#meaning poems have if theyre well done. like when you just have to sit and Think about them. and theyre like. bite sized writing

[raedas]

5, 9, and 14 if u please :D

5. do you have a favourite film soundtrack?

not one thats coming to mind right now unfortunately </3 only one i can think of is sound of music but i think thats mostly just bc i love sound of music so !!!

9. are you an organized person, generally?

KINDDD of. kind of. im not ridiculously messy but im also not super organized So. shrugs.

14. what is your opinion on poetry?

literally everything ever is poetry forever and ever. to me

[sonybees]

me rewatching dead poets society instead of doing my assignments

i’m not sure if anyone would even care about this but i am really bored soo here we go

neil looks so down when he’s with his father stopdjejdkfjnr

poor todd got forced to stand up i would get pissed eujehd

the best preparatory school? lmfao ok.

KEATING YAY

THE PRESSURE THAT TODD HAS TO GO THROUGH I CAN SEE IT IN HIS EYES HE DOES NOT WANT THIS WTF

poor kids being forced to go there

LMFAO SPAZ

i still don’t know what a stiff means is that even what he said?

OOPS LMFAO

attractive pieces of sht leaning on a door frame help

“keen.” HA

YESSIR USJSJSJ

why does meeks kind of sound like me when i meet someone new

“he flatters me.” LOLSJNDKSHSJJSKSJDC

“i thought you’d gOne.”

freaking hell stfu tom

i’ve always thought this who calls their father “sir” ???

THE LOOK CHARLIE AND KNOX SHARE HDNEJDJF

“BRAIN DAMAGE” HSMEJD

they all look so confused like same

BRO SPAZ LMFAO

their smiles are so cute awwjdnejsnjd

POOR PITTS SHJWJS

MEEKS SMILE WHEN HE SAID AN UNFORTUNATE NAME

DING

“turn cold and die.” damn that took a turn fast

caaaaaarpeeeee dieeeeeem @siezethedaypoets (sorry! sjjejs)

“that means you daLtoN” the way he says it lfmaosjjd

i thought he was gonna do history he pulled out his chem book dhjshdbd

take a breath knox damn

them just not at all understanding math is a mood

too bad :/

AWW THE WXCITEMENT IN PITTS AND MEEKS EYES

“very funny, dalton.” hehehhehehejjdjdjfjrkdn ccmv mf

AWW MEEKS

CHARLIE WTF YOU DRAWING

RIP SHRED TEAR

RIP RIP RIP

oh shit

ahh one of my fav scenes, charlie basically eating that ball of paper

i hate looking at this it’s so awkward like hello mr. mccallister

what will your verse be?

THE MASHED POTATOS

“no, keating.” LMFAO YES GO KEATING

is that stick? on the end of the table?

“don’t come please.”

“no shIt, sherlock.” HA I LOVE THIS GUY

“pittsie, cmon!” “his grades are hurting, charlie.” i literally just love this conversation

“i’ll try anything once.” “except sex!” “ha ha ha.” HSJWJJSND ANOTHER ONE OF MY FAV CONVOS

“WOMEN SWOON HA HA HA” THE EVIL LAUGH WTF SHEJJS

“CHARLIE @tellmewhytheyswoon” SORRY I HAD TO LMFAO

LMFAO SHUT UP WILL YOU

this is so chaotic and messy damn

the treatshsjdj

they’re loud asf

i wonder who’s who while they were running with the hoods

OH CRAP THE SUN IS OUT WHAT that isn’t in the movie sorry

I LOVE MEEKS AND CHARLIE’S RELATIONSHIP SM

i could never take note of the minutes when something happens how will he do that

YESSIR PART TWO

HOW DID PITTS TAKE THE OTHER HALF SO FAST

EVEN TODD KNOWS CAMERONS STORY LMFAO

LMFOA KNOX IS STARING AT THE PICTURE

MEEKS HOOO THEN I SAW THE CONGO CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK

