There's more to this than passing by, there's more to this than meets the eye.

It's December again! Merry Christmas to all you guys who celebrate that wonderful commercial holiday. 

In case anybody accuses me of forgetting to mention anything on my blog, it was actually my birthday a week ago. I had an absolutely lovely day, going out with some people for a very long meal that we later named brunchternoon tea. It was rather odd, people kept reminding me that this was the first birthday that I hadn't been with my parents, and asking me if I was homesick. Uh, no? I admit, I missed home, a little bit on my birthday. Or rather, I missed my friends. Mostly because I am not used to formal birthday things. Birthdays for me, are days I spend with friends watching movies and eating food. I missed having you guys around okay seriously I am starting to grow wrinkles and ambition after being around adults all the time.

-----

So I went to work with my uncle and my little cousin today. Or yesterday, seeing as it's almost 1am here. My cousin is an adorable eleven year old, and is at that stage where she wants to act like she's twenty one. She's also the eldest child, so when I'm around I'm like the big sister she never had. This is both a good and bad thing. She's so cute and nice and things, but she also likes to be all up in my business. Especially concerning guys. I was walking around the city with her today, and usually when we go around the city, we're with my uncle or one of the people from his office. Today we were by ourselves, and well... People kept talking to me. Notable examples were the guy who was apparently named Jake, who advised me to get a tattoo of a snake around my hips, and asked me when I was coming back to visit him; and the guy who wanted me to come home and meet his family. I also learnt that while having my friends (Boyo and Demi ;) ) discuss my "amazing rack" makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, it is a completely different story if two total strangers are doing it.

Throughout the day, my cousin treated me to several insightful comments:

"Yay, we're allowed to go out without our babysitter! But what did he mean when he asked if you wanted some benefits?"

"Did you see how he looked at you? He likes you!"

"Oooh, you're right, that guy is pretty... But I don't think he'll like you, cause you're not white. But I'm totally telling a certain somebody that you find blondes attractive."

WELL.

That last comment totally floored me. As most of you would know, I'm a fairly racist individual, to everyone in general. However, I can't even hold a candle to people over here. Race is a big thing here, and as a kid, I never quite picked up on the extent of it. And it's not like people are doing it to be malicious, it's just seen as a fact, that the colour of your skin can tell your story before you even open your mouth. I'm fairly grateful for my complicated racial background, because it means people can't just look at me and place me. It may mean that people stare at me when I walk down the street, but I'd rather that than have them judge me.

The second part of that comment was just like NO WHAT STAHP CHILD. I can't quite tell her off though, because she doesn't realise just how painful she's being. Imagine finding a book, reading the first page and discovering that this might be the most amazing book that you have ever had the good fortune to pick up, and then having the book taken away and placed on a shelf, far above your reach. You manage to make a tower of chairs and things, and you climb precariously up to the top. In order to reach the book, you have to lean towards the shelf. Doing so will cause the tower to fall, therefore giving you only a split-second in which to grab the book from the shelf.

Right now is my split-second, and it's ending fast.

-----

I'm a complete waste of your time

I'm asleep before the first sheep

Until the last bleep of all time.

- Kaiser Chiefs 

Coloured Pants + Cricket Jumpers = Automatic Attractiveness

Life events!

They're usually pretty cool things. I haven't blogged in awhile, but recently I've experienced quite a few of them. Firstly, I graduated. I actually never thought I'd get here, but I've finally made it through the emotional and psychological minefield that is high school. Although I'd never want to do it again, Year 12 was actually pretty amazing. The majority of the memories I'll take from high school will be from Year 12. From all the trips to Rockdale and Hurstville, often having to sprint back to school to make it on time for our next class; from all the times we spent laughing hysterically because of whatever drugs they put in Maccas coke; and even those days where we'd be walking around like zombies due to exam/assessment-related all-nighters.

However, one of the greatest memories of Year 12 would have to be the very last one. There's something oddly special about one hundred and eighty girls (and their dates), dressed to the nines for their final school event, all gathered on the dance floor in lethal-looking heels of various sizes, attempting to do Gangnam Style. It was a truly magical night, and everyone looked fabulous. Oh, and the other special event of the night? I danced, quite a bit, willingly.

