And you fight so hard without even knowing what you’re fighting for

by retrodiction

It wasn’t so much that she wanted to die
As that she couldn’t find a way to live
It wasn’t so much living as it was surviving
She merely existed, if even that
It was all fear without
And darkness within

I went into hiding eight years ago and I never really came out since. There are little bits and pieces I let out sometimes- desperately, unwittingly, yet bravely all the same. But everytime I dare myself to even peek from behind this colossal metal door, I get scared back into slamming it shut again. Heavy, dark and bolted- trapped from without and trapped from within.

I have more locks now than I can count. More than I’ve had eight years ago. More than I’ve ever had before. I keep wishing I could save myself, but now… Now I’m not so sure.

by retrodiction

never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever. never. 

I can say that I’ve tried. Some things just aren’t meant to be. It’ll be over sooner than I know it. This too won’t last.

i already know

by retrodiction

You’ve got so many different faces you show to the world.
And none of them are real. Not even the one I get to see.
It’s all masks and mirrors. Shadows and smoke.

I’m that cheap thing everyone only buys on a whimsical, spur of the moment impulse. Leave me like a charity piece on your display mantel. Yes. Yes, i can see how fucking generous you’re being. So much unnecessary time, so much undeserved effort. Look, give it a bit more time. I’m garbage bound.

Don’t trust anything you see. I’m not real, you’re not real. We’re only bidding our time till the grim reaper comes. There’s so much space in between that needs to be filled. I can’t tell you anything but lies. Lying liar of fucking lies. A little bit of luck, a little bit of courage, a little bit of help to tip me off the edge. Hurry, get rid of me.

I don’t want to love you, but I do, I do, I do

by retrodiction

Love me faithfully.
See how I am faithful:
With all my heart and all my soul
I am with you
Though I am far away.

Whoever loves in this way
Is turned on the wheel of torture.



Ours is a clash of wills. I hate you and I love you, and I hate how much I can’t live with either. I have your fragile heart, I hope you know, and I don’t want to forgive you for it. The years will bury, as it already is burying, all the moments we pretend had never happened. I’m not going to lie and say that I’m not glad; there are skeletons in our closets better left unchecked. I’m not quite sure if I’m running away from something, or running towards something. Maybe I’m here trying to suspend in, if only for a little while longer, the vague sense of limbo I’ve always had between the then and now. Your love was heavy hands, and broken words, and slithering into the dark recesses of my mind. My love was the first that I had ever known— bearing veins and bones and heart, naive and unquestionable— ripped from my chest, chewed upon and spat back out, stomped into its grimy bits of nothingness. Your love is too many held tongues, too much consideration, too much kindness— too much like sympathy from a triumphant Victor. My love is grief, and loss, and too much guilt— what had been, what now is, what will never be. Too much like a damned soul looking for redemption; too late and never good enough. Ours, is a toxic I don’t want to keep wanting. I don’t want to keep digging a grave I can never rest my bones in.



We always were the calm before the storm, never the storm itself. We were safe in that way— safe in our muteness. I strived for the day of reckoning, where the storm would finally come, and it would destroy us like nothing else before. But as with everything between us, silence was sacrosanct. If a tree falls and no one is there to hear it, does it really make a sound? If the forest falls but no one is there to see it, did it really happen? If you don’t save a dying man, is it really murder? If you don’t save a dying man, because you wanted him dead, is it really murder? I was made in your image. We have both covered our eyes and ears and mouth, and killed everyone else with our inaction. I don’t need a mirror because you are my mirror: your silence and your cowardly words; your selfish heart and empty soul; your pride, your ego, your self-conceit. Have we both learnt to stop being disappointed in each other? There is no better. Neither for you, nor for me. You have made me collateral damage. I have gone from knowing nothing, to believing nothing. And you have led me every step of the way. You gave me what you’ve been given because you knew no other way. But what I’ve been given isn’t fit for giving to anyone else.



I’m sorry. I truly am. There’s not much else I can say that wouldn’t sound trite and insincere. Because even now, all I can think of is how much easier it would be for me. You were collateral damage too. Theirs and mine. For that I am so sorry.