THE LITTLE BOING NOISE LMFAO WHAT IS THAT

“are you a man or an amoeba?” i’m sorry lol what the hell do you mean sjdjiend

TO WOO WOMEN

“why do i stand up here? anybody?” “@tofeeltaller” HA I LOVE DOING THIS IM SORRY

i would cry if i found out that i had to make a poem AND read it aloud in front of everyone

poor todd thougsjwhidfj

i wanna marry todd. lmfao where did that come from

RADIO FREE AMERICA

AWW THEM DANCING STFU THIS IS SO CUTE

i can’t hear the audio hellloooooojdjwksbdken

AWW we got some anderperry content here

lol i wanna wear their sweaters

:/// TODD

“no.” “no? what do you mean no?” “no.” *smirks* HAJDJDJWKNS

DONT BE IMMATURE

IDK WHERE TF THE INSTRUMENTS CAME FROM BUT I LOVE IT

the birds are so pretty

nice outfit knox

STOP STARING DUDE YOU’RE MAKING IT TOO OBVIOUS CMON

“sounds to me like you’re daunted.” JSJS

TO INDEED BE A GOD

MEEKS AND PITTS WOTH THEIR HEADPHONES ON AWW

“PUCK YOU” LMFAOAJSJJDJ

i bet todd’s poem is actually great

“the cat sat on the mat.” DNDIDHJDJDJDHS i love how keating still said it wasn’t all bad though

BRO DAMN DONT CALL TODD AND I OUT LIKE THAT

lmfao todd’s just hating every second of this

“sweaty toothed madman” i can see that too whatsbjdjdjsn

THIS IS BETTER THAN ANY POEM I EVER TRIED TO WRITE GREAT JOB TODD

NEIL IS AMAZED

when keating pushed their foreheads together wtf aww father son love typa thing that’s so cutejjedujsidj

LMFOA NO KNOX TRIPPED

YAYY GOAL

wtf this seems so fun

“your parents collect pipes? oh that’s really interesting.” LFMAOOAJSJD I LOVE PITTS

poetrusic by charlie dalton

laughing crying mumbling tumbling

DAMN HES GOOD

the little kind of aggressive hair ruffle awwjendn

OOO VOCABULARY

LMFAO THE LITTLE CHUCKLE KNOX DOES

AWW THEYRE ALL SO HAPPY FOR KNOX

THE SCARFSJJD

“exercising my right not to walk.” smartass

it’s todd’s birthday and no one greeted him excpet neil stfukqbxqbcdbkrw

the first unmanned flying desk set yes yes

THEY ALL JUST STOOD UP LMFAO

merlin knox you are DRUNK

PLEASE DONT ISTG KNOX

THATS NOT WHAT HE MEANT BY CARPE DIEM

well you’re in deep trouble now

“it’s God. he says we should have girls at welton.” as much as i love this scene what the hell were you thinking my man

i don’t get how this was legal back then. wtf is it gonna do? you’re just hurting the kids bro

the pain in his eyes stop

“@dangitneil the name’s nuwanda.” pain brokqdb jdjf

CRAP CRAP CRAP MR PERRY GET OUT

the pic of keating’s wife/gf aww

neil you’re gonna make me cry stop

that is so odd why are their lockers like connected from the left side isn’t it usually from the right?

JSKSIJDEIUWKDRUEJSJX CHRIS IS SO DONE NODKDMD

that piece of bread

THIS GUY JUST SHOVED A KID CMON KNOX

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN NOTHING?”

