Lack of substance 

Art, Words

She could not help it. The laughter had taken over her being and now she only existed as the uncontrollable exhales. That was all she was; which was far more than she had ever been. A shell or perhaps a mask. Covering up the lack of substance and personality. 

It wasn’t her fault; at least not entirely. The world could’ve have been a bit more understanding of her chaotic creativity. But the way it always goes she was branded a lunatic. 

At first she’d fight it. Tell people off. Stand up for her beliefs. Eventually she stopped. Her efforts were all for nothing. Realising she would never be seen as anything but, she instead became it. She did not own it; she was consumed. The very essence of her being had abandoned its independence and was now solely an image of what other people saw in her. Their prejudice; most of all their belief that she would never be anything but. 

And so it goes. The different become freaks and individuality withers and dies.



A very Camden Christmas Eve eve – a short story


“Please mind the gap, between the train and the platform…” echoes over a dozen of heads as I step off the train on the tube station. I climb the 94 steps back to reality, up from the underground. Coats and boots fill the gaps everywhere around me, but Camden Town is not as crowded as usual. Might have something to do with the fact that today is Christmas Eve eve. For once, I thank my irregular work rota and I’m happy that I got today off. Even if that means I have to work Christmas Day…

Under the soles of slightly warmer boots, colourful words paint the ground. I stop and read the chalk poems and search the pockets of my faux-fur for a few coins but with no result. Soon, my own words start to form silent poetry on my lips.

My dr. Martens cross the road, to the way too familiar chain coffee shop.
“Gingerbread Latte, please. Yeah tall. Oh and soy milk, no cream. Thanks.” The barista smiles and gives me my change back. I make a mental note of giving the coins to the street poet.

Back out in the crisp but not too cold London winter, the smell of the coffee in my hand is hidden underneath the Christmas tree sale along the main road. They still sell these today, for totally unorganised people without any sense of structure to their life. I completely forgot, I should probably get one… Later.

Next to the fragrant trees, there are bundles of holly and mistletoe. I pick up one of those mythical green twigs and laugh to myself as I think of potential mistletoe kisses. Not happening. I buy it anyways, in complete irony, of course.
The Lock Market is getting closer, and I wonder if my boots can feel that they belong here. I can feel it, at least. I stop under the sign, stating that “we’re (very) open (minded)”, wanting to take pictures of it just as much now as the first time I was here.

Warm cider, cupcakes, crepes and burritos hits me in an overwhelming mix of scents, and a just as incredible wall of memories tumbles across my mind. Friends, vintage shopping, family visiting, first dates, second dates…
My feet keep on making their way forward and I push my mind to do the same.

Box after box with vinyl records. Elephants in rainbow swirls, followed by pink clouds and grey rain. I start imagining the songs, what the lyrics mean, what the sound would make me feel. One of the covers catches my mind off guard. It still hurts to think that I can recognise them anywhere… Your favourite band, that is. I leave the records behind and continue.

When I reach the bridge across the canal, I think I stepped in to a winter wonderland – is it actually snowing? Turns out, what looked like snow for a second is just tiny raindrops frozen in time and caught in thick fog. Just as my mind becomes heavy, the crucial moment between day and evening, light and dark, approaches. And, as expected, Christmas lights on automatic timers turn on everywhere around me. It looks just like stars, just a little more artificial than real glowing bodies in space.

And just then, I feel as if I can finally see a little bit of Christmas joy. Maybe there are actually miracles everywhere around.

Rain, Cats and Wine – A Short Story 

Art, Words

The onlooker couldn’t help but stop and observe, on the other side of the street five teenagers huddled together as the sky viciously kept pouring down on them. They were a strange sight, all of them completely different but somehow connected. Maybe it was the look of naïve adventure in their eyes, or maybe it was their love for the lamp lit city around them, that brought them together.
Making a move for it the girl with short black hair and short black fringe took the lead. Following her Shaun the Sheep backpack, oversized blue, red and yellow 80’s jacket the other four struggled to keep up with the pace of her DrMartens at first, but they all caught up eventually, disappearing into the Waterloo tube station.
The onlooker couldn’t help but follow, tailing after the ginger ponytail, charcoal skirt and green jacket of the girl running at the end of their odd little group. 
Dreading but also longing for the drops of water falling from the sky they all emerged from the station, The ginger ponytail quickly protecting herself with an umbrella. She said something to the girl with long blond hair, a black bomber and 90’s mum jeans, running in front of her. To the onlooker it sounded unfamiliar but the onlooker did not have time to think about it, before a car rushed by them and suddenly the ginger ponytail, mum jeans and the fourth and last girl-with a loose curly bun and green checkered jacket- in their odd equation were hit with the sudden sensation of it raining horizontally. They all stopped in a moment of pure shock in which the guy running, behind the 80’s jacket, with a buzzed head hidden under a cap wearing a black, white and red satin bomber, turned around and exclaimed “That was like something out of a movie”, before they all unfroze again. They ran around a corner and the onlooker tried to follow but lost the unusual quintet as the onlooker got blocked by all the people rushing to take cover from the still crying sky.

Trying to shake off the feeling of losing something valuable the onlooker couldn’t help but imagine where the 80’s jacket, cap, curly bun, mum jeans and ginger ponytail hade gone. The onlooker imagined them in a fairylit pub with brick walls and a cat roaming around, a place only a few people knew about, a place for writers and enthusiasts like themselves. The onlooker imagined them ordering drinks, talking about the 80’s jacket and the curly bun’s stay in Paris-books, bottles of wine and Shakespeare and co- and their upcoming month in the same city- Halloween, a tiny apartment and even more wine- as both girls sipped on a glass of their favourite drink which seemed to magically refill every time the curly bun reached for her bag. The onlooker imagined the cap passionately talking about politics, immigration, brexit and the hopes of the future, a future where their generation was the one making the decision, a generation of change. Lastly the onlooker imagined the mom jeans and the ginger ponytail devouring every second of every conversation, realising that moving might have been one of the best decisions  they have ever made and maybe just maybe they wouldn’t go home next year, but rather keep moving, keep exploring.

➢ M