night air before closing and leaving her in the silence again.

Silence.

No talking or questioning or stilted words to enter her bubble and interrupt her thoughts.

A breeze blew into her hair, flicking strands over her face that tickled her drying skin. Her pulse was fading, no longer thrumming inside her ears as it was before. She closed her eyes and sucked in a lungful of crisp air before releasing it in a deep sigh. 

And for the first time that night, she could truly breathe. 

Birdman: My Thoughts

Is this a review? No. I don't write reviews (at the moment at least). This is just, more or less, my opinion. One that I hope you might find insightful and one that might help you in forming you own opinion of the movie and/or whether or not you would like to see it. 

So, today I found myself confronted with the vaguely disturbing yet oddly enthralling film: Birdman. Now I walked into that cinema with no expectations, due to only having glimpsed the trailer. I walked in without a clue of what the movie was actually about. Then, after 119 minutes of excessive swearing, confusing hallucinations, dizzying camera angles and what one might refer to as heightened realism, I walked out with a smile on my face. An odd smile, but a smile nonetheless. I laughed somewhat hysterically in remembrance of some unanticipated comedic aspects and when I arrived home I promptly began singing show tunes. Believe it or not, there was a reason for this.

I’m not going to go into details regarding the actual plot of the film lest anyone reading this wishes to see it, but I will say this. I laughed hysterically and sang show tunes with renewed vigour, because what I had just seen was a theatrical production. Essentially, a play on screen. I hadn’t expected it, nor did I realise it during. It was an epiphany that came to me five minutes after walking out and it hit me like a slap in the face.

I’m a drama student you understand, so I’m often exposed to theatrical productions. Plays are unconventional, and often the story they tell (if they tell one at all) doesn’t truly make sense until the very end. They’re confusing, they’re abstract, and they explore awkward topics that generally inspire discomfort among viewers. Often you walk out feeling slightly ill and bereft of comprehension. 

Personally, I usually turn to one of my friends and ask them what the hell did I just watch?

I never expected this to happen after seeing a film. But it did. Of course I didn’t recognise it immediately, but I received this cinematic composition in much the same way that I do dramatic productions. Also, much the same as I do when I witness a play, I reflected in the hour following. And, as I always have done, I found that I actually loved it.

It was a confronting film. It explored the concepts of: bad parenting, drug addiction, the hit-and-miss world that is the creative industry, mental health issues and suicidal tendencies. It was messy, gritty and in some ways it was simply confusing. It also featured heavily in black comedy and its ending was ambiguous to say the least.

But it worked. Weirdly enough, it worked. This messy composition built something that, quite frankly, was simply superb. It was odd and cringe worthy in some respects. But I unexpectedly loved it.

Expect to be confronted, but see it. I wish you luck and pray that you adore it as much I do.

Age range recommendation: 16+

Star rating:

Sensation and Contemplation (or the one where I was bored at a barbecue)

I feel the gentle touch of the cool breeze against my warm cheek. 

I smell the heady stench of smoke rising quietly from tips of cigarettes held slack between curled fingers. Blending subtly with the rich scent of mosquito-repellent incense from where it rests on the table's plastic-covered surface.

I taste something faintly sweet on my tongue when I chew soft bread that gives easily beneath the bite of my teeth.

I see hues of gold and pink dusting the clouds and painting the late afternoon sky, the sun just peaking over the tops of the trees and houses that comprise suburban living.

I hear the clink of glasses and the warm chatter of voices.

And I wonder about the reason for things and the complex simplicity of just being.