AWW WHEN TODD MESSED UO CAMERONS HAIR

CHARLIE LMFAO I MENA NUWANDA

KNOX IS DONE W THEM TOO

chris is gorgeous omg

the snow in her hair stop marry me

“you are SO infuriating”

i hate how i’m just completely forgetting what’s gonna happen in like 10 minutes

PUCK

LMFAOTHEM HOLDING DOWN CHARLIE

“he’s really good.” AW YES HE IS FUCSHWMDMD

wait the holding hands is kinda cute thoughsjdnd

bro mr perry is making me want to kill someone maybe him

NEIL’S SMILE IMMEDIATELY WENT AWAY IHATE YOU TOM

damnit you idiot i hate you sm let your son live you bastard

sigh sigh sigh sigh sigh sobs sobs sobs

merlin neil

IM JUST NOT GONNA THINK ABOUT THIS YK

HA HA HA NOT CRYING

SIGHS AGAIN

DEAR LORD

NO TODD IS GONNA MAKE ME CRY TOO STOP

THEY ALL SEEM LIKE THEYRE IN SHOCK NO

damn everything

SIGH WHY DIDNT I STOP WATCHING? IDFK

“it’s beautiful.” NOFNEJWGHSGEMWGE NEED WH

KEATING NO

lol lol lol lol lol lol lol lol lol lol lol lol lol

charlie just sitting down not singing i hate this

i probably should’ve just stopped watching yk but i didn’t but that’s okay i think

i got so pissed the first time they said that they were gonna ask questions like??? did mr perry did no at all realize that it was his fault?

sigh cameron you aren’t always that bad but in this scene i loathe you

NO RICHARD

DAMNIT YOU MADE TODD SNAP

AND CHARLIE SNAPPED TOO YOU JUST MESSED UP TOO MUCH MAN

i hate how it went from a happy dark academia movie to this cmon

todd’s dad is so mean shut up he was just asking a question

it feels so sad in the room i hate it

the empty chairs pls no

keating’s little chuckle man i miss their smiles

BRO SROP THEY LOOK SO SAD TODD ISTG

*GASP OF HAPPINESS IN THE MIDDLE OF CRYING* HUHUHUH

TODD MEEKS STICK SPAZ PITTS KNOX GEORGE? HA I LOVE YALL

and we’re done. damn okay

thanks for reading ig fjdbshsbjwhdjsj

anyways i’m tired goodnight or morning or wtvr thanks! and sorry <3

[obiwan824]

Letter-Fedya Dolokhov x Reader x Anatole

Requested by anon

Request: COULD YOU DO A THING WHERE THE READER IS THE YOUNGEST ROSTOVA AND SHE LIVES IN PETERSBURG AND SHE IS IN A RELATIONSHIP WITH DOLOKHOV AND WRITES HIM LETTERS AND THEYRE IN LOVE AND SHE SHOWS UP TO THE OPERA SCENE AND SHE HAD ASKED IF HE WANTED TO GO WITH HER BUT HE SAID HE ALREADY HAD PLANS AND THEN SHE SEES HIM AND HÉLÈNE AND SHE SITS RIGHT BEHIND THEM AND SHE FLIRTS WITHANATOLETOMAKEDOLOKHOVJEALOUSANDANATOLEISINONITANDDOLOKHOVSAYSTHATHELOVESHÉLÈNEAND BREAKSUPWITHHERBUTANATOLEMAKESHERHAPPY???????

Y/N looked down at the newest letter, a bright smile plastering across her face. She grabbed it out of the stack of mail, knowing Sonya would tease her if she saw it, and, holding it close to her chest, ran upstairs to her rooms. Shutting the door behind her, she leaned against it, removing the seal carefully with her fingernail and opening the letter, breathing in the familiar scent of fresh paper, ink, and a tiny bit of Fedya’s cologne.

Her eyes scanned the paper slowly, wanting to savor every last word. It was like a poem, the way he wrote, each word carefully planned, each one with a secret meaning. When she finished, she went back to the start, again and again until she had soaked in every last sentence. Y/N smiled to herself as she folded the letter back up and tucked it away in the little wooden box on her desk, settling down to write back.

It had been at least a week since she’d last seen Dolokhov, but it felt like an eternity. She’d have to ask her mother if they could go to Moscow for a visit soon.  

