The history of the monster

It was ugly. The thing breathing and living inside of him. It seemed to swallow him whole, chanting spells that wavered his resolve, blinding him with insidious rage. With wretched claws, a twisted gaze and a snarl so wide it threatened to shatter the disguise of indifference. No, this was a beast of its own that lacked discipline. 

His gaze slid from the river banks to the bridge. The rocks skimmed the water, droplets of rain fading away, sinking into the murky depths. It seemed to be a wonderful afternoon, the kind of weather that others prayed for on a Saturday afternoon. Perched on the shore, he could witness life in all its glory. The children playing make believe on the swing sets, chasing each other with paint and glitter that they would never shake out of their hair. The couple on the wooden bench, with dandelions at their feet and a blanket of food between them, their past, present and future all mapped out in one glorious, interlinked route. He knew instantly that they wouldn't last. The monster would swallow them whole too and they would sooner resent each other and succumb to the allure of abandonment than be wed tomorrow and live a long marriage. That, he could tell and feel from the depth of his bones. Some had the gift of knowing exactly what another was feeling, others could tell if it would rain the next day based on the height of the trees. This, he knew intimately.

His feet swung on the cold pavement, wandering into the local bakery. He scrounged for pennies, ripping into his worn pockets of his old, brown coat. His feet shuddered against the warm floors of the shop and his overbearing figure towered over the next customer as they quietly side stepped away from him. The old man at the counter had switched his boots, he noticed. Winter is coming, the server said haughtily when asked. The monster threatened to snarl at him but was tempered quickly. He was careful not to slam the door too loudly. 

He hated the people of this small town. They ran like clockwork, petite and golden. They loved to smile, were always open and kind but held you at arms length. The leash was tight enough that you never wanted to leave but loose enough that it felt wrong to stay. He only stayed because his father, a generous man had paid to keep a roof over his head and felt it was rude to abandon that. But one fateful day in May, his old man went fishing and never returned. His body was found in the morning. And so he went into the casket and they did the song and dance. He didn't cry. The monster sniffed at the sight of death and pledged indifference. It shrugged at grief. 

Sickened at the sight of the freshly cut flowers and the pitying stares in the long lines at the shops, he packed his bag and left town. No one was left to mourn him and the distant mountains rang his name, seemingly safer. Away from prying eyes and cautious gazes, he could wander as he pleased. Rebuild and resettle but the green eyed monster would still live on if he lingered too long in one town. So he would move again and again. 

He never seemed to fit anywhere. The leftover piece, he imagined his hometown would whisper. The world was one big puzzle and he was that piece that belonged to another planet. No matter how many times they tried to make him fit, he would never really belong. Bent, out of shape and never really one of them. Alien and unwelcome. 

But selfishly, he was relieved the monster inside lived on just as one is grateful that rejection exists. They would tie in together and he was determined to pledge forward, to put more acres between himself and the places he once called home. It meant he still had hope that better days lived on. Only when it succumbed to disintegration, did he know that he would hit rock bottom. He did this until history came calling. Until reality gave him a phone call and a shot at redemption. 

He returned three decades later, to the same town that had seen his father's death and his abandonment at everything that tied him together. He no longer recognised it. The people had grown taller, colder and gardens were withering and dying. The river banks where he spent countless weeks searching for happiness were gone. The weeds ripped out, the swing sets gone and all that was left was dust and rubble. Construction of a new apartment building was beginning in the summer. Just like that, he blinked and his childhood was reduced to some luxury condos. 

That was when he realised, with a heavy heart, the monster had won.

He had lost everything. 

Uni tips I learned the hard way

Hello to all my readers!

I can now say I am a first year university student! A new chapter in life begins and with it comes so many new people, opportunities and experiences. I'll continue to bring you along as best I can as I see where life takes me in the next couple of years. But for now, I'll share some uni tips that I had to learn the hard way in my first few weeks. 

• Always try and find your classes at least a few hours before. Do not be running around with twenty minutes to go and not even realising if you're on the right side of campus! And if you're someone who's chosen back to back classes, make sure you know the distance between them. A map is a great starting point but you won't truly know how far away a class is unless you walk it yourself.

• Write your lecture notes before your lecture if they give you early access. Although writing your lecture notes during class keeps you awake and focused, I find its really hard to keep track of what the lecturer is saying especially if the slides don't really reiterate what they are trying to teach. At times, I just stopped writing the slides and listened but that forces me to go back over them at a later time and creates extra work. Take a few hours in your day before to write notes so then you can add important things the lecturer says during your lecture!

• Look up where the bathrooms are. Although they're everywhere, they can be hard to find and I nearly got lost trying to find one in a building that I had never been in.

• Don't immediately assume that you and university will fit together like two puzzle pieces. This will mean that you'll stop asking questions and assume you know everything. When you struggle, you're more likely to consider the entire picture and gain a better uni experience! Just take it one day at a time and sooner or later, this experience will be a distant memory. Make the most of it while you can. 

Follow along to hear more about my university journey :)

Does time heal all wounds?

It was fall. The leaves had fallen and left traces of their old forgotten roots in the mailboxes. The sticky taste of summer had begun to wane and the smell of freedom seemed long lost. It was the season of upheaval, of constant and great change. Death held its presence. And it never seemed more present than now.

Does time heal all wounds? The young boy strived to ask the long paintings in every hallway. He dried his tear stained eyes with closed fists and a stern jaw but his hands could not help but tremble as they shook his visitors. They came sparsely, armed with stories of past and awkward pity. They seemed to stare at him more intensely, searching for pain and sadness. Grief was swirling within, shaping his every movement. It had not yet risen so far to the surface but he looked for ghosts at every corner. When death showed its face, you were either in pain or in denial at its consequences. No one would ever argue neither. He tried to hide, but how could he be so rude to those that merely offer their kindness? No matter that they reminded him of his losses. 

