Redamancy – A love returned in full.


How do I say thank you?
The words are too flimsy and light. They’re always thrown around like ‘I’m sorry’.
I need something stronger. I need a phrase stronger than ‘thank you’ to match the intensity of my happiness because of you.
I need something deeper. I need a phrase deeper than ‘thank you’ to match the depth of my affection for you.
After all, you are my best friend.
You’re my everything.
People will come and go. Our scenery will change. We will change, but I’ll never leave. 
I can’t.
You’ve always been such an integral part of my life, that I don’t know what life looks like without you.
And now as I look through the pictures, I have a bitter-sweet feeling and I want those times back. I want those carefree times back. Those ages spent simply laughing, or basking in each other’s company. I want those neverending conversations and unaffected smiles. I want time to stand still just to spend some more time with you.
All I want is more of you.
So how do I say thank you to you?
I show up to your house with coffee, of course.


Jouska: A hypothetical conversation you compulsively play out in your head.


A conversation.

“I love you.”

The most beautiful lie.

“Don’t lie to me.”

A tearful reply, too much emotion.

“I’m not lying.”

Acting comes naturally to some.

“That’s another lie.”

Still too much emotion.

“If that’s what you want to believe then fuck you. I’m done trying to convince you all the time.”

Anger also comes easily.

“Please don’t go.”

Oh fuck. I said that out loud.

Later that night a text message is received

A reply is sent.

Another text received. A goodbye. This time for real.

I sigh.

Here come the tears,

Then the screams.

Then the self-loathing.


It ends the same way, in both reality and fantasy.

With a broken soul,

And a heavy heart.


The five stages of grief.

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

I am at stage two.

I am angry, and I hate you for making me go through this.

I hate you for the pain in my chest, and the doubts that have crept back into my mind.

I hate you for making me believe every promise you made.

Funny how you couldn’t keep your promises either.

So fuck you.

Fuck you, for making me fall in love with you, while you were falling out of love.


Blank paper in front of me. Not a single scratch, crease or dent. Perfection. The sunlight made it glow. To a bored mind, it’s an enchanting sight, a whole world of possibilities. To a frustrated one, it is an outrage.

Pens scattered all over my desk could testify to how frustrated I was. All of them having borne the brunt of my frustration as I mercilessly scattered them everywhere, not caring for the ink splattered on my walls, or the stains on my previously clean hands. The same hands gripped my hair in sheer frustration, tears threatening to form any minute now.

No amount of sighing and groaning was going to make words appear on that horrifyingly pristine page. My mind is as devoid of ideas, as the paper was of words.

I am blank.

Terrifyingly blank.

I sigh as I lay my head in my hands.

Why is writing so hard?

My phone buzzes next to my head. I take my head from in between my arms and stare at the screen. The notification might as well have stabbed my heart, it would’ve been less painful. I ignore the text, I‘ve got more important things to do.

The music dulls around me, vague memories and thoughts crowding my mind. The sound of my dog outside makes me smile a little. Another look at the blank sheet in front of me is enough for the smile to drop.

Where were my stories? Had they wandered off, bored of waiting around for me to write them? Had the heroes sighed in exasperation before walking away? Had the damsel saved herself, and the villain given up on taking over the world?

No amount of personification is going to change the overwhelming fact, I am blank.

Writer’s block galore.

My phone rings, making me jump. A hand on my chest to calm my heart is useless when I see who’s calling.

My finger slides across the screen,

“Hey,” I get up and walk away, “no, I wasn’t busy or anything.”
I glance at the blank paper, I guess I’ll have to be blank later.

The things I’ll never tell you

Now that we’re over, here are the things I’ll never tell you, or anyone else for that matter. 

1.My heart hurts now.
2.I can’t stop crying.
3.I’m not at all happy, I’m happy for you, but not in general.
4.Any tears I spill in front of you are real.
5.I won’t be able to stop myself from thinking about you.
6.Every time you say you don’t love me as much, my heart bleeds and my soul cracks.
7.I never wanted to let you go.
8.I cry, a lot.
9.Our song makes me cry more than smile.
10.Please don’t go. You promised to never leave, and you’re leaving.
11.I know you’re lying when you say you’ll miss me, but thank you anyway.
12.I love you, more than I’ll ever tell you.