As she wrote, a sudden thought made her grin. Fedya had mentioned an opera, one in Moscow, one that was supposed to be the biggest event of the year. All of the ladies and gentleman who were anybody in Russia were said to be attending. And Countess Rostova had mentioned the same opera the other day, insisting that the family went.

Y/N, at the end of her letter, quickly scribbled in her afterthought.

And that opera you mentioned sounds enchanting. Would I be able to accompany you there? I haven’t seen a show in ages. Missing you every day.

Ever yours, Y/N.

She smiled at her work and sealed it up, running off to mail it.

…

Y/N glanced at the glass one more time, studying her reflection. Her hair was still perfectly in place with a dozen pins and her dress was smooth, shiny, and pristine. She had chosen a gown that showed off her shoulders and neck, knowing she had to make an impression. She threw on her coat and ran out, where Anatole was waiting for her with his carriage.

“Ready to go?” he asked, smiling brightly. He looked her up and down. “You clean up nicely!”

She rolled her eyes, taking his arm and letting him help her into the troika. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.”

At the opera, men and women entered arm-in-arm, one pair after another, all in a perfect, mechanical rhythm, looking both elegant and foolish at the same time. She took Anatole’s arm, trying not to trip as they entered. Her eyes were immediately scanning the room, trying to find Dolokhov.

Fedya was in the front row, leaning back in his seat comfortably. And his arm was around the seat next to him, holding Anatole’s sister. Helene laughed at something her companion had said, the pair of them looking joyful. Y/N felt a pain in her heart but ignored it, shaking her head.

She leaned over, lips inches from Anatole’s ear. “Will you pretend to flirt with me?”

Anatole quirked an eyebrow at her. “Pretend, darling?”

“Shut up. I want to make him jealous.”

“Aren’t you courting?” Anatole began to move down the aisle and she scrambled to keep up, grabbing his arm again. She paused at this, chewing her lip.

“I don’t know anymore.”

He looked at her apologetically, giving her a tiny smile as he led her to the seats right behind Fedya and Helene. He spoke, voice clear and confident, as always.

“Dolokhov! Sweet sister.”

The pair spun around, smiling at Anatole. When he saw Y/N holding Anatole’s arm, Dolokhov flushed red.

“Y/N! I didn’t think you’d be coming.”

“Well,” Y/N said slowly, looking up at Anatole with as much fondness as she could muster, trying to look in love. “When you said you already had plans, it opened me up for Anatole here.”

Anatole, playing along, slipped an arm around her waist, and she tucked into his side. “Thanks for that, Fedya. I never would have gotten to know Y/N without that chance!”

Fedya wrinkled his nose.

“Well, it was lovely to see you,” Helene said, though it was forced, as the curtain began to rise. Anatole settled into his seat as they turned back around and Y/N did the same. She watched with satisfaction as Fedya snatched his arm away from Helene’s seat and sat stiffly, obviously embarrassed.

“Looks like we’ve done it,” Anatole murmured to her.

“It’s not enough. Keep going.”

 As the opera continued, so did Anatole. Whispering little compliments and pickup lines and flirty phrases to her just loud enough so that Dolokhov would hear, keeping his arm around her shoulders. She plastered on a blush, trying to look embarrassed. Before the act was over, however, she found her heart fluttering and her face heating up without her forcing it. She brushed it off as good acting.  

When the curtain dropped for intermission, she leaned back in her seat, dropping her head onto Anatole’s shoulder. Y/N found that although she had only done it as an act, she enjoyed the feeling of his hands coming up to tangle in her hair.  She was disappointed when Dolokhov never turned around, yet she didn’t pull away. She leaned into Anatole’s touch, feeling her heart beat faster.

…

When Y/N saw the letter in the stack, the familiar address, script, and seal she knew so well, she didn’t feel the usual joy. Her face dropped, her heart plummeted. Maybe this was the time he ended things.

“Y/N, darling?” Anatole’s voice was filled with concern, concern for her. He was visiting from Moscow, giving her updates on her cousin, who was staying there. “Did you get any mail?”

