The Brown Eyed Dreamer

'Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.' William Wordsworth


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Blessing Counting

I used to face every problem that came my way with passive pessimism; I met minor issues with quiet complaints and grumbles, saw a world in grayscale with a slightly musty smell. Everything wasn’t great, but it wasn’t awful either. 

Now that I’m beginning to experience actual sadness, I’m seeing life in a different way. If I let each bout of melancholia drown me in its sea, or let myself be suffocated in sighs of depression, I could not consider myself alive. And so, while shutting myself alone in a room, cradling my cracked carcass of a heart in my arms and crying until I can feel no more tears come to greet my cheeks seems like the easier option when facing dark times, it is not what I do. 

I count my blessings now. 

For every scrap of sad news I hear, for every lurch of disappointment I feel, for every urge to break down that rocks my corpse I give myself a reason to stay standing. I tell myself to put a damn smile on my face and survive, because what’s the point in being anything other than happy? This world is so full of the bitter taste of loneliness and gloom already, so what harm would a little bit of hope do? Why on earth would I lock myself up in all of my doubts, depressions and disappointments when I could simply choose to be happy? Why should I continue complaining when I have so much to be thankful for? I’m alive, aren’t I?

This is how I survive now. And I urge anyone who feels trapped behind the dusty cobwebs of cynicism to try out optimism too. Because, let me tell you, the world looks a hell of a lot brighter in colour. 


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Melancholia.

All too often I find myself
Tentatively treading the space
Between two sets of mind:
Imagination and reality.
Wandering between the two sides
Wondering about the one side
I truly belong to.
Am I eccentric or just downright crazy?
Am I melancholy or melodramatic?
Is my existence entirely broken
Or am I just another teenager
Jacked up on the idea that depression
Could make my life a little more interesting?

Maybe a part of me craves
Sighs that could fill up my heaving lungs like cigarette fumes,
Tears that could flow through my bloodstream like wine,
So that somewhere amongst the raging chaos
There’d be poetry, inked in pain; and
So that for once in this abysmal, echoing life
I’d have something to say.


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Mute

How is it that when I’m alone reels of pages appear before my eyes

Entire stories woven with the words I wanted to say but

Never found the bravery to let pass beyond my lips.

How is it that when I’m alone phrases flower on my tongue

But when I look into his eyes they falter, never flow

The silent sentences shrivel, their dried petals falling slow

I love him, but what will I do without the words to tell him so?


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Red Carpet Eyes

When he looks at me it’s like his eyes are a spotlight and I’m caught in the beam centre-stage. He looks at me not like I’m the backdrop to the scene; I’m not a faded set with peeling paint and flaking edges. I’m not a shabby stage curtain, tattered from where uncaring hands roughly tugged me to and fro. No- he looks at me like I am more.
When he stares I feel like the main event, Hollywood’s finest star. When he stares his eyes give me standing ovations, his lips shower me in rich red roses and a cacophony of cheers.
And even though he’s the only member of my audience, the only pair of eyes watching my show, I feel like the most cherished character there is. Because when he stares, he looks at me as though I’m something worth looking at.


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The Storm

A storm is on its way.
I often wonder how I would react to hearing this; knowing that life is but an hourglass and that the last few grains of sand are about to fall? How would I feel knowing that the end is but a few heartbeats and a final breath away? I wonder would I be able to utter a final sentence- a shaken ‘goodbye’, a stuttered ‘I love you’, or maybe a soft and bitter ‘I’m sorry’? Would words burst out of my mouth in a tidal wave of shocked emotions, spilling a kaleidoscope of stumbling sentences across the empty rooms before me? Would I sit in wounded, wide-eyed silence, unable to even believe the words I am hearing? Or would I raise my head to the skies, open my arms wide to the heavens and smile, knowing that finally it would all be over? Maybe I’m ready to be washed away with the rain, have lightning race through my blood and thunder roar through my skull.
A storm is on its way, and I think I’m ready to face it.

(Inspired by the song ‘Time’ by Hans Zimmer.)


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About Time

I watched a movie about time travel and it made me feel so happy to know that maybe someday I’ll find my somebody. I’ll find someone who will teach me how important and how fragile time is, whose every smile, laugh, tear and word will be a golden second in the great ticking clock of my life- somebody whose every fibre of being is soaked in by my mind, who makes every day a great adventure that I want to relive over and over. I’m intoxicated with the idea that someday I will have someone so special to me that no better time is better than the present, that despite every bright sunrise I’ve seen, every beautiful sky I’ve seen fall, there would be no reason for me to ever turn back to the past- for there seems nothing wonderful than the future awaiting me; a future with this somebody- my somebody.