The mess of writing

I have been documenting the highs of writing: the adrenaline and joy of creating a tangible piece of my mind.

I have experimented with fictional characters that embody my character and have included narrations of my voice. Yet, there are more lows than highs lately. There is the infamous writer’s block, the procrastination, the distractions and then, then there’s this:

The anxiety of doubting one’s work, the mess left of the room you inhabit with handwritten notes, the books you picked up to get inspired and left after thirty pages and the fear that some things cannot be expressed. This is my vulnerable mess.

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Journal Entries

These are merely simple notes taken days before I met you and interactions I wanted to remember after I did. I was happy before you introduced yourself. But I’ve been happier since.



My mind has surely been cultivating years before my birth.

I am currently sat in my Visual Culture class and just received my mid-term paper. I got an A-. It would have been an A but my professor lowered the grade due to my handwriting.

I ended up waking up at 12. I ate breakfast, rolled a cigarette and drank my pre-made, gas station coffee while smoking out of my window. I still get anxious when smoking out of any window during the day. I always fear someone will look up at me or that my landlord or my roommates will see me. You see, smoking is strictly forbidden in the apartment. 2 months later, I am still convincing myself that as long as the smoke goes outside it, it’s okay. I know I’m full of shit.


I finished my sociology class, got my usual ham, cheddar and tomato sandwich, talked to Mary, Katie and Zu and headed to Staromestska. On my way across the bridge, a man was taking a photograph of his family, so I waited until he was done. He looked at me and told me to walk. So I did. And he yelled something that I assumed was “stop! Stop!” So I yelled “Ay, Oh my God!” and both the man, the family and I burst out laughing.

Life is good. It’s great. I looked for the paper store again to buy the typewriter roll and stopped at a beautiful hand-made souvenir store “Smantin”. I asked the woman who worked there for directions to a nearby store and she gave me the same directions that the man at the last store gave me. I found it!

I bought two rolls and now I am having an espresso in the street close to the centre. You order at the bar inside, which is great because I can leave whenever I please without having to ask for the bill (I am too impatient for bills).

As I wrote about the souvenir store, I looked over and saw a man sitting next to me. With his coffee. Also writing. And with a cigarette pack placed similarly to mine. I am so happy, Angela. Thank you for deciding that which made your life yours.

A young man just sat on the table that stands between the man and I. He is reading an old Czech book. He sighs loudly as if to get me to notice him. I smirk every time he does and keeps writing. I wonder if he notices me notice every detail he allows me to note down. He smokes Marlboro Gold, the cigarettes I smoke when I have money. Plenty of it. I haven’t smoked them in a while. His friend

just sat next to me. And I hope they both read in silence and smoke in between chapters as they discuss things worth mentioning.

The young man just put his book away. They have not talked yet. I like their relationship. They might be together. 

An old man just used the chair in front of mine to lay his briefcase and the young man and I smile every time we glance at him. His back wasn’t straight enough to stand well. He must have been an incredible man. Hard working. 

The men (boys, really) have begun their conversation. They are laughing. I am so happy. This, here, is bliss. A type of bliss I thought could only be experienced in Summer. I think, now, that I like winter too.

A thought I had while smoking:

People only appreciate things when they are called art. I think that is why I am my own muse. Why I desire to make myself and the beauty I have treasured eternally through means such as writing, shitty paintings, podcasts and photographs of myself.

It is not ego. It is appreciation. That way, I will never need anyone to do it for me. I am independently in a state of love.

Isn’t that beautiful?


I would love to move to Cuba before turning 20. Or at the age of 20. I would like to have a one-room apartment and write for as long as I need to. For as long as I desire to prolong the time I now make time for. I would talk to elders who have been the last witnesses of what love was. We will drink rum and mock the way I smoke cigars. I would love to sit on my balcony for enough hours to call it a day. I want to fall in love with music in a way beyond the way I do now. I want to feel the sun on my face and learn to dance the way my mother learnt at an age before mine. I want to view passion the way I have felt it. I want to wear dresses and forget about the way beauty is shown in the streets we call public. I would love to interview women who speak a Spanish I have called broken before. I want to apologise for being ignorant at an age that we call acceptable. I want to warn them that I will not ruin their city or call their streets mine. I want to be accepted, not pass by locals as someone due