Y/N tucked the letter into her skirts, turning around to face him as he entered the room. She shook her head. “Nope, all boring stuff for mother. Come on, let’s get back to what we were doing, shall we?”

She led him back to her rooms, the letter a heavy weight on her, burning a hole in her skin.

Later that night, when Anatole was asleep in one of the guest rooms, she pulled the letter out and began to open it eagerly. She moved quickly and carelessly, ripping the seal in half, but hardly caring.

The familiar scent of cologne was there, but something new, too- a perfume, sickly sweet and disgusting. She wrinkled her nose, bracing herself to read the letter. The words swarmed in a blur before her eyes, making it hard to read.

Dearest Countess Rostova,

It is with a heavy heart that I inform you that I must break off our courtship and engagement. I am afraid I cannot be your husband. My heart belongs to another.

Fedya Dolokhov

It was short and blunt, right to the point, apologetic. Y/N had expected it and so she wondered why tears began to form in her eyes. She threw the letter to the ground and ran to her bed, stuffing her pillow against her face. She screamed into it, muffled, and began to sob.

So it was over. He had found another. Helene Kuragina, Anatole’s sister. Y/N couldn’t even think of the blond right next door as she cried, mourning all she had lost in just a few short days. She shouldn’t have gone to the opera. It would have been easier, then, if she were blissfully unaware. She shouldn’t have flirted with Anatole- perhaps he wouldn’t have broken the engagement if she hadn’t made it seem as if she had someone else to replace him with.

As she sobbed, a sudden pair of slender arms around her waist, gentle and soothing, made her start. A head tucked into her shoulder and a hand stroked her hair, familiar and new all the same.

“Ssh, hush now, darling. It can’t be all bad.”

Y/N turned her head, breaking free of his hold, and falling back on the mattress. She tried to hide her pink, tear-stained face with her hands, but Anatole caught her wrists and pressed them down. He reached out and cupped her cheek, using his thumb to wipe away her tears.

 “Is it over?” he asked softly.

Y/N paused, chewing her lip. She knew full well that the moment she said it was over, it would truly be over. She couldn’t make herself do it, and so she nodded stiffly.

Anatole studied her, eyes wide, round, and full of sorrow. “I’m sorry. I know you loved him.”

Y/N leaned into his touch on her cheek, and as her heart fluttered once more, she realized something. She grinned, eyes bright suddenly.

“No. I didn’t.” the blond raised his eyebrows, confused. “I- I- I love you.”

Anatole looked at her for a split second before he leaned forward until his lips were inches from hers, begging to be kissed. He looked up at her from beneath his lashes.

“Can I?”

Y/N thought of Dolokhov for a moment. Fedya, who had loved her, once upon a time. But he was nothing in her mind, now, a faint shadow, nothing but a memory of something that had once been there. His love was nothing, it was dull and bland in comparison to the passion and fondness that was in front of her then. Her heart thudded with anticipation, trying to get out of her chest, every nerve in her body wanted Anatole. She smiled once more, one that reached her eyes. All tears disappeared and she nodded.

“Kiss me, fool.”

tags: @phoebuus @lyricsstories

[create-ninety]

Wednesday 20th February, ’19. 10am.

There’s nothing quite like going to a gig at a small venue in a trendy part of town to make you feel like a geriatric.

While I was getting ready for the event, I was wondering if I was going too casual – I was wearing a plain t-shirt with black jeans and an oversized floral blazer. Turns out I should have gone in what I normally wear as pyjamas! There were kids (I say kids, because while there were definitely a few ‘older’ people in the crowd, the majority looked like they were born this side of the century) wearing what I can only describe as their dorky mum’s clothes from the seventies. It was bizarre. Lucie and I stood to the side in a somewhat demure fashion by comparison, me sipping on non-alcoholic beer, and Lucie overheating from a temperature brought on by a nasty cold.

