Borderline Personality Disorder

There’s a parasite in my brain,

Like a mosquito,

It drinks away my sanity, humanity and hope.

So that I am left dry

Detached from what makes sense…

And left to question:

Is my personality only disordered?

Or is there some other part of me hidden

That makes me – me.

Waiting to be resurfaced when everything is reordered…?

…If it ever can be.


See my insanity works like this –

It is split into two

The first goes like this:

I’m happy, I am, with my whole soul

I’ll laugh and yesterdays sorrows

Won’t hinder my tomorrow

And I’ll dream as write, the thousands of

Bright sparks in my mind,

And I’ll applaud all my friends, for the

Wonderful, beautiful people they are,

And I’ll jitter and joke about every

Thought on my mind

But mind you…


I’m miserable. With tears in my eyes.

I’ll cry about last year’s sorrows,

And hope that there’s no tomorrow

As I dream about death and question all

The things I thought I was…

Because now I am blank,

Forsaken and


On why I’m even feeling this hollow.

And my friends they are, the worst people on earth,

Who only ever fail me with their ugly words.

And I am alone, with naught to say.


Because to say this is normal – is abnormal.

Especially when, without warning,

All this happens within hours.

Within a day: I am both happy and sad,

Not lightly or briefly,

But intensely and indefinitely.

I’m hot and I’m cold,

Clear and confused,

Poor in control

But rich in all that I feel.

But not why or how I come to feel.

And this is all insane.


My insanity goes on,

With more than just my mood,


The second goes like this:

I love and I hate and I loathe and I care,

But I don’t – not all the time,

Just when I feel fit, and you satisfy me,


This can take everything and nothing,

You’ll be my hero and savour

Wear a wreath on your head and act like the God

That I praise you to be, because you are

All that and more to me!

You’re like the sun I strive towards and the

Air – which an asthmatic could never overdose on

But know I will overdose on you and the addictive drug you’ve become.

And feel all my love because when I feel love

I feel it by its whole breadth and depth and

drowning, overwhelming, suffocating


But wait…


I could be infatuated but never truly in love

But it will feel so…


Don’t be fooled. I doubt it is

Even if I believe it is

Because I will promise you years and then give you days

And Suddenly-

I’m sick,

of you.


You – a cruel being, who is insufferable,

And you’re making me suffer;

Something, for which I’ve never asked

And your love,

My love, is too much for me to bare,

And I bare witness that you tried, but it will never be enough,

Because I feel nothing towards you and the sight

Of you, is like dust: dead and deviant

For my heart’s desire.

And it’s not you I desire… I never did.


But all this is fairly sane, as love itself

Is untamed. But the problem arises when you,


My heart will shatter, its broken shards all techni-coloured,

Illuminating my face with rays of reds and blues.

Black and white.

My estranged lover, you misunderstand:

I’m not telling you to go, but I can’t have you stay,

My actions show: I love you, but, my mouth tells you: I loathe you,

I need you to hug me and hold me, but please my dear,

Don’t touch me.

But I beg you, please love me,

Yet, listen, because I hate you.

So darling, don’t leave me.

I know I am insane.


See the bug in my brain is more than borderline insane.

He is in fact, completely inhumane,

He does worse than snatch my happiness away,

Instead he floods me in waves which

Engulfs me.

Becomes me.

Destroys me.

As every mood, emotion and feeling

Comes and Goes In Waves, With Unpredictable Rhythms

Of Which I Have No Control Over,

So they come and go, and they swallow me whole.

They call it Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder.

But really is really just my emotions?

Yes – they go from great to unpleasant,

From joy to grief

And love to hate,

But so do the people in my life,

They stay and they leave,

Care and they don’t.