The Mane Six! (PS: This photo is framed and on the cabinet in my grandmother's house. Just so you know)

So you can imagine that I was pretty tired the next day. HAHAHA, NO. There was no time to be tired, what with my 25-hour international flight to catch! Destination: Cape Town, South Africa. I've flown between Sydney and Cape Town quite a few times before, but never alone, and it has never taken 25 hours before. One of the first things I learnt on my travels was that I am not very good at sitting still for a lengthy period of time. The second thing I learnt was that however extensive the entertainment system of a particular airline is, I will inevitably get bored of it. Thirdly, for future reference: never choose fish, noodles, or egg for an in-flight meal. Ever. And when the air hostess asks you what you would like to drink? Straight vodka. Every. Single. Time. Okay, so I might not have done the last one. Maybe I should have, I might have gotten a little more sleep...

Aside from the flight, Cape Town has been amazing. I keep saying that it's so beautiful here, but I don't really know why. Maybe it's the fact that it's so far away from home, far enough away so that only positive news can reach me. I haven't really done much, but I did spend a week in Parliament, job shadowing the people who produce the media that comes from/is about Parliament. Being at Parliament taught me a lot, not really about working with multimedia, although that was very interesting, but mostly about people. People are never what they seem. The guy that everyone thinks is so straight-laced is actually very much a child at heart; and the guy who is always laughing and making others smile, actually has an incredibly dark past. Everyone has a story, everyone has something that they've had to struggle with. How we overcome these struggles, rather than the struggles themselves, is what defines us.

When I first started planning this trip, I promised myself that it wouldn't be like all those "coming of age" stories (which are called bildungsromans, if anyone cares). You know the ones... Girl finishes high school/university, girl goes on trip to foreign country, stuff happens and she's changed forever. Maybe it's the experiences I've had here, or maybe I'm finally growing the fuck up, but I'm seeing the world in a different light. For the first time, the glass is half-full, instead of half-empty. I'm almost literally having a fairytale time here, and there will definitely be tears when my fairytale ends.

"Love is not a victory march, 

It's cold and it is broken 

Hallelujah" 

An antic disposition?

Fuck. What.

Suddenly you’re down the rabbit hole again, twisting and turning through the endless pit of blackness beyond. There are candles set into the walls, but they all flicker out as you pass. You reach out to grab the shining gold coin that is falling just outside your reach… But your hand snags on a vine protruding from the wall of the rabbit hole. The vine wraps around your arm, making it impossible to shake free. It continues winding around your arm, ‘til it reaches your shoulder, then it extends one, long tendril to wrap itself tightly around your throat. Slowly suffocating, trapped in the darkness… That’s when you start to hear the voices. Deep, shrill, soft, loud. Yelling at you, screaming at you, talking to you, whispering to you. All saying the same thing.

“We’ll never leave you, darling. We’re the only ones you can trust. We’re the only ones who truly know how you feel. Because we are you.”

-----                                                                              

             

Just a little trip into the depths of my mind. Censored, of course.

I’m attempting to make this a slightly more normal blog, where I write about normal-type things, rather than just crazy rambling. The thing you guys gotta realise is, nothing interesting really happens in my life. What you’re actually reading is a crazy person's reaction to a fairly boring, ordinary life. If that entertains you, then congratulations, my blog sounds like your cup of tea. However, for everyone else...

I can;t promise to be funny, or pretty, or instructional, or even inspirational. I can only try to write about the world in a way that, hopefully, lets you see it through my eyes.

Somewhere I Belong

For those of you who don't go to high school in New South Wales, Australia, "Belonging" is a compulsory unit of study for all year twelve students. As part of the final exam, there is a writing task, usually requiring a short story of some kind. As I recently finished the last Belonging exam I'll ever have to do, I decided to post my first ever Belonging story.

This is dedicated to the class of 2013. If I can do it, so can you guys.

-----

She watches the rain beat against the windowpanes and tries to lose herself in the symphony of lightning and thunder in the sky. Each roll of thunder seems to reflect the troubles of her mind. However, the storm outside is incomparable to the one in the next room. She hears the words, just meaningless words, yet they are carried with a venom that poisons the heart to the point of no return. Tonight is different though, for it is usually her mother who shouts and screams about the honour of the family, of reputation. She hears her mother tonight, crying, wailing, asking him to see reason, to see that God is only testing him. After these words, there is silence, but for her mother's sobs. Then, the words, heavy from all the times he has held them back, and bit his tongue. "You say God hates me?", he says through gritted teeth. "Well, I hate God."