How do I explain the years in between? The battle you have taken, silent and alone— as it can only be. You were here, but not really. Only just so, only enough for me to keep breathing. You should’ve left while it was still possible; before I had hope, before now, because I don’t think I can let go. We’re still teetering over the edge, always off balance, always so close to falling to our deaths. But we love too much— and yet… far too little. The things I’ve done no one else would even dare try, no one else would be allowed. And you’ve cried for our souls, still cry for our souls, because none of this should be as painful as it is. Your love is enough to keep us here, but not enough to make it right. I wish I could tell you that it’s enough, that I know better now, pulled myself back together and fought to live, enough for us to feel alive again. But it’s not. I don’t know if it ever will be. And of the people I wish I didn’t love, you top the list.


Sometimes life deals you a hand like that; no matter how you play, you know you’ll still end up losing. But you play on anyway, and the stakes just keep getting higher. And higher. And higher. Until it all comes down, smothering you. I could’ve seen the common denominator. I should’ve nipped it in the bud. But I love her too.

you can bury me when my body breaks

by retrodiction


You wanted an explanation I could not give, and I keep wondering how something so easy could be so twisted by my inability to speak. I used to have a life where I could look you in the eye and never feel such ache— I think I’m too in love with pretending that we’re all in so much pain. The stars you can’t see in your far-too-bright night sky are way over here, mocking me. I see them now as they were a billion years ago, foolishly thinking how beautiful it is, that these dead, empty things still keep on shining.

These are things that I carry like they were born a part of my body; I would break every rib in my chest just to breathe without any of you again. All I can give you are these poorly worded metaphors, analogies and stupid, stupid hyperboles. I also want you to know that I’ve filled for you a profusion of apologies— like each second is another reason to be sorry— everyday, over and over, in my mind. Above all, I’m sorry that my stubborn mouth won’t speak. Maybe you can pretend to understand this.

I’m sorry, that it’s still all about you.
I’m sorry,
that I wrongly believed I was strong enough.
I’m sorry,
that my hands were not enough to stop the bleeding.
I’m sorry, that I might as well have been the one who pulled the trigger.
I’m sorry,
that you had me.

Hasn’t someone once spoken some horrible truth about how everywhere you go you take yourself with you? My skull’s too thick to understand that I shouldn’t persist with all this pointless running.

But didn’t someone also say that your body is only a vessel for your soul? I think I damaged both along the way. The ship and it’s cargo are only drifting.

Please make me believe we’ll find shore in one piece.


Day 40: A Little Something Something

by retrodiction


There’s no such thing as normal,
there’s just different shades of mental.
Your totally mental are in the lunatic asylums. 
The rest of them…

We’re nothing but a living experiment in madness
under constant observation by the psychiatric community of the world.


Maybe sometimes we need a darker shade of mental. But only for awhile.

It’s been such a great week so far!

In terms of going out and about the places I’m in, I’ve definitely regressed into a complete lazy bum. (That’s not to say that I don’t go out at all) I just, more often than not, head out late and return early. The up-side is that I’ve been doing a lot of reading, and coming up with ideas for all sorts of projects I will probably not follow through with— for when I return.

So a little something something, with a little something else got me a 150% stoned last wednesday night, and really, I would’ve preferred to just sit and stare at the salt shaker in front of me, but I’m glad I didn’t. I felt like I gained a 100pounds in a fraction of a second. If you can imagine, it was just hilarious really, because I was so thirsty but my arms felt like jello. I felt like I would’ve died of thirst if I didn’t reach for my drink that instant, but it also felt like the sheer amount of effort needed to lift my arms to get it would kill me. The struggle was beyond real. But I digress.

Basically, what happened for the next two hours was complete silence, my host, Serge, playing with seashells, and me frantically scribbling god-knows-what in my notebook. Serge’s girlfriend just sat there across the kitchen table the only one completely sober— laughing her ass off. I can’t remember the details of anything else except that at one point I practically shouted to her (in response to a question I can’t remember) that it “makes your brain so slow, you can’t help but think of only this one thing, and that makes it so much clearer. So much clearer!” Or something like that. Like I’m Jesus giving some kind of holy insight to enlightenment.