And so do the dreams that I have,

They wander and wave,

I will and won’t…

So is it really just my emotions

Or should this curse simply be called:

Unstable Life Disorder…

The Tale Of The Bird & The Rose

-[Dedicated To Someone Who May Never Read This…]-


found a seed once, with the potential to grow into something beautiful. So she planted it in her garden green; she watered, loved and nurtured it so she could watch it grow from a bud to a rose. Until eventually its soft white petals bloomed amongst the nettle leaves and became something of awe in that distasteful garden of hers. But she found herself struggling to care for it as the brambles and cruel nettles prevented her from tending to it without wounding herself; soon enough she gave up. With her eyes clouded with sadness; frustrated and distraught at her failure, she plucked it from the ground and left it to rot.



had a bird once, who sang beautiful songs for whomever it met. The bird sang songs that lifted even the weariest of souls and though the bird loved singing for others, it never sang for him; still he treasured the bird so long as it made those he loved happy.  But deep down inside, he harboured a sadness that of which yearned to hear a song dedicated to him. So he buried his sorrow into dedicating his time to teaching his bird to sing to others.


When the twilight embraced the sky one evening, things changed:

He stumbled across a rose one day, wilted and dying, he picked it up and it pricked his fingers and threatened to pierce his skin further. He wasn’t frightened though. Instead, he took the flower and hung it by his window, and it remained there for days, watching the wonder and beauty of the world outside.

She came across a bird one day that sang lovely melodies to her. She began to fall in love with the bird and the efforts it offered to every individual it met. But she noticed that it sang only in the presence of others and never for itself. So she sang to it, and it listened to her songs of woe and joy but mostly it listened to the way she sang only and especially for it.


When the dawn kissed the sky one morning, they met:

The rose had dried into a timeless beauty, and he adored the rose in all its unconventional magnificence, thorns and all.

The bird had evolved and sang wonderful harmonies not only to others but to itself as well, and she never let a day pass, where she didn’t especially dedicate a song to it.

When he saw the bird, it began singing to him, all the new songs that the girl used to sing, and the sadness he drowned with himself, overflowed and flooded him. But he was finally able to smile because the bird sang for him too.

When she saw the rose, she finally saw it for all its beauty and saw the world, from the window it was once hung by. It was then, that the darkness was lifted from her eyes and she appreciated the rose for all that it was and all that it suffered amongst the weeds and nettles that it grew in.

The two of them, thereafter, indulged in days filled with sweet songs that enlightened both their souls and gardens so rich in beauty it was near impossible to ever see different again…



Awful painting by yours truly 🙂

…The End…

The Cure…

“First one to look away loses!”

“I’m not playing,” I mumbled, but I could already feel him staring intently at me.


I could feel my cheeks burn ablaze; set alight by the pyromaniac that was sitting across to me, waiting for me to embrace the flare as he had once embraced the cool water within my calm ocean. I diverted my eyes, trying to find something to distract me, something to distract him. Yet I knew that would be impossible with his burning, new-found determination to ‘cure my fear’.

As every second passed, the temptation began to overwhelm me, enticing my gaze to slowly drift up, towards his; to meet the glassy world that was reflected behind the deep hazel swirls of mischief. The world from his eyes seemed so much brighter, more beautiful and far more profound than anything I had ever seen myself. But when he blinked, all that I could see in his dilated pupils was me… his lips curved upwards as we both smiled at the explosive silence; so much unsaid, yet, the tiny microcosm between us revealed it all.

Our gazes; still locked; never drifted nor faltered unlike my heart which was dropping and rising like the chaotic notes in dubstep, making the butterflies in my stomach evolve into violent moths excited and enticed by a single dim flame…

And then I realised; amid the galaxy that we had morphed in empty space between us and the veil of our shy and secretive smiles: I had found the light that I had been searching for; the light that would banish all the darkness in my world; my own perpetual flame.

He was the cure.

Diagnosis – Love Sickness

“Your Creative-Writing assignment is to write a short passionate piece on the most romantic experience you have had – No fifty shades of grey please!” My teacher announces with tone of sarcasm in his voice as he gives a quick look to Jake who frowns. But I’m distracted, barely even looking at them.

Why do I take so much notice of her?

What was she diagnosed with? It can’t be that bad right? Because I watch her in class; we only share two classes together but either way, she always has that look in her eyes every time I see her. That passionate look, like she’s seeing the whole galaxy shine before her on a single faultless summer night. It made me wonder what else she was passionate about, it made me think about how often her face lights up with excitement. I felt like I knew her, yet here I was still not knowing her entirely. I wanted to know her from her breadth and height. I wanted to explore the depths of her darkness and investigate the light that vanquishes the abyss that she conceals with her smile. Is it normal to be so obsessed? Ah! – I need to stop.