Her mother wails louder, when suddenly, there is the sound of fist hitting flesh. She sits upright against the wall, for however much they fight, it has never come to blows. She hears her father's voice, yelling at him to get out, to take his abnormality, and stain of dishonour away from the house, away from the family, which he is no longer part of. Her brother walks through the door, and she can see his swollen lip, and the beginnings of a black eye. She looks at him, wanting to know what happened, and trying to make him feel better, However, his jaw is set with the sense of grim purpose that precedes an impossible action.

For an hour or so, there is silence. She stays by the foot of the stairs, waiting for her brother to come down for their secret midnight snack, as he usually does. Tonight, he comes down the stairs, fully dressed, and carrying a suitcase. She looks at him with questioning eyes. He explains that he can no longer stay here, that he can no longer live two lives, and pretend to condone his parents' grave unacceptance of people like him. She cries, on hands and knees, begging him to take her with him. He tries to decline, telling her of the difficulties ahead, but she does not listen. She will not be apart from her brother.

When he finally relents, she too goes upstairs to pack her things. She packs very little, just a few clothes, and a few books, as she knows they have far to go. The last thing she crams in is her teddybear, the first gift he ever gave her, on her first birthday, when he was only eleven years old.

She grabs her bag and runs, falling on the last few stairs with an almighty crash, waking her parents in the process. Realising her mistake, her brother grabs her hand, and together they sprint for the car. She hears so much noise, her father yelling, her mother screaming and crying, like only a mother can, for the loss of both of her children in the one night. The last thing they hear of their parents is their mother's hysterical screeches as they drive away, her voice grossly distorted by emotion. "He's taking my baby! The fucking bastard is taking my baby!"

They drive for hours, or so it seems, her brother checking constantly in his rearview mirrors to see if they are being followed. It is near daylight when they stop at a lonely motel. For the first time tonight, there is complete silence, as he pulls her into a hug as they both cry for the sheer magnitude of the night's events. In his arms, breathing in his familiar scent, she knew that she had made the right choice, and that whatever happened from here, she would be fine, as long as her brother was here.

He fell asleep, long before she did. Carefully extracting herself from his arms, she looked around the motel room for his bag. With her tiny fingers she turned the key in the lock, and opened his bag. She looked through, to see what he had brought. There were birth certificates and passports for the two of them, letters which looked to be from his lover, and a few photographs of friends. At the very bottom, there was a large framed portrait of their family. She gasps as she realises how he has altered it. It is now a portrait of two smiling, joyful children, playing at the feet of two faceless, nameless adults, who now mean nothing, and are nobody to them.

When she wakes, the sun is high in the sky. They quickly get in the car again, and begin to drive. The desert scenery melts into a blur of colour outside her window. Late that afternoon, they stop at what looks like an old shed, made of corrugated iron. Her brother gently nudges her awake, and tells her they need to get out of the car, to do some paperwork before crossing the border. Still half asleep, she does this all in a daze, not even registering her brother's lie to the border control personnel, telling them that he is her father. They go back to the car, and she is asleep the second her head hits the seat.

She wakes later, when the sky is glowing orange. Whether it is dusk or dawn she cannot tell. She is in a strange room, which looks like it was decorated just for her. She walks outside, and sees her brother, holding hands with a strange man. There is laughter in his eyes, and happiness shining from every inch of his tanned face. He sees her and smiles in greeting, and she turns to her brother with eyes full of questions. He nods, and she understands.

Understands that this man with the smiling eyes is the reason they have left their home, and left the country they have known all their lives. As she sees the smile beginning to grow in her brother's eyes, she knows that this strange man with the smiling eyes is worth it.

In letting go, I am so proud of what I've done

So, this is where I'm meant to use my blog for therapeutic purposes, for when I feel like killing things. It's not normal, you know, to be so inwardly violent. Or at least, that's what the books tell me. Then again, most books follow the line of "be normal, be happy". What if being a psychopath is happy? If I stopped concentrating on being functional for a day, maybe I'd snap and kill someone in a gruesome, gory way. And maybe, just maybe, I'd feel a little bit better about the world.

-----

I hate you.

People think I'm joking when I say that I don't hate very many people. But it's true. I hate a minority, I love a minority, and I strongly dislike a lot of people, and I'm indifferent to the rest.

