So I’m looking through my old poetry wondering if maybe I should publish one more. But as I am reading, I feel the privateness of it all – not that everything I wrote was based on personal experience or that everything I wrote was secrets and feelings. Some of it was. But even the others – even the fun ones and the happy ones – feel just as private. I don’t know how to explain it, but some part of me feels like it needs to stay with only me. I have shown them to one person, though, and what she said about them really helped me probably as much as she claims they helped her.

Most of them are based on my years of struggling with depression and anxiety – others are fuelled by hope and happiness and childhood nostalgia. Some are about getting out of depression and some about living with anxiety – in a good way.

But like I said, I don’t feel like its about the content.

I wrote a lot of them in an extremely vulnerable state – others I started writing at that point and worked on them on and off for years. Others are still unfinished, although even they are as much part of my collection as the ones I haven’t touched in years. Some of them even came out perfect.

So as I’m reading them, wondering if I should publish another one – maybe a less fun one than the one I published last week – I’m starting to realise that I can’t.

Its not that I don’t want people to read my work. I think that these poems (which tbh is all of them) are too close to my heart and soul to put out there when I don’t know who will read them or if anyone will. Maybe it’s also to publish only one would ruin my collection as, in a way, I feel like they are all connected. You can’t read only one of them because they are all part of me. So to publish one by one (if I were willing to do that) would be to take away the wholeness of the poems themselves. You can’t have one without the others.

And so I will leave them be. At least for now. If I publish more poems on this blog, it will probably be ones I’ve written for the purpose of publishing them here. And I have never tried that before! Most of my poems have been written for me only, and to write for others to possibly see is going to be interesting. I’m not even sure if I will be able to do it, to be honest, but we will see (especially if I want to continue calling myself a poet and a writer, haha).

Anyway, hope you (whoever you are) are having a good day ūüôā

<3, Kristine.

Rainstorm (Part 1)

That day, I was thinking about normal things. It was a Tuesday, like it is a Tuesday now, but Tuesdays change like other days. The weathered lies of normalcy only creeps along our spines, and we are usually too absorbed in the comfort of our own routines to really notice. I know I was. Some might call it innocence, but that doesn‚Äôt really justify it for me. I feel like that word only works to trivialise the matter ‚Äď to blame it on childishness and lack of experience when, in reality, children are perhaps the most susceptible to change as well as the realisation that ‚Äėnormal‚Äô might just be a word we use when we don‚Äôt want to understand what makes us different.

Continue reading “Rainstorm (Part 1)”

Inverted Fairytale


red as blood ‚Äď
they say
I once killed a man


white as snow ‚Äď
they speak of privilege
and cover all my sins


black as ebony ‚Äď
like medusa’s
full of snakes; speaking truth
covered in lies

the prince might be charming,
but not as charming as I
with my claws at your throat
and murder in my eyes.

– k.m. | poem 1/52 – the once a week challenge.

Some Ground Rules

Having read through the previous blog post, I find myself cringing and itching to edit it. Maybe not a lot, but just to add things to clarify or remove things I now believe is redundant or rewrite sentences and change words. The thing is, though, no matter how many times I do this I will always want to do it more. As an English literature graduate, I know this struggle. Sometimes it feels like I am this struggle. Like it is all I ever will do; rewrite and edit and never be happy with the result because something can always be improved upon.

In other words, I’m a perfectionist, and I have always been.

It feels like admitting to be an alcoholic or drug addict only I am addicted to editing, to unfinished projects and the disappointment that comes with never completing my goals – if they even can be called that.

And it is¬†hard,¬†even now,¬†to let go of the things I work on. The only reason I ever finished essays in uni is because¬†I¬†had¬†to. Because there was a deadline and if I didn’t make it, I would fail. And failing is worse than not being perfect. A lot worse. But that does not mean I was not a last-minute, stay-up-all-night procrastinator. I almost always (at least until the last few essays in my third year) submitted essays within a few hours of the deadline and I almost always stayed up the night before doing it. All night. Because during the day, my anxiety would be too high and my productivity reduced by my self-inflicting pressure of everything needing to be¬†perfect.¬†Even though I probably knew that there is no such thing. Even though I probably¬†would have produced better and more coherent essays writing during the day.

That’s the thing with being a perfectionist, though: it holds you back. It stops you from doing things because you’re constantly thinking about the end-game and not the actual work needed to be put into things. And because I am still trying to withstand this urge, this need for things to be perfect that stops me from actually being productive and create real things, I have decided to set up some ground rules for myself – especially related to this blog. They are as follows:

  1. Everything published stays that way. I am allowed to delete, if I feel the need to do so, but I cannot edit posts or change them in any way after clicking the publish button. (Exceptions might be minor grammatical errors etc)
  2. The draft button is a friend. I know I am not the type to make drafts because I like things to be perfect, but doing so will allow me to spend more time on the quality of my post, whether fictional or otherwise. Therefore it is better for things to stay in the draft than publish to soon, especially if I am worried about the quality of my writing, or if I believe I need more time to work on something Рor if I need that break from writing to publishing where I will actually be able to tell the quality of the post.
  3. Not everything in my draft needs to be published, either. It is fine if I only post a fraction of what I write and leave unfinished posts and ideas in the drafts page.
  4. Sharing; I will not share the individual posts I have published unless it is about something specific related to the person or website I am sharing it to. Other than that I can leave the link to my blog on the various social media I have. (Mainly because I don’t want to push my stuff on people – like I sometimes tend to do with pictures on facebook). Other people are free to share whatever they want, obviously.
  5. People I know in real life actually reading this blog scares the shit out of me. I will not stop that from happening, however, if someone wants to or ends up reading it.
  6. I am not doing this for other people. I don’t really care whether or not anyone will read this. It would be nice if they do, especially if they comment, but if no one does it will be fine. The important thing for me is the¬†act¬†of writing, the¬†act¬†of publishing, and the¬†possibility¬†for people to read what I write. That I put myself out there, as I described in my previous post, in order to grow and “find” my own voice and passions.
  7. Last but not least: Have fun with whatever I write. Literally. Always do it because it’s fun and I want to, not because I feel like I have to or because it’s becoming a habit (although I do hope that it will become a habit). To always do it with feeling ~

<3, Kristine.


First Post: Between Words

The gap between words. A place I have been inhabiting for way too long – too scared to write; too miserable not to – yet still there,¬†in between, crushed by my own aspirations and what I have always believed to be the reality of my nature. That I’m not¬†good enough.¬†That I’m not¬†creative enough. That I’m not¬†smart¬†enough or confident enough.

Surprise: I now (ok, in a couple of weeks) have a degree in English Literature; I will be graduating with a first Рsomething I never ever thought was something I could do Рand I will continue onto a Masters degree in the fall; I have written over 50 poems throughout the past four years, which spread out might not be that much (especially considering I have not published them anywhere and only ever have showed them to one person other than myself) but that, every time I read through, surprises me with their vivid descriptions and emotional infusions РI can still feel them, four years on, and that is not the work of someone who is not creative.

It took me long to learn this. Honestly, I am still learning this, barely allowing myself that one word after another in fear that I will write something that does not make sense or that is not acceptable by the standards of what I think people will judge me by. I am¬†terrified of judgement. I have lived a life of isolation, (social) anxiety, and depression because I am scared of people and what they think. Of¬†how¬†they think. Because, in truth, I have never been able to completely identify with people and the way they talk and act around each other, always believing (like I now believe almost everyone at some point believes) that everyone else have some sort of secret book that tells them all they need to know about socialising, living, thinking, breathing, being. Of course there is no such thing. But nobody really told me that, and as a result I saw myself as different, an outsider, because I didn’t understand what I thought was those secrets, those rules that everybody else lived by and refused to tell me. But that is not the point of this blog.

The point of this blog is, in a word, to challenge myself. I believe most people do things that makes them uncomfortable in order to grow, and putting myself out there Рmy thoughts, my words Рis uncomfortable. And it is a way for me to grow.

A lot of people who know me but don’t know me (and even some that I do consider friends/family) see me as someone who rarely speaks, keeps to herself/a few, selected friends, and doesn’t really have opinions. While this is true, somewhat, what they¬†don’t¬†know about me is that I am full of¬†everything. So full that most of the times when I don’t speak it’s because I have too much to say but don’t trust myself – my own voice – to say them. It’s sad, really, and it’s depressing. But I¬†have¬†gotten better. A lot better, in just the three years I’ve been in university. I think that is the point of this blog. To continue getting better because by sharing my voice I will become more confident using it. I might even do the thing I have been dreaming about my whole life, the one true thing that I have always wanted. That is, to find myself; to work out who I am and what my purpose is in the world; to cultivate my passions, whatever they might be, and live happily and confidently and without regrets.

It sounds stereotypical and idealistic, I know; it’s what everyone wants – to be happy. It’s what we are here for, right? But why is it that I feel like nobody really prioritises these aspects of life. It’s all about producing and consuming – about getting a job to pay the bills and then¬†settle¬†for comfort when you could always strive for something better. It’s about things rather than experiences, and the face you show rather than the way you feel. I don’t mean to be a cynic, or to view the world negatively, or to judge others – I’m trying very hard to do the opposite, really. But I also think that is why I find using my voice, speaking or writing my¬†true¬†opinions, my¬†true¬†thoughts, beliefs and perspectives, so uncomfortable.

I’m a 22 year old woman with social anxiety and depression who has been repressing her own talents for writing and communicating with others since childhood. What do I even have to say? Maybe nothing. To be honest, I’m not sure about much of anything but what I¬†do¬†know is that I want to try and that if I don’t – I have already lost.

So it’s uncomfortable but it’s important all the same. And while I could do all of this privately, in a secret journal, I feel like, in a way, it would defeat its purpose. I haven’t grown 100% comfortable writing even for my own eyes only (despite the collection of poetry that shows I am¬†able¬†to) but continuing writing only for me would not lead me anywhere. And I don’t believe it would be as motivating as writing publicly, or even semi-publicly, would. I want to be able to talk¬†with¬†people. To¬†communicate.¬†But I also want people to understand who I am. Writing, therefore, is a way of doing this – to show people who I am and allowing them (or you) to respond.

So this is me, and this is why I have started this blog: to make the gap between words smaller and to free myself from my own insecurities and unintentional isolation from the world and people around me.

Wish me luck!

<3, Kristine