Blogging; Creative Outlet, or Self Indulgence?

Tonight I went to see Aurora at one of my favourite venues in the city. It was an ethereal, uplifting experience and one of the most beautiful live performances I have ever seen. I was going to write a post about it, and then I got struck with a thought; does anyone care?

My blog is not themed. I don’t talk about fashion, or write recipes, or solely review films. I’m not consistent in either the dates of posting, or in the content. I literally just write about whatever happens to be occupying my brain at any given time. It is eclectic, and often a little rambling. I have a number of followers, and a few who regularly read and comment on my posts. It’s a nice feeling, to know that there are people put there who actually like the way I write. But still, now that this thought is in my head, I can’t shake it.

I often say that the reason I write, and indeed blog, is because it’s a creative outlet that I deem necessary for my sanity. In many ways, writing is a kind of catharsis. But it is, predominantly, just me writing about myself. Experiences I’ve had, people I’ve met, things I’ve done, and thoughts that have popped into my head. I’m not in any way giving advice. I am not funny, or educational, or motivational. So, why do I think my thoughts are worth posting to the internet, instead of just writing down in a diary for myself?

I guess there’s a part of me that wants to be heard. Since I was a little girl, I’ve dreamed of being a writer. Maybe by posting blogs about my day to day life, and getting a response, is a way to live out that dream. Maybe there’s a chance that something I have to say might resonate with someone (or multiple someones) out there. Or maybe I’m just arrogant, and think that I’m more important and interesting than I really am. I honestly don’t know, but I do know that I’ll continue writing. Because, whether for creative purposes, or just to stoke my own ego, there’s something to be said for getting things out of your head and onto paper (so to speak).

Do any of you ever feel that way? Have you ever questioned why you write? Let me know!


There is something wild and untameable about heartache; it rips through your body in endless waves and shatters your soul into thousands of tiny pieces. And yet still, it doesn’t kill you. It feels like it should, but you wake up every day still breathing. You can feel the whole universe in a single drop of salt water, and nothing will ever feel as sharply real as the fingernails that you dig into your skin to hold yourself together.

We were made to feel. We are complex, and unusual, and fragile, and so very strong. We experience a galaxy of emotions and somehow we contain all of that feeling into a tiny, insignificant, fleeting form. In the scheme of things, we’re not much more than a speck of dust. And yet we feel, so powerfully. How is it that we don’t explode from the sheer intensity of it all? To experience emotion is to be human. What a cruel and wonderful trick.


I’m empty from absence, and it’s a cold weight. The cold just kind of settles in my stomach like a stone, a boulder, a mountain. I am overtaken. I am overcome. It’s a numbness spreading, tinged with melancholy and a strange kind of grief.

My cheeks are damp before I’ve even realised I’m crying. I must look wretched. Everything seems hollow, void of any true meaning; nothing but a habit. Malicious thoughts slither like vipers through my brain, and there’s ice in my veins. Some part of me wants to give in to recklessness and to self destruction, because it would be the easier option. But fleeting, momentary relief will lead to devastation.

Next time you see me, I’ll be jumping with reckless abandon over the edge.

Lost and Found

I have this pair of earrings. They’re small, and shaped like little trees. I think I was given them as a gift for my birthday years ago, but honestly it’s been so long now, that I can’t recall exactly how they came to be in my possession. The thing about these earrings, is that they have no backing plate, so they slip easily from my ears. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve actually reached up to play with them (I compulsively fiddle with things) and realised one has gone missing.

It doesn’t matter how many times I lose one of these earrings, they always find their way back. I’ve found a stray silver tree tangled in my hair, caught in the threads of a beanie or scarf, stowed away in my bra, or resting underneath my bed, or the couch. Once I found one laying just next to my car door after leaving work, without even realising it had gone missing. Another time, I found one attached to my friend’s jumper (I assume it had gotten caught when I have her a hug). The point is, I never really worry too much when I notice I’m missing an earring, because I always assume it will turn up somewhere.