I made the list. I wrote it all down, put it in an envelope and stared at it.

“Address it to him,” My best friend pipes up, from behind me.

All of this was her idea.

“Hey,” she lays a hand on my shoulder, “are you listening?”

I look up at her, she’s blurry.

“What do I do after that?” I ask, my voice cracking.

“You burn it,” She says with a smile,”burn it all away.”

I carefully write his name on the envelope. I brush away a tear, smudging the writing.

She hands me a matchbox.

The heat of the flame feels good, a weight is lifted off my shoulders, I feel better.

Not free, but better.


How are you supposed to write about someone you rely on so much, but can never tell?

How are you supposed to let that person know that they mean the world to you, when your word isn’t worth trusting?

How are you supposed to apologise to the person for all the disturbances, but nobody else gets you like they do?

And worst of all,

how do you react when they ask you to write about them knowing very well that you tore up everything you ever wrote?

Knowing, that you spent hours trying to perfect a letter for them, but could never get it perfect.

Knowing, that you spent ages staring teary eyed and overthinking before calling for help.

Knowing, that you spent nights staring at the ceiling wondering where everything changed.

I’ll tell you how.

You re-read the letter they wrote, and that one message they sent, and feel better.

You think of your best memory of them and smile.

You think of all that they’ve done for you, and you smile even wider.

You realise that people that affect you, like they do, don’t come about often, and don’t stay for too long.

The same way miracles don’t stay forever.

You thank the universe for the miracle, and finally write about them.


So, apparently everything I thought about taking a break was a lie and a disaster of a decision. It is hell to not write when there’s so much in my head. I apologize for the overreaction. The break wasn’t working out, so I will continue to post.

Keep the pain away

Keep the pain away.

Write the pain away.

Sing badly, and it’ll get scared away.

Dance equally badly, and the pain will run away because of the second-hand embarrassment.

Eat, and watch brilliant movie, it’ll be bored of being ignored.

Sit and do what you’re supposed to be doing, the pain will be offended that you’re giving in to it.

But in the depths of the night, when all the noise around is gone, and there’s only moonlight for company, it’s okay to let the pain near. Let it come near you, embrace it. The pain will fade away soon, so for these brief moments let it get into you. Let it tear you apart, rip every part of your soul and heart into shreds. Let the tears stream, and the screams out. Soak your pillow with tears, rip apart the pictures, and the letters. Let it all out.

Wake up the next morning, look into the mirror and smile at yourself, it’s a new day.

You’ve got to keep the pain away.


This is may be one of my last posts on this blog. I hope my writing has made someone smile, or entertained someone. I’m sorry if I’ve ever disappointed with my writing. I am not done with writing, however I am taking a small break. To find some more inspiration, to find a new muse, if you will. Till that day, goodbye.

An apology, and a note.

As the protagonist I am blind to my own faults, mistakes, and wrongdoings.

The story I tell will be devoid of any mistakes I have made, or faults I might have.

A negative outlook on oneself and heightened paranoia are the causes of this particular illness.

I will talk about my own heartbreak, but I will not talk about the way I lied about who I was talking too.

I will talk about the way I cried until I passed out, but will not mention the cutting words I screamed when my temper got the best of me.

I will talk about the way I have been rendered a mess, but will not mention the light I have taken from a person’s eyes as a result of my actions.

My story is one of hypocrisy and self pity.

I am my own enabler.

I am the cause of my own destruction.

I also talk about myself too much.


Razbliuto (Russian): The feeling a person has for someone he or she once loved, but no longer feels the same way about.


“I love you.”

Three simple words, said convincingly enough will sway a foolish heart.

Wait for a heartbeat for them to say,

“I love you too.”

Now you’ve got their heart in your hands. You grab them, pull them close, and say the magic words and finally seal the incantation with a kiss. Sweet words and kisses are going to keep them right where you want them.