So congratulations, you've made the list of people I hate, my own personal Burn Book. They tried to get me to think about what I'd say to you if I ever got the chance, but really... I probably wouldn't say anything. Back in the day, I might've screamed, yelled profanities at you at the top of my lungs, but now... I don't think I have it in me. Knowing myself now, I think I'd probably either run, or curl up in the fetal position and wait for things to be over.

That's the real reason I hate you. Everything you did, everything you went through and dragged me through with you, I can get over. I might even have been able to forgive you. But you couldn't leave it at that, you couldn't just walk away.

I can't watch horror movies or read scary stories without being reminded that real monsters exist in the world.

I can't walk into a dark room without being scared shitless that something's gonna jump me from behind.

I can't even look in the fucking mirror without noticing how much I've changed because of you.

My life has changed so much since then, and it's entirely your fault. Or maybe it was a little bit my fault too, for being naiive enough to trust you. I've lost my faith in humanity, and I'll never get it back, because for each amazing, beautiful person in the world, there are two monsters like you.

Wake Me Up When September Ends

Living in a democratic society, the majority rules, right?

The number of times completely unrelated people say the same thing is directly proportionate with the truth of it. This time, it was just a couple of eight year old kids. Logically, it really shouldn't be affecting me as much as it is. But hearing something like that from the mouth of a child is surreal. Children give off this automatic air of innocence. Even this kid would be pretty adorable if she kept her bloody mouth shut.

"I wish she was dead."

Brings back a whole lot of memories, of other people saying exactly the same thing. More important people arguably, people who used to mean the world to me. But they're all gone now, and they've taken a sizeable part of me with them.

I could totally be a female Neil McCormick. Aside from not being a prostitute. Although, would it really be that bad? I've already been told that it would be a good career choice for me, with my questionable morals and cynical outlook. It even fits in with the type of job I wanted to get, i.e. something that involves helping people. Prostitutes help people, albeit in a very different way than what I was thinking of.

People always say that hookers have no self-respect. But really, does that even matter? At the end of the day, whether I wake up in an alley in a pool of my own blood, or in hospital, will never matter. No matter how many lives I touch, I'll still just be "that girl".

Forever seen, but never noticed. Forever screaming, but never heard.

Rest In Peace, Miss.

You never know who’s going to touch your life. If you think about it, there are hundreds, probably thousands of people that you’ve crossed paths with in your lifetime. Some of them are just familiar faces, like the nice woman at the sushi shop. Others will form closer bonds with you, and stick around for a few months, or a few years. But you can never really anticipate which of these people will leave lasting impressions on you.


She was one of those people.

Never did I think that I’d be crying over the death of a former teacher. Granted, I’d be sad, because death is sad, not really because I cared all that much. This was different. For starters, she was lovely, to everyone, back in the days when we were a bunch of annoying little juniors. Even though she shared our class with another teacher, who was very much less than kind to us, she constantly encouraged us to do our best. She wasn’t just saying that either. We were motivated because we felt we had to live up to her expectations, because she believed in us so hard.

Although as a maths teacher, she was never able to teach me much about the subject, as a coach, she taught me a lot about life. It sounds really cliché to say, but she really did teach me the importance of believing in myself. She taught me that it didn’t matter that I didn’t play at A-level, as long as I fucking believed that I could beat the shit out of anyone on the other side of the court.

There are so many things that I can’t even put into words, but just… Thank you, so much, for believing.

R. I. P.

I find it kinda funny, I find it kinda sad

My Poor Darlings,

It's hard to believe that it was only a few short years ago that I was so full of childish hope and spirit. It's even harder to believe that I'm the same girl who wrote letters to people she thought were lovely, because "Letters make people feel all warm and fuzzy, cause they're heaps personal and shit. And everyone should be able to feel all warm and fuzzy once in a while". But then, I suppose I hardly classify as a girl anymore:

"I'm not a girl, I'm a bitch, and don't you forget it."
- Viridiana Sovari

A "girl" has all these sweet connotations, of innocence and fragility, of hopefulness and of love; all those things that I left behind me a long time ago. I think I miss that. I miss actually caring about things that happened to me. I miss being bothered enough to get up off my ass and do something about it. I miss anything and everything that came before this cold, calm apathy.

-----

A lot can change in a year.