I wish that I had that certainty about other aspects of my life. It would make everything easier if I didn’t have to worry about how I’m going to pay my bills when my work gets cut back as of next week. I would be happy if I didn’t have to agonize about finding a job I actually like. And I would absolutely love to be confident that things will all work out. But unlike my earrings always turning up, life is never that predictable. Maybe there’s something to be said for having confidence that something you want will eventuate. After all, I don’t worry about losing my earrings, and I’ve never permanently lost one yet. Perhaps all that positive thinking has something to do with it. Or perhaps they’re never truly lost to begin with, and so finding them again is inevitable.

Look guys, I dunno. There was a point I was trying to make here, but it’s almost midnight and my brain is a little exhausted and I think somewhere between starting this post and now, I’ve lost that point. Whatever.

Is it Winter Yet?


Summer drains me. I often hear people complain about the cold months, the seasonal depression that overcomes them with the onset of grey skies and wind chills. For me, it’s the opposite. The lingering heat takes it’s toll on me in a big way. Nights are often sleepless, and when they’re not I wake feeling less rested than when I fell asleep. Days seem endlessly long; a problem compounded by daylight savings and longer daylight hours that are a trademark of summer.

My house has only one old clunky air conditioner, jammed into the lounge room window. It doesn’t work especially well, and only has any effect if the rest of the house stays completely closed off. Which means it’s not uncommon for my bedroom to still be ten degrees hotter than the actual outside temperature at any given time. It’s hard to sleep when it’s still 38 degrees in the early hours of the morning.

This is the hottest summer we’ve had in a few years, and even though we’re over half way through the season, this hot weather is going to continue well into March, and likely even April. But it’s not just a physical effect that summer has on me. I find my motivation to do anything is practically non existent. My determination to walk more is thwarted by the high night time temperatures. My overwhelming desire to sew isn’t enough to combat the uncomfortable conditions of my dining room. I’ve got itchy fingers, especially considering I haven’t so much as put fabric to machine since the ringmaster jacket I made for a commission last October. But I get increasingly irritated and uncomfortable in the cloying heat, and so doing anything creative is currently out of the question. Again, it’s difficult to concentrate on making something (either sewing, writing, or any other such creative outlet) when I’m constantly batting sweat out of my eyes.

I’m so ready for summer to be over. Give me chill winds and cozy clothing any day.


My face is green with makeup, and I’ve just removed all the clothing I’ve been wearing for the last five hours, sans my underwear. I didn’t get half as drunk as I planned to be at the 21st birthday I attended tonight (That being the reason I was made up and dressed). It’s hot, as Australian summer nights tend to be, and my windows are open to let in the faintest of breezes into my stifling bedroom. There is music playing from somewhere distantly near, the soulful tones of a female vocalist ringing clear through the sounds of birdcall and cicada song.

I yearn for something I can’t voice aloud, lest the illusion be broken. This mask of mine grows heavier by the day, and I can barely stand it. I ache to break free of this sameness, and from the likewise sadness, but I’m trapped within this endless cycle. I want to climb a mountain, and scream from it’s summit; release the primordial rage and emptiness that lurks below the surface of my very skin, and cast it away from me.

Maybe you understand, or maybe this all seems like incoherent rambling. Maybe I’ll regret it in the morning, when the clear head logic reminds me that I keep my emotions hidden for a reason. But now, in this cloying near-midnight, I can only pour my soul into the ether and hope that one day, I’ll smile without the strain of force and facade.

Rainy Night Thoughts

It’s 10:30pm. I have my window open so I can hear the sound of the rain, and I kind of wish I could stay like this forever.

I love the rain. The smell, the sound, the taste. There’s something so soothing about it, and it fills me with a sense of calm and absolute contentment. Life has been a bit shit lately, so it’s nice to just lay here in the dark and enjoy one of my favourite things.

There was a huntsman in the lounge room earlier. He only had seven legs, but the span of those legs would have been the size of my palm. He was very active, moving from this corner of the room to that one. He came down the wall once, but I tapped the wall beside the couch and he scurried back up to the ceiling, much quicker than I expected. I’m not scared of him, but I would much prefer that he doesn’t decide to camp in my bedroom tonight. The rain brought him inside, as it often does, and I don’t mind giving the furry little big guy a warm, dry home for the night.

