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Creative Writing

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Literature

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Travel

Solar Winds Are Whispering.


I feel like one day somebody will try to memoralise my journals but will struggle to decipher the letters. There is no time to print properly when your mind flickers faster than the movement of the pen.

Translation:

I don't know where you're supposed to store all of your memories. I feel like we leave them in our limbs, veins and they become the nostalgia of who we are. But what if you knew where your pain went, the places it slept. Maybe that is the secret to immortality, following pain home, terrifying it out of darkness, maybe that's how we survive.
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Bulgaria; life.

These are a few captions that I posted below pictures on Instagram, I wanted to share them with you.


Children played amongst the ruins whilst we marvelled at its grandeur (the microcosm of our future).
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The People We've Known.


I was thinking about whether people that we no longer speak to are real. Sometimes it feels like they didn’t really exist and we are just recalling someone from a distant dream. It’s like a lifetime has passed and we’re not sure whether we just made someone up inside our heads. Even though we might have pictures, possessions, it’s like we question their existence, their validity. The things that we recall are memories, not the person themselves in their actuality. They only exist in memory and sometimes I wonder whether that is enough for them to equate to a real person. 

What about all of the people that we have ever lost? They don’t exist now, so does that mean that they didn’t ever exist? When do they stop existing, when they leave their bodies? When they are buried? Cremated? When does a person lose their soul? How can we be sure? How do we measure human life? Do all of the people that we’ve ever loved only become a facet that we recall from memory not recollection? Are people immortal? Are they still alive in memory until all memories of them become lost? Are we the ones that keep them alive? Are we then responsible for immortalising others? 
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