I blink away my wonderment reluctantly and stare out the window instead, but I find myself gawking at her again. Her lips move but no words come out, the teacher announces something, and she smirks. There she goes again; she always knows the answers, whispers it to herself but never announces her intelligence to others. That really bugs me; if I were that smart, I’d make sure others knew! But not her. And I kind of like that. She’s humble. It’s annoying, but I find myself liking that about her. Weird.

I like her hair too, sometimes she has it in twin tails, like she’s still in never land; other times – like today – it’s just down naturally, messy yet so attractive. I’ve never really taken much notice of a girl’s hair but hers is just…It’s like velvet trails from her head and frames her face perfectly and hangs from her shoulders in the most elegant way. And her face, man – her face is gorgeous. All her features are so soft yet sweet. Her face is round, and her chubby blushing cheeks are constant victims of pinches delivered by her friends. I kind of wish I could pull her cheeks too… that sounds kind of weird. Perhaps, I should have kept that one to myself. The point is…

She’s perfect.

Everything about her is perfect. Even the way she falls asleep and drools during class presentation days. And the times where she has random angry outburst or goes on a rant to her friends – I find it amusing. Oh, and her awkwardness! That, along with her innocent voice, shyness and bushing are the definition cute. She’s probably not that humble either – as much as I try to make myself believe that. In truth she’s simply she  a wallflower. Sure, she comes in everyday like as if she’s someone new; different moods mean a different look, but I think that’s interesting. And so what if she carries around a box of happy pills, and has scars cascading down her arms? She tells everyone that they’re battle scars… but that doesn’t make sense to me, since all she ever emits is peace, wisdom, and a tad bit of clumsy dorky-geeky-ness .

How can anyone hate her? How can she hate herself like that?

Regardless, she’s perfect, and all I want, to is to know her better, know why she’s so cute, why she’s so shy when she’s a bloody philosopher-author-photographer-in-the-making; I want to know what kind of guy she likes and what goes through her mind every second of every day. I long to know what it’s like to have her stare back at me with those big brown eyes, filled with love and lust and affection. I want to know what it’s like to love her. I just want to know her –

“Three words, go!” – My teacher suddenly interrupts my thoughts bringing me back to reality. I realise he’s talking to her. I swallow and sit up, quickly finding myself immersed in the lesson… or just infatuated with her all the same.

“Uhmm… Non-existent, Imaginary… um… hopeful?” She smiles bashfully; the teacher shares the same surprised look as me but then returns the smile and spares her any further embarrassment. Yes!! I grin to myself – I have chance, however slim – I have a chance!

“You boy, three words to describe your experiences of love!”

“M-M-Me? ” I stutter. My teacher nods and urges me to go on and share on my gory details. “Well…” I stall as everyone waits patiently for me to answer. My eyes look desperately to the door and then the clock – there’s no escape this time. I sigh, all my experiences have been pretty bad but I suppose I have no choice but to share that with the class. I sigh and search for the right words. Let’s see… well I’m traumatized for starters and:

“Scarred and…” my eyes drift towards her… “Shy, and … so… and so unfathomably beautiful…”

The words leave my mind and escape via my mouth before I can even comprehend what’s happened. Suddenly conscious, I realise I am amongst a silent class who have turned back to stare in confusion. I steer clear of the possible awkward eye contact and doge my vision up at Sir. He grins at me fully aware of the inducement behind my words.

“That wasn’t three words, but I’ll let you off since you’re such a hopeless romantic!” the class all laugh under their breath not fully knowing the intent behind his words. Then, as if nothing has happened he resumes with the lesson. Asshole – he knew! He picked me on purpose!

I slowly drown in my seat and hide behind my book; embarrassed… One last look, I promise myself. I turn cautiously. My chest tightens as I realise she’s already staring at me; our eyes meet, she stares at me in puzzlement, her face is flushed bright pink. – She knows too!? She quickly hides her face behind her fringe and avoids me…she hates me. She hates me! She definitely must hate me!

However, from behind my book I see her glancing at me.

Though as much as she tries to hide it, she’s smiling now and I find myself smiling too.

She’s contagious. And my diagnosis?

… love sickness…

Tragic Romance?