We both agreed that, if we were born when they were, it’s this kind of crowd we probably would have found ourselves in. Perhaps it’s because they were wearing exactly what we were wearing, once upon a time. I can imagine this isn’t a unique experience for people who find themselves looking over their shoulder at the next generation and wonder what the hell is going on.

The show itself was great – the band were amazing. I’ve seen them three times now and each time they’ve got better. The audience loved the performance and it was actually quite inspiring to see people passionate about their art in action. And it was obviously the kind of crowd that didn’t bat an eyelid that I was draped over completely over Lucie, which is always a plus.

When we got home, we lay awake talking about it the performers. I wondered what the process is that gets a person to the point where they feel confident enough to get on stage and perform in front of others. Essentially saying, “I am confident enough that my work is good enough to not only subject you to, but I am compelling enough to perform it in front of others.”

That’s a pretty brave thing, for anyone to do. To be inviting open criticism and to stand up and project vulnerability. I do, genuinely, marvel at musicians and stage actors who have to suspend what can only be described as ‘normal reality’ to sing, move about, and create a large amount of sound – something that in any other situation would be wildly inappropriate and strange. And yet there we all were, gathered around a stage, making noise for individuals who were inhabiting that space of vulnerability. I’ve decided that, for me, it’s actually less about hearing the music of the artists when I see the live show, and more about watching and observing the emotions that they’re going through, as they do it. And you can see it on their faces. The nerves, the little shakes, the awkward chatter between songs when the polished performance of practiced routine is paused.

Lucie pointed out to me that writing a novel isn’t so different to that.

In some ways, perhaps not, but by and large I think there are some key differences.

I think that if you’re a creative person by nature, then creativity has the opportunity to express itself in several key ways: as an actor, a musician, a visual artist, or a writer. Each of those could be called spheres with smaller subsets breaking off (stage actors vs film actors, painters vs photographers, poets vs fiction writers, and so on). I suppose it just depends what vehicle you ultimately are drawn to and prefer as your mode of expression. Because ultimately, the point of anything creative is fundamentally the same: it’s just that, expression. You are expressing something emotive, experiential, a message, something others might relate to. And each of those spheres give you the option to do it, but with completely different methods of execution.

When I was growing up I played with all of the different spheres and I can see them all, now, as different sizes and at varying distances from me. At certain points in my life I’ve actually valued them and explored them in different orders. Some have increased in resolution and texture while others have stayed smaller and smoother.

The smallest of my creative spheres, the one most under-developed and child-like, is visual art. I’m not bad at basic sketching or copying something. And I can stare at a piece of art and try and pull out its meaning. But when I was young, the pleasure I’d get from mixing paint or translating an emotion onto a canvas or something else just wasn’t very high for me. So I didn’t spend time doing it. There were moments where I’d develop a surge in interest (this still happens) – I’d go and buy watercolours and start painting for fun, or I’d be obsessed with sketching raccoons or something. But it’s always fleeting, and ultimately, not really something that I have been able to use as the best means of my expression.

I found a lot of joy in stage acting and performing when I was young, right up to my teenage years. I would include public speaking in this. I found it exciting. I liked playing characters with interesting stories, and I liked to turn different emotions on and off to create scenes with others. I liked finding mirrors of myself in characters, and ‘becoming them’, for a short time, was a small reprieve from myself. But sometimes it was hard to occupy the emotions of a character when my own were trying to take centre stage, so to speak. In my last year of high school when I was arguably involved in the most theatre I’d ever done – I was the lead role in my drama class’ final show, I was in a speech finals competition, I was sitting a speech and drama exam that had multiple theatrical components, I was in our school production, and in an improv team – I was stressed as hell. I realised, ultimately, I didn’t like standing up in front of others to be scrutinised as a version of myself that wasn’t me. I didn’t like that there was a ‘right way’ to act, and a ‘wrong way’. Because, well, there’s a director telling you what to do and how to do it. And so when I left school, I stopped any form of acting. I thought about joining a theatre company but I didn’t. I almost studied Theatre at uni, but I didn’t. It just wasn’t the creative vehicle for expression for me and I dropped it all together. I think, as a result, that acting is now my least valued and explored sphere.