The next morning, reading through what I wrote— out of which at least half was nonsensical bullshit I magically pieced together an outline for a short film I was thinking of making. *Yay marijuana!* Since I’m not in my home country, I technically cannot be punished for what I did outside of it. Out of paranoia, I refuse to write the name of said country because I deeply believe they’re tracking all of us. Each and everyone of us. *Cue music: Every move you make, every bond you break, every step you take, I’ll be watching you.* I feel it’s also important to emphasise that I’m having such a blast bitching about said country, although I probably shouldn’t because it’ll just make me seem like that kind of asshole who has no love for her country. Even though it’s most probably true. The downside though, is that it always makes me extra scared at night. Class A wimp right here.

Highlight of this great week part 2: I am not a university student, I am not Italian, but I crashed an Italian university student party last night. Well, not so much crashed as went anyways as an uninvited guest. I deeply and sincerely hope that this will be a part of my university life. The people were hilarious and so so generous, nobody gave a fuck, and most importantly, I wasn’t the only one doing weird dances.

I think this is one of the best parts of couchsurfingI mean, partying asideI’ve tried so many new things that I wouldn’t even dream of if I wasn’t with the locals. And tomorrow… On to conquer Padova! I need to try to have more stamina for sightseeing.

Day Twenty Four: I Wrote This For You

by retrodiction

St Malo

But what if I missed a turn somewhere—
missed my own future?
That would be frighteningly easy to do.
I’d make one hesitation or one departure too many
And then I’d have run out of choices; I’d be standing all alone

The fourth day, finally alone, I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I miss her. I’ve had years to not think about her. Years, where not seeing her at all didn’t make the image any blurrier in my mind; when, and if, I even thought about her. You would think I’d be much better at adapting to being away again… I was afraid that this would happen. That I would grow attached. But I’m glad that I can see it now, before it’s finally too late. Too much time has been wasted. We’re two islands much too far apart.

All I see now are eyes that look at me with the gaze of too many strangers— doubt and apprehension where familiarity should be. Hands with more kindness than I deserve. Knees, spine, heart and all, weakened while my back was turned. I never meant to drain you. I need us to stop living like we’re atoning for a sin. There’s nothing left to forgive. You were a different someone before us three— I’m trying hard to remember that. I’m trying to find some middle ground where we both can be at peace again. I’m trying not to want to run away anymore.


Here, the days seem as though they’re becoming longer, and shorter, at the same time. Too many hours to think, and then not enough all the same. Too many hours to wander— till carefree starts turning into aimless— yet not enough to see it all. Too many hours have passed into 24 days just like that. Where has all the time even gone to?


Does it seems trivial, these things I’m coming to appreciate?

Day Nineteen: When You’re Nothing At All, There’s No More Reason to Be Afraid.

by retrodiction

Omaha Beach

It feels good to have nowhere to be, and nothing to do. Half the time I’m doing things I could definitely do back home— reading, writing, lazing around— all that’s different is the scenery, the people, the weather, the minuscule things. But it feels different here.

I spent most of the week reading under the sun on the beach. Omaha beach, Port de Cancale, St-Malo’s old town. I haven’t felt the urge to keep reading in a long while. And a book I found by chance, no less.  In Caen, I happened to come across a quaint little bookshop, Mémoranda. I almost didn’t walk down that street. Almost didn’t see the basket full of books at cheap prices. I almost didn’t pick this one. And out of it’s 200 odd pages I turned to beginning of a chapter that tells the story of exactly how I’ve been feeling. Just when I’ve almost completely forgotten what it feels like to not be able to put a book down. Funny how these almosts could have easily not happened.

I still feel bad sometimes. I feel like I’m wasting time, having come so far away just to not do much. I feel like I’m not experiencing enough. But someone said to me the other day, that I’m doing exactly what I would never do back home— sit, read, relax and just be. I would gladly spend the rest of my days like that.

Now I’m in Cardroc, France. In this little town there’s not much to do. No reason for me to not sit around and just be. I guess I’m still learning how to stop being so anxious about all these perceived not-enoughs.

It’s almost the same, but it feels very different here.


Day Twelve: I Thought I was Talking to Jesus

by retrodiction


Moral Disorder

Everything was as I’d imagined it before hand,
though I already felt it slipping away from me.
I was too old, that was the problem.
I was looking down on it from my balloon.
Now that I’d arrived at the moment I’d planned for,

I couldn’t remember why
I’d gone to all that trouble.