Does time heal all wounds? He forgot to ask that at the grave when he visited. The boy was now shaping into a man that was stern, not gentle, ambitious, yet lacked progression. He seemed to reflect his childhood, or lack thereof. Hollow on the inside but possessed all the qualities of resilience that came easy to those that were young. His anger at the world did not grow dimmer with the passing of years and only enlarged tenfold at birthdays, anniversaries and graduation. So warped it had become that he had long forgotten the source. It had narrowed so far that he only knew his fingers, his name, his age and his anger. Its power stemmed to his head as his tempting fantasies had no dictator, no tormentor to sneer at, free to take root and grow. The passing of years had not healed his wounds.

Does time heal all wounds, he asked again as monotony had set in. He grew more frustrated at the world, at new contraptions and destruction of records. The man seemed to chase ghosts in the grocery line, haunted at every turn by families and children. His evenings consisted of meals for one and a tantalizing conversation with the television. Relationships were a forbidden disease that he must stay away from, so plagued by death that it still loomed over his every move. He had forgotten his anger altogether but it still lingered in his choices. It seemed to always will. 

Does time heal all wounds? His children now asked. They read the same books as those past, he saw the same creases in their eyes. They laughed the same but it didn't hurt at all. It was more a twinge, gnawing away at him but never enough to complicate. His younger years seemed like a lifetime ago, that sad picture of a boy entrapped by mourners at every turn and willed the world to quiet. His grief would always be there, it would never truly go away. So at last, he felt at peace enough to have an answer.

Not completely. But just enough. 

Saying Goodbye to 2025!

As 2025 comes to a close, I just wanted to express my gratitude for the end of a chapter. I graduated this year and although I have no idea what the future brings, I am so excited for all the possibilities. Whether that be university or anything else, I will definitely still be writing more posts. 

As someone who's been writing stories since I was a kid, I strongly encourage everyone that pursuing what they're passionate about is never a waste of time. Proudly keep doing your hobbies and sometimes they can take you places you never expected! Life is so multifaceted and gives humans space to breathe. 

I'm so grateful that you're all still here and I can't wait to see what 2026 will bring!

Have a Happy New Year!

The Funeral

It was merely a Sunday when I was told of the funeral. 

They walked like they were already leaving. Love has changed shape, they say. I see it everywhere. Sheets that never wrinkle anymore. Two toothbrushes angled like strangers. Sickness emerges and festers within the heart, a symptom of surrender. Bones shuddered under the weight of silence, ragged breaths in the hallway and time dragging on relentlessly. Witnesses to deaths reflection in cold dinners and face down photographs. Glares that could shatter glass. 

The paintings had hung at an angle. Behind the couch, a small side table bore a family photo, its glass cracked along one edge, distorting the smiling faces beneath. Their words fell like slow knives and my hands had gripped the couch as tight as it could, fearing my insides would cave within. They told me it was over, peeling the words gently, consoling and comforting. The grave was dug before the body had been wrapped. Words slipped through my fingers. 

Closing my eyes as their words blur together, their voices drowning. With weary hands, I tried to fit them slowly back together. But the insistent beating of my heart was not as stubborn as my wishes and the sight beheld remained. Their sentences were strung with deceit. I smell the rot in their smiles, I see their fingers stiff like soldiers in retreat. Fury crawled up my throat. 

'Will you cut me in half too?' I asked. 

No one answers. Neither of them looks at me. Death never speaks unless it chooses to. The couch had sagged unevenly, cushions pushed apart and the living room light flickered faintly, casting long shadows that stretched across the faded carpet. The air tasted like regret, thick and choking, pressing down on my ribs with that suffocating panic that I could not lift. My breath chants a bitter tone. 

I am burdened, for I resent them for giving up, for leaving me here with a body cold and lifeless. I curse the corpse but my feet find the ground and wet sorrow stains my sight. Death peered at me and I peered back. Its lips trembled, a thin line stretched tight and their jaw clenched hard. Their eyes could never keep still, too quick. Too practised in the performance of sorrow. 

They spoke at me. The necessity of moving on. Of not making the same mistakes. The body lay a mangled mess at my feet and I trace the jagged edges where life had been torn apart. The dead seem to know why I weep on the floor. They cannot move. I wonder if corpses dream of breathing again. I wonder if I can breathe again. 

I ask for the bill, the punishment. The cause. They told him, the body had given up. Their lungs were brittle and had finally collapsed within itself. 

Did they scream? I sought to ask. But silence ensued. It died then. Laid down, closed its eyes and stopped fighting. This isn't your fault, they beg. Sight would still suffice me. But not all have that strength. How dare they call this life?

I scream of compromise until my voice is black and blue. They don't seem to listen. The body lays and I urge it to fight. To escape death like so many others succumbed to. I urge it to be better. But death is irreversible. Grief lingers, in empty bedrooms, buried aches and closed windows. And when the dust settles, its winter. Always winter. 

Mourners ask me questions. Softly, like lullabies. 

Did you see the signs? Was death really that close? 

As if love can only die if someone heard the gun go off. Does it matter where the bullet came from when you're already half bleeding out? 

I answer in half sentences. Shrugs. Head shakes. The child is always the quietest in the morgue. They pat me on the shoulder. 'You were made from love,' they say. 

Maybe thats true. But I've just seen what love looks like when left to die.