A year ago, I was depressed as fuck and on several different drugs, prescribed and otherwise. Now, I'm not depressed - I just don't feel. Anything that I can't respond to with laughter or hugs, I don't respond to at all. I'm still on drugs sometimes - just not prescription. But all of those are just surface changes.

I can look through messages I got a year ago. Texts, saved chat logs, emails.

All a blur of : "No matter what, we'll be friends for EVER and EVER and EVER"

Guess what? Other than the Soldiers of Fortune (who I love to itty bitty pieces and have yet to write a suitably badass blog entry about), I talk to maybe ten of the people I used to talk to - sporadically. It's not like I've just grown apart from all of them. Every single one of those other people has fucked me over.

Well, what's the big surprise? I mean, they're people after all. And that's what people DO.

"I love you."

They all said it. So did I. We're teenagers, so full of love that we hand it out to everyone like drugged candy, right?

Wrong.

Difference between me and them, apparently. When I say I love you, I fucking mean it. Not in the sense that I want your babies, or even in the sense that I want to jump your bones.
Just in the sense that, you know, you hold a little place in my heart, and you might, just maybe, actually mean something to me. Cause I'm not as happy and full of love as I look, and it takes a lot for me to actually care about people who aren't me. Increasingly more nowadays, since almost every time I decide to give a fuck about other human beings, it somehow turns around to bite me in the ass.

-----

You picked me up from rock bottom. You practically saved my life. I thought you'd be above this, you know.

I don't have the guts to scream this at you, or even to link you to this post. Because every single time I've held it in 'til I'm about to break, and when I finally just snap at you, before curling into a shaking ball of tears... You just act all confused like you have no idea what the fuck I'm going on about.

I wasn't lying: I actually am sorry.

I'm sorry for being me.

I'm sorry for feeling so much more than I'm supposed to.

Gomen-nasai.

... And I would walk 500 more.

The only thing I feel when I think of you is regret.

Regret that I spent so much time, more than I'd ever care to admit, thinking about you.
Thinking I'd wait.
Thinking I'd change.
And the biggest mistake of all?
Sentiment. Forgetting that human attraction is nothing more than chess, masked by years and years endoctrination, believing the lie that every good little girl gets a Prince Charming and a happily ever after.

I guess that could be true. I mean, what would I know? The one thing I have never been is a good little girl.

Still, thinking I have the most regret about is that even though the chapter is firmly closed, if you asked me to, then...

"I would walk 500 miles,
And I would walk 500 more.
Just to be the one who walked 1000 miles
To fall down at your door."

I would walk 500 miles...

A chapter closed.
In the back of my mind I know it was completely stupid. A zebra does not change its stripes, however much you might wish it to.

Do I really always see the good in people, even when it isn't there? I certainly don't think so. Take today for example. There was the guy who looked like a stoned Jesus, ALL the hipsters, the pompous-British-aristocrat guy, and the smarmy faux-scene guy with the tongue piercing on the train.

I am judgemental as FUCK.

In this case... Am I seeing good things because that is what I want to see? No, not "am I". "WAS I". FOr once in my life (albeit, after I was proven wrong. Several times.) I'm actually going to listen to the unanimous advice of literally evryone else. In moderation though, as sickeningly, there are actually some throats that I just wouldn't be able to bring myself to cut, legal and ethical issues notwithstanding.

It's sickening.

Nananananananana, Batman?

Movies tell me to trust the person I know... Knew.


My mind tells me that in each bitchy rumour, there is at least a kernel of truth. In this case... That adds up to a whole lot of truth.


My heart tells me to forget about trust, 'cause in the end, you should always expect people to fuck you over.


-----


"Explain to me, how one guy causes so much drama."


I actually felt bad then, letting an almost complete stranger twist my view of someone I loved, someone I trusted completely. I thought he was wrong, and I told him that he knew jack shit, and asked him politely to change the topic. He cheerfully acquiesced, only speaking one final line on the subject:

"One day, he will look at you, and you will see nothing in those eyes that you trust so much. Nothing, but utter contempt for you, as if the two of you had been born natural enemies, and had lived that way your entire lives. When that day comes, you'll remember me, and remember that everything he told you was a cold blooded lie."

 Of course, I didn't believe him. I had no reason to, up 'til now. Shows how much I know. It was accidental, me being there that day. I could have, should have taken one of the many other possible paths. But I didn't, and I did end up seeing him that day, and though I couldn't quite put my finger on the emotion that I saw in his eyes, those words came instantly to mind.