“You’re being unreasonable,” You say, ignore the sounds of crying, “this isn’t my fault, it’s yours.”

The first of many cuts to the heart in your hand. The cut oozes blood. It’s deep enough to hurt, but not enough to kill.

“I love you,” You’re throwing salt on fresh cuts, “but you’re being ridiculous and unbearable.” The cut ooze again.

“I can’t talk to you,” You say, driving a knife into the heart.

To twist you say, “I can’t talk to you because I can’t trust you.”

Tears will cover phone screens the way the blood will cover your hands.

“I don’t care anymore,” A second knife, drive it deep and yank it out, “I’ve given up on you.” Drive it back in. They’ll gasp at the pain and fail to hold back the tears.

“I love you,” the fools will continue to say.

To end them you say,

“I don’t think I love you anymore.”

Their hands will shake as you drive the last knife deeper than ever. Tears will stream instead of drip and the heart in your hands will beat erratically. Fingers will hover over keys, and screams will tear their way out. Phone screens will lay as broken as their soul.

“Why?” The question is bound to be next, be prepared for the last and final blow.

“I’m sick of you, that’s why.”

Drop their heart, and hear it shatter as it hits the ground. Wash your hands of the blood, and walk away.



Kairos: The perfect,delicate, crucial moment; the fleeting rightness of time and place that creates the oppurtune atmosphere for action, words or movement; also weather.


My favourite time of day isn’t dawn or four in the morning. It’s this sweet-spot time, around eleven at night. It’s slightly chilly, and the wind is biting and my hair is a mess around me. My dog, is unleashed and roaming around ahead of me, his shadow stretching and contracting under the streetlights. The streets are eerily quiet, it’s a school night after all.

It’s an odd, and some would say unsafe, time to take the dog for a walk, but I don’t want to deal with people. I start off with one dog, and end up with three more following me, my dog’s very social. Somehow it is the safest I’ve felt in weeks. Mentally and physically.

I can see the dogs all around me, playfully biting each other. A cold, wet sensation alerts me to a change in course, the dogs want to go right, so we’re going to go right.

My mind tends to wander at times like this, when there’s nobody around to witness it. Shadows become the people I’m thinking about, the scene in my head playing out in front of me. Imaginary arguments, which maybe shouldn’t be imaginary, are taking place in front of me. Important decisions are being taken while the wind plays with my hair. Story plots are being thought about, and character analysis’ are being done. I’m setting up goals I’ll never achieve and time tables I’ll never follow. I’m thinking of my dreams, my hopes, and how pitiful some people are. I’m thinking of why we have life, and how ridiculously amazing the end of Sherlock was.

The dogs are leading me around, a left here, and a right there. The occasional car passes by, the light blinding but welcome. There’s no boundaries I have to think in on these roads. In the choatic silence, every thought is free to roam. Every emotion free to be expressed. I am not bound by expectations. There is no interviewer sitting across me, or parent talking to me, there are no friends I have to console, or lover I have to be happy in front off. The trees, the wind, the night and the dogs aren’t expecting anything from me. For a moment I experience true freedom. It is addictive.

The sand pile requires some extra attention, and a stray leaf needs to be chased. A friendly nip, reminds me to keep going. Down the hill, across the park and up another hill. The view I have is etheral. There’s a movie coming to life in front of me, and that one ridiculous dream doesn’t seem so ridiculous anymore. I see cats and they don’t like the company I’m keeping, and I simply smile at them. A tree sways in time to the song that’s playing in my head, and the sounds leave my mouth. I’m singing for adoring fans and I’m singing beautifully. The dogs encourage the dream wagging their tails and cocking their heads. I can almost hear the applause when I finish.

Every good thing has to come to an end. The dogs leave, one by one, choosing instead to explore that interesting looking plastic bag. People start to appear, and they don’t look friendly. I am once again a child on the raod at an insane time, crying because of her emotional instability. My dog has better things to do, and before I know it, I’m warm at home, reminded about all the things I have left to do.