It’s nights like this I wish I didn’t have to get up and go to work in the morning. I’ve recently gone from two to four days a week between two stores. I know it was the right decision, as much as I wasn’t happy about having to make it. But that still doesn’t make it easier to get up and go to work! It always seems to rain when I’m stuck inside at work, instead of at home. Tonight is an exception, and one I’m very happy about.

Sometimes I wish I could just live in a little stormy bubble. It might sound depressing to some, but I’ve always been one to chase the rain.


It looks as though, once again, I will be making a move within the next few months. If things turn out the way I’m hoping they will, I’ll be set to return to my home town, and wave goodbye to the town I have only recently moved to.

I moved away to be closer to a job I no longer have. That is the long and the short of it. It’s not where I expected to be at this time in the year, but it’s where I am nevertheless. Since the only friends I have in my current town are always working, I am very much by myself pretty much all the time. Which makes being in an unfamiliar town somewhat…dull. Add to this, the fact that I am desperately broke, and you have a recipe for misery.

I am also contemplating selling off much of my stuff. Furniture wise, there’s nothing I care too much to keep. Ideally, I’d like to move into a new place with a completely fresh start. Lately I’ve been aching for simplicity. To rid myself of all the complex things, material and immaterial alike, and and de-clutter my life. I feel that a large part of the reason why I seem to be floundering so much this year is because I’m holding onto heavy things. Subconsciously, my brain is feeling overcrowded and my life is much the same way.

If I do end up moving back home, I’ve made myself a promise to try and get my shit together. It’s not going to be easy, but I can start small and go from there. So long as I’m making progress, so long as I’m moving forward, even by tiny increments, then I think I’ll be ok.

Hello Mediocrity, my Old Friend…

I am having some kind of keep-me-up-awake-at-night existential crisis/drama, and I’m having a difficult time coming to terms with the fact that I am exactly where I was 12 months ago. See, 12 months ago, I left my job as a shoe repairer/watch repairer/engraver in the city, to work in a call centre back home. About four months ago, I got out of that call centre and found work in another one, working as an Ambulance call taker in a different town. It was a great job; it was fascinating, and challenging, and incredible. The six people I trained with are amongst the most amazing people I have ever met. And then I failed my assessment. And I failed it again. And I tried really hard. And then I didn’t have a job anymore, and so my buddy and former employer hired me back two days a week to get me by until I find another full time job in the town I now call home. So, when I say I am back where I was 12 months ago, I mean I am literally¬†where I was 12 months ago.

The sounds of screaming children in the playground beside my work kiosk are slowly edging me towards a homicidal massacre. The same calibre of customers I thought I was rid of are slowly draining my will to live, and to hold back the seething anger I feel every time a late middle aged man makes a joke about how I need a man to supervise me. Because I’m a woman, and very clearly we are incapable of doing anything without male supervision. (insert withering sarcasm here) And I have spent the last few weeks applying for mediocre jobs, because that’s all someone without any official qualifications is eligible to apply for. I mean, honestly, some of the requirements for job applications these days are bordering on unattainable. “To be eligible for this position, you must have several university degrees, nineteen thousand years experience in a similar role, the ability to fly a dragon single handed, and no problem doing the work of three people for $12 per hour.” Ok, so that might be a little dramatic, but the job market is disheartening, to say the least.

I think about the future, and what I think I might like to do, and come up with nothing. I am miserable in the present, and the notion of the future makes me even more so. I envy those people who have their lives all sorted out, because I am floundering in mediocrity here, and I’m not sure how much longer I can stand it. After a long string of failures and disappointments, I’m trying to think of things worth sticking around for, and coming up short.

Someone bring me some chocolate and a puppy, please?

Grey Days

Most people I know love the sunny days, the heat, the balmy weather. Me, I love grey days. My favourite kind of weather is the miserable kind. Few things make me as happy as a rainy day, or a big thunderstorm; and I always feel a little bit sad when the sun comes out to play afterwards.

I am endlessly fascinated by clouds, and will often stop in the side of the road to photograph the sky with my shitty phone camera. Those views make me wish I was an artist, so I could spend my time painting the beautiful scenes I love so much.

It’s been especially cold and wet here the last few days, and as I write this I’m rugged up on my couch with a blanket and a cup of green tea. I’m rarely more content than I am right now.