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Creative Writing

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Literature

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Travel

Mourning Madrid.


How do you leave a city as beautiful as Madrid and not mourn the loss of something inside yourself?

Being in Madrid brought me back to life, showed me that I am capable of feeling happy through abandoning this mediocre existence and everything that I know. I have been back home for less than 24 hours and am already looking at flights to Italy due to the unbearable weight of being in the UK

I watched the luminous clouds change to grey and I immediately knew that we were descending over home; I felt the shift inside me. 
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Regeneration of The Dark Moon - Poem.


Sometimes it looked as if the moon was trapped inside his skin,
orbiting to the cadence of his blood flow,
pulsating only with the consent of my fingertips. 


Sometimes the moon illuminated each limb,
transfixed with the spectre of its pirouette
back to glory.

Sometimes the moon peaked through his silhouette,
creating indentations like the carvings of ancient scriptures in a forsaken tombstone.

Sometimes we remembered only in shades of blue black
where we were lost at sea
and the moon could not find its way home.

Sometimes the pandemic in his derma sang the angels to sleep,
tried to set fire to the moon,
(it would not be moved).

Sometimes his incandescent veins changed colour,
illustrated the directions back to his centre of gravity,
found the weeping moon 
(soaked in its own sin).

Save me from him.’
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Leaving The Country.


As you read these words, I am most likely standing in a museum in Madrid, marvelling at the works of Picasso and Dali.

Being able to travel the world alone is a dream that I have had since my father handed me my first atlas. I remember opening up the pages, admiring different continents, feeling captivated by the glory of an omnipresent world. I wanted to see it all, experience the intricacies of every culture, explore each monument of our forsaken ancestors, feel the presence of someone else’s earth beneath my soles.
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To The Rhythm of The Psychedelic Glass.


There was always something about being able to perceive the world through glass without participating that I found fascinating as a child. It was only later during my adolescence that I recognised this premise to be indicative of how I felt about my own existence. I often described it as not really being present in the room, in my own body, a harrowing sense of vacancy from my own self. I was always watching, advising, guiding, helping, being seen, but nobody was able to quite reach me because I was safeguarded behind layers of decadent glass. 

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