"Natural enemies."

I'm not just a girl with these broken dreams, even I can go to heaven if I part the seas

Rain is my boyfriend. Girlfriend. Significant other.
Rain is what I turn to for comfort and solace.
Right now, what I want most in the world, the thing that could make all my problems disappear, isn't to be safely in the arms of a ridiculously amazing person. There are enough of those in my life for me to make that wish a reality. I don't want somebody to hold me and wipe away my tears, and tell me it'll all be okay. Because realistically, it won't be. For a few moments, minutes, hours, I'll feel great. Then, moving from that to the real world... It's shattering.
What I want, is to curl up in a ball, on the cold concrete, with the rain beating down around me. Not because it's an incredibly pleasant sensation, but because it brings a grim reminder, like a nudge from reality. Every single life will disappear, and most will be meaningless in the stream of things. My life, the people around me, everything that seems so important right now, will all ultimately disappear, like tears in rain.

-----

People did ask me what was wrong. Lots of people, actually. I haven't been able to give them a decent answer, because, while I do have problems, they're not the main cause of my breakdowns. Apparently I'm an empath. Which, basically means that I'm more emotionally sensitive than most people, and have a heightened level of empathy.

Whoever you may be, even if you appear in the most miniscule way in my life, if you hurt, I hurt. This is apparently a good thing, supposedly making me a better listener, and giving me the ability to give good advice. But in reality, it just means I try to cut myself off from others. Which in itself is incredibly infuriating, seeing as I then feel guilty about not trying to help people with their problems, which adds guilt to all the other negative feelings that I was feeling before.

Another part of being an empath: Trust. Apparently I do it too much. I honestly can't help it though. Is it so wrong to assume that everybody in the world isn't out to fuck you over? Is it naive to trust that someone's telling you the truth, and not just trying to squeeze some information out of you?
I will believe in the inherently good nature of human beings, until each, individual person, proves me wrong. You cannot properly judge a whole generation on the actions of a few. Because somewhere among the lumps of coal, you'll walk past a diamond.

-----

As much as I am surrounded by problems and negativity, I'm doubly surrounded by truly beautiful people. I don't need to mention them by name, they know who they are. The friends I can count on for anything, whether it be to listen,
To fangirl,
To scare me into working,
To ditch school because school is LAME,
To sit around an eat my feelings with me,
To put up with my crazy,
And most of all to be there. Every single day of my life.

So, to all the amazing, magical, beautiful people in my life, past, present and future: Thank you for existing. I wouldn't be where I am now if your parents hadn't decided to fuck on that fateful night.

Pull me back again, I need you to hold me from my sin

6.1.12

I  will never stop being recklessly impulsive. Although I cannot say that I have no regrets, what I can say is infinitely better: Time and again, I have had the guts to take something and just roll with it, til the end. Even though the momentum, or lack thereof has thrown me to the ground on so many occasions, given the chance, I would still follow the spontaneous impulse, every single time. Because, whatever that may be, to me, the mere impulse, and my ability to throw caution to the winds and follow it, represents the greatest kind of freedom, akin to diving from a cliff into the sparkling ocean, without thinking if there were sharks or large rocks below, but just trusting there not to be.

"I would rather be hated for who I am, than loved for who I am not." - Kurt Cobain

 -----

13.2.12

Before you can truly write something that is personally fulfilling, you must first understand why it is that you choose to write what you do.

I write because  I can?
Because I'm bored?
To better understand my own thoughts and feelings?
Putting them down on paper somehow gives them a more concrete existence. The childlike definition of real; things you can see, touch, smell, taste, hear. Tangibility is the key to existence. Otherwise one can never know that what they are feeling is real, or just a trick of the mind. The mind is strange that way, almost as if it enjoys pulling us this way and that, in a winding path away from reality, knowing, as we all do, that if it tries hard enough, we might never be able to find our way back.

If that is what you believe the answer is, then draw a card Child. If you are so sure, it wouldn't hurt to confirm your beliefs...

Somehow I already knew what card it would be before I drew.

THE DEVIL

The card of Violence.
Passion.
Anger.
Temptation.
And above all, self-bondage.

I write to keep myself in check, to not release many bursts of raw emotion unto those around me. Because I know, innocent as my face may appear, that which lives inside me is anything but.