It would help if you could give me some answers… Or some questions. If I knew what I was looking for then maybe I could find it. It feels as though I’m searching for something I didn’t even know was missing. Lost, lost, lost… Gone high up and way beyond.

I don’t know. There are a lot of ‘I don’t knows’ with me. I don’t know what I want, who I am, where I’m going— where I’m supposed to be going— and I’m just wandering. All the time. I guess I would’ve much preferred to keep on being angry. That was something I knew how to make go away. With too many stupid things, but at least I could disappear. The eye of the storm has always been the safest.

This? This I haven’t got a clue.

And I don’t know if I’d like to go back to who I was before— if I could even find my way back— or just start being someone completely new. I’ve thought about this for years; while I’ve been changing, slowly, inconspicuously, until one day I get out of bed and find that I don’t recognise myself any longer. That’s the way things always are, aren’t they? All the small little things you think mean absolutely nothing piles into this huge crushing something you never saw coming. And now you don’t know how to get out from underneath it. Although, ‘someone completely new’ basically entails piecing together all the parts of someone else that I admire. Does that still make me, me?

There’s something that I’ve read awhile ago, and have probably remembered it all wrong: The folly of human beings, is the belief in a ‘self’, a soul, a unique individual. Maybe that’s the cause of all our suffering. We’re, no, I’m… looking for something that could, quite possibly, not even exist. And I’m trying to make sense, to find meaning and reason and beauty and strength out of things that have none. It’s stupid to have let something so small plague me for so long. But I guess that’s just the way it is.

Maybe I just have a sensitive nervous system— an enhanced reaction to every reality… Reactions always in excess of the occasions for them.

I remember storming out a party once— bawling my eyes out— after being accused of something small and insignificant. Not even accused really, just a good talking down to. And a screaming match in the middle of a classroom sparked by a few simple questions. And hiding in the bathroom at a reunion that’s been way overdue. And books filled with letters I have never and will never send. And dreams I wish would stop appearing like they’ve been burnt into the back of my eyelids. I remember too much. It’s getting too heavy, this carrying them all around with me. I guess I feel… like Atlas burdened with the weight of the world. Like fragile china in a world full of rampant, angry bulls.

It’s not my fault. It’s only the way I am.
I wish I could believe that.

Something definitely went wrong. Maybe I’m too many thin wires, wrong buttons and mortal danger to find out what went where it never should.

It’s probably fortunate that I’m best at nothing but keeping everyone else away. For your sake. But definitely more for mine.

Day Nine: I’m going to try to write more often.

by retrodiction


In the darkness I will meet my creators
And they will all agree, that I’m a suffocator
I should go now quietly
For my bones have found a place
to lie down and sleep


It’s impossibly difficult to live in the here and now. I’m thousands of miles away from home and still I am utterly distracted.

Nine days down and 134 more to go. I didn’t think it would be this obvious that I’ve lost my spark. It’s beautiful here, there’s no doubt about that. I’ve been waiting for this trip for over three years, but I’ve lost the ability to look at anything with wonder. I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing here.

At 10am in a museum I’m planning for a 12pm activity. On the way to anywhere all I’m envisioning is what I’ll see and what I’ll do when I get there. In France, I’m imagining Italy, and in Italy I’ll most probably be imagining another place, another time. I can’t find presence.

It’s probably stupid that I’ve come so far away and not really want to see the sights. I mean, I do… But I don’t. I don’t want to travel like I’m just ticking boxes off a checklist; “yes, I’ve seen this and been here and done that, but it didn’t make feel anything.” I met a tourist in Paris who said she just had to see Versailles because she can’t possibly tell people that she’s been to Paris and not seen it. I’m not saying there’s a right or wrong way to travel, I’m just saying that’s not a way want to travel. (Although. Let’s be real, I’m pretty sure I went for the same reason just that I didn’t say it out loud) Maybe that’s why a huge part of me doesn’t really want to see these things right now, because I’ll just gawk at them instead of being mesmerised like I want to. 

There’s too much expectations of what it’ll be like and I’ll be like here. I need to learn to forget. I thought I would magically become more ‘myself’, whoever that is, once I’m far far away. Obviously that isn’t true. It’s hard to love, and want to be, all the parts of yourself you’ve felt ashamed of for so long. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to find here. I feel like such a cliched YA novel.