Music, on the other hand, was something I discovered in my late teens. I’d tried piano earlier but didn’t like it, because I was taught classical, which to me was basically mathematics with your fingers. I wasn’t good at translating the written music to something that requires you to be so profoundly dextrous. Years later I would discover tab, and learn the general principles of music accidentally. I realised that chords are the foundation of all music, and that chords translate across all string and wind instruments, including the piano. Once I understood that, and once I was able to master basic dexterity and rhythm, music became the most wonderful tool of expression. I was able to write lyrics, write melodies, and then later on, piece them all together to make a song on my computer. I must have made hundreds. I did struggle to ‘finish’ one, though, and my desire to perform them never became overwhelming enough to take it to the next level. For me, it really was just means to express something. I liked the personal nature of it. I liked the different emotions that could be conveyed through the different sounds and instruments. Sharing the songs with anyone was always a profoundly terrifying experience: the music was an extension of myself, as if I had translated my own identity and ‘suffering’ into sound – and for others to hear it, and to judge it, would be for them to judge me.  And so the music sphere for me has grown large, but it has stayed at the same size for some years now. I pick up the guitar when I’m feeling emotional. Or when I want to put music to a poem. And when I see musicians perform, I see love for the vehicle. I often dream about writing an album to compliment a film. I suppose that now, there is actually the option to actually produce music without having to perform at all – you can do it all digitally. But I don’t think that I love it enough to put it out there. There is so much music available. I don’t think that what I create would be contributing to anything other than my own creative expression. And so, it’s for that reason, while it’s fun to dream, I think – unless I suddenly have unlimited free time and money – that it’s something I’ll never take further than just tinkering around when I fancy.

Writing, for me, is the perfect mode of expression. It’s a completely internal process. With music there is this external component, which I think is ultimately what turns me off about it, but with writing, it can be done completely behind a veil. When it is released into the world, it’s consumed by a reader internally. You are not the work. The work is as separate from you as possible (perhaps in many ways like visual art). This is what appeals to me so deeply. That I get to have a personal, raw, emotive and transformative experience writing something and exploring it in a depth that has so many layers of meaning. And when someone reads it, the work becomes a personal experience for them. You are just a a vehicle for the expression. My physical form, my personal likes and dislikes and expressions, are not relevant to the ideas being put out into the world. And I love this. Writing also carries with it the highest possibility for profound connection: books take a long time to be read, and upon each separate reading, new meaning can be found and uncovered. The same can be said for all the spheres, absolutely – I’ve certainly spent hours listening to the same song and attached various meanings to it, and felt connections to musicians I’ve never met  – but there is something unique about a narrative with a character who goes on a journey. I would argue that in a book you can still experience all five senses, but in an abstract way.

I don’t like the thought of who I am as a person getting in the way of the message. I want to place the art and the ideas at the centre of the experience. When you involve yourself – in a way that musicians and actors have to do – then you become consumable. And that is a scary concept for me. One could argue that the person performing is actually, themselves, part of the art - I would imagine this to be true - but I think this is what differentiates the spheres.

And, more than anything, writing is as automatic and as essential to me as breathing. Or eating. It’s just something that’s part of my day and necessary for normal functioning. For people who master the other spheres, you can see that they have this feeling about their own medium. I saw it on the faces of the performers last night. They live and breathe music. Their instruments are extensions of their identities that they have to exorcise. When I scroll through the Instagram profiles of visual artists, their dedication to the craft is demonstrated through the picture after picture after picture of their creations.

And, finally, I am now – perhaps like the musicians – confident enough to think that my work is good enough. I also think it’s now good enough for others. So yes, maybe I am more like the musicians than I think.