Dear Stalkers,

You may hate me for what I’m about to say but…

I hate romance…

Or do I?

Girls at school are constantly reading romance and watching rom-coms; so naturally they get offended when they ask ‘why’ and I answer with: “It’s not very realistic, I mean… it’s just setting you up for false hope and disappointment,”

Alright, alright, I know, I sound like some cynical pessimistic demon that loves to sit in my blazing throne and prod couples with my spear of hate. But I’m not, I promise. (Mostly. Just kidding… partially.)

I mean, let’s step back and think about it; take the world’s best romance stories and films: Romeo & Juliet, infatuated with each other and then dead; The Titanic, I won’t let go… but you did! And you let the love of your life drown? And lastly The Fault in Our Stars, ‘okay’ didn’t last forever did it? I know this may be sad… but have you noticed that all these memorable and successful romantic stories end in a tragedy. Not only does that bother me, but… everything in between seems so farfetched. I was actually really interested in The Fault In Our Stars, until I head the dialogue that was used in it: “My thoughts are stars that I cannot fathom into constellations,” I understand it sounds amazingly philosophical but I have never in my life heard anyone speak like this, not even in general. It just makes it feel so fake for me.

So why do people love tragic romance of all romance!? Is death now romantic?

Well, after asking my around I have come to the conclusion… that my friends are useless at answering such questions (- no offense guys)! I however came to the conclusion myself that it was because death is the end for us all; sad as that may seem it is the reality. Thus, perhaps having a tragic ending to a romantic film not only makes people feel emotional-attached and empathetic for the characters but maybe brings a better sense of reality to the story than a fake ‘happy ever after’ would have.

However, I’m no expert so of course my thoughts are … well just that. Thoughts. Therefore I know  it’s time to whip out the good ol’books! Now for this, we’re going to need our good and wise philosopher friend: Aristotle

So I found this video by one of my most favourite channels (and charities) – The School Of Life (I highly recommend that you check them out!)

Any-who they made a short video about Aristotle, part of this video explains why he believed people needed art. The art during the time was rather gory and tragic and thus Aristotle explains why he believes people enjoyed and needed these tragedies.

The answer? – Catharsis.


noun: catharsis; plural noun: catharses
  1. 1.
    the process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions.
    “music is a means of catharsis for them”

In summary Aristotle’s theory is that people watch tragedies in order to remind them that

Terrible things can befall decent people – including ourselves… so we need to have more compassion and pity for those whose actions go disastrously wrong…

and to make profound truths about life stick in our minds…


So I was completely wrong about tragic-romances it seems. The tragic romance stories are there to actually bring you to the sad truths about reality and inflict pity and sympathy into your stone-cold hearts! Never the less, I still feel the same general romance; but perhaps it’s time I at least gave them a chance, after all… I’ve probably been sitting on this blazing throne with my cold heart for too long… 😉

Happy Loving Stalkers


RunAway Stranger

Dream Ended at 9:00am Monday 21st July 2014

I was at my sister’s flat; my whole family (cousins included) were there too. I think we were all staying there, though her flat is tiny and in reality none of us would really stay over – especially not all at once. Now I should mention that having a large group of people around me, makes me feel socially anxious and its times like that where I need to escape, even in my dreams. So in my dreams, frantic for escape, I grabbed my bag and ran out the door before anyone could take notice. I didn’t have to run far, just up to the top flat and sit there in the darkness of night whilst passersby gave me odd stares. I recall being quite frightened but not as frightened as going back as I could now here my family going crazy in attempts to find me, I knew I’d be in trouble if I went back now. So I sat there, alone, in the dark. People continued to pass me by until they came…

There were two strangers; both boys; about my age, one was blonde, I remember him because he was the one that approached me in the dream. He came up to me friendly, making idle conversation, asking me why I was alone and if I was okay. We spoke for a bit before he asked me if I wanted to play volley ball with him and his friends in the local school. I nodded because it was better than being found here.

Don’t ask me why there was a school open at such a time. Dreams don’t make sense. But I’ll tell you something, that volley ball game was hell’a fun! It was in this large court in the school, we met a female friend of his and when I first played, I was awful. I got better at the end and we were having so much fun, we were in stitches of laughter… then I heard my mother’s voice, she was informing the people there that I had gone missing and was sobbing. Strangely enough… I felt really apathetic about the whole situation. I bit my tongue and told my new friends I had to leave. They decided they’d leave with me too, so we snuck out.

Everyone went home, all except blondy. He walked with me for a while inquiring about how I’d get home and why I was so desperate to leave so quickly, so I told him that I ran away and he didn’t say anything at first. I felt ashamed to be honest, like he was judging me. Then suddenly, he asked why I ran away, I ended up confessing everything about my past. Even the gory details. We were holding hands by the end of it… I remember thinking about how my hands must’ve felt like to him in the dream.

And somehow he ended up dropping me home through the back door (because flats have backs doors apparently? Dream logic!) He left before, almost leaning in on me, almost grazing his lips on mine. Then killing me by settling for a simple goodbye. God. That was painful. I woke up when a family member walked in just after he had left.



Now I know what you’re thinking – no I’m not planning to run away, and quite frankly, talking to strangers is probably the most terrifying thing to do when you’re alone and it’s bloody 12am! I’d do neither of those things especially not follow some boy to a place I’ve never been myself: volley ball or not; my age or not! I love my family and I know I’m very blessed! I don’t really think this dream meant anything, it was just really early and I had one too many chocolate bars the night before.

Though… I admit, I do wish I had someone to talk to, someone to escape with, only temporarily though. Yet this dream, despite the fact that I was in a bad place at the beginning, was a dream I didn’t want to wake up from. I wanted to wake up in that dream to a new day and find him, and play another sport with blondy and his friend! But instead I woke up to reality, which isn’t that bad, but isn’t as good as him though.

Sometimes, I prefer nightmares, because when you wake up from them, you feel relived. Whereas with dreams you wake up with the desire to go back to place you can’t….


I hope this stranger exist somewhere. I hope he’ll find me like he did in my dreams.


Blank Canvas or A Walking Work Of Beauty?

Hey Stalkers,

I’ve been wondering lately… what exactly is a ‘flaw’?


plural noun: flaws
a mark, blemish, or other imperfection which mars a substance or object.
“a flaw in the glass”




I’ve never really cared much for ‘perfection’ especially via media’s standards. I mean if you’re talking about weight and appearance-wise; I’ve grown to deem that every person had been created different, and that in its self is beauty.

Beauty is to embrace and love yourself; both appearance and soul

Recently however, I’ve been conversing with people and somehow we always come to the topic of girls and beauty. They usually say something along the lines of: ‘You’re beautiful/Pretty/Cute!’ Naturally it flatters me, but then again… It’s not until now that I’ve truly felt insecure about myself. It makes me question what they’d think if they saw all of me. What if he saw all of it?

Would he stop hugging me if he saw my uneven skin tone?

Would he stop kissing me if he saw my stretch marks?

Would he stop loving me if he saw my scars?


Wait. It takes a moment…



To step back; to close my eyes; to breathe; to see. .. That love isn’t perfection.

Love is to accept and embrace the imperfections


[TheIntroPerspective Photography]

There’s No Such Thing A Perfect… So that only leaves us to accept and appreciate the imperfect….

And such a thing as perfection doesn’t exist. At least that what I wish to think, I wish to believe that imperfections are more important than perfections and as for all these so-called flaws covering my canvas? They’re not flaws! They’re the segments of a beautiful master piece that can tell a million different stories about one beautiful girl who has lived and survived. Then, if that gentleman arrives – and he will arrive, believe me – and he can appreciate this work of art in all its beauty, then he’s the one who shall contribute to this work of art, completing its story.

Because that’s what we are. We’re all walking canvases painted, to tell a story, to show we’ve laughed and suffered and survived, to go on to live. And this misconception about ‘flaws’ doesn’t exist, it’s exactly that. A misconception. As ‘flaws’ do not subsist in the world of true art. Each splatter of paint is worked up to represent something. Our bodies and all that comes with it represent us. Sure, we may be messy; a little rough around the edges, but we’re still masterpieces… and we will be loved.

After all, whoever liked a blank canvas?


Take care,

My much beautiful Stalkers,

Let your canvases forever be imperfect… in the most stunning way….