Cracked brown leather entangled with slippery green seaweed and a slurry of forgotten feelings. Submerged under a heavy blanket of stormy waters, it lay, latently, entrenched firmly on the sandy seabed. A watery vortex, silently spinning, violently, faster and faster, pounded the brown leather encasing, over and over. Emotions spilled like sputum, fighting for breath as they emerged from their dormancy and swam towards the shimmering surface of the sunlight above. A suitcase of memories washed up on the shore.

I often see you when I least expect to. A russet-brown flash of feathers that frame an orange-red chest. You flutter silently, knowingly, moving effortlessly from branch to branch. I often wonder if you can see me? I am the girl stood silently by the window, palms flat against the pane, eyes bright with excitement and wonder, watching as you dance between the trees. Your graceful presence is one of such reassuring comfort, even a second or two is enough to quell the tender longing. A tiny messenger, sent to let me know that you are now safe and happy and free from the darkened din that dogged your days.

As a kid, my Dad would often talk to me about my uncompromising attitude towards life, and how I should perhaps work on changing it. These conversations would often occur as we were driving in his car; I can clearly recall the way I would scuff the carpet of the passenger side with my shoe as he spoke to me, my shoulders hunched and mouth set at an angle that would prevent a smile from forming, my mind brimming with a mixture of anger ("what does he know?") and guarded curiosity ("maybe he's right?") I've always been aware that I am a perfectionist, I've worked hard [...]

It's not knowing what to do, it's doing what you know ~ Mark Twain Ever-revolving, the door of life circles round and round, collecting memories like a heavily vibrant dust that just cannot be wiped away. One day, perhaps in the not too distant future, I want to write a memoir; a literary timeline on which I'll pencil in personal and colourful tales, interposed with scribbling shades of black and grey. I ruminate often, about what I'll write, and I worry that my pockets are still only half-full - I feel like I haven't yet collected enough life-trinkets and that I don't know enough. But then again, how many do I need and [...]

One of my favourite bloggers, Abby, over at Abby Has Issues, wrote a post last week about coming out - a topic that is often associated with disclosing your LGBT sexuality to those around you. Abby, however, furnished her blog readers with an interesting twist, and came out to them about her struggles with OCD and depression. I found this post, as I do all of her writing, captivating and inspirational. And I also thought it was really fucking brave of her. And so I too, have decided to come out. About the death of my Mum. And the way such a tremendous loss has slowly [...]

Sometimes, I struggle to remember your face and how it felt to touch. Hands extended, my fingers trace your now invisible features. A whispy, fragile-white dandelion, blowing in the wind. My hands have aged 11 years now, the skin that once enveloped the fingertips that wiped away your ashen tears, has been replaced so many times since then. Replaced skin. A replaced memory. Of how your face felt. In my hands.

bal·ance [bal-uh ns] noun, verb, -anced, -anc·ing noun: mental steadiness or emotional stability; habit of calm behavior, judgment, etc.  a state of equilibrium or equipoise Sometimes, I get into a funk, you probably know the funk that I'm talking about; the type where one day, you're silently swimming along in the vastness of the clear-turquoise, sparkling ocean in which your arms glide effortlessly, the heat from the midday sun embraces your body like a motherly hug and life, your life, in its essence, is so very peaceful. And then, all of a sudden, a huge cavernous, rip-roaring wave hammers you side on, and you're left spluttering, choking and [...]

She invited The Black Dog to live with us when he was just a pup. Feather-haired and ice-blue eyed, he spent many of his early days lying at her feet, an ear flopped idly to one side, his tooth-grooved tongue lolling lazily from his mouth. At that time, although he was still so small in size, I always walked at a distance from him; cautiously creeping on tiptoes as not to disturb him as he slept, his long, sinewy body twitching in the throes of a dream. She would often beckon me over, encouraging me to pat his head or sit [...]

Have you ever wondered who you are? I mean ever really wondered who you are? Beneath the façade of your haircut and your shoes, your accent and accessories, what differentiates you from someone else? Each morning I look at the calendar on my wall, some days remain blank, and I breathe a sigh of relief, ‘I don’t have to be anyone today’. On autopilot, I drive my car to work, passing row after row of expressionless people. They too sit in their metal boxes on wheels, their minds an endless hamster wheel of the same. Purposeless. Maybe my brain fell [...]

…and life is like a pipe, and I’m a tiny penny rolling up the walls inside.      ~ Back to Black, 2006 5 days have passed since Amy Winehouse died. 5 days of relentless press and news coverage. 5 days of forums, fan sites and media channels being used as a medium to discuss an array of differing viewpoints surrounding her death. 5 days of interviews, articles and Twitter tributes in her honour. 5 days of fans camping outside her home, carefully guarding the candlelight vigil they created in her memory. 5 days of the rest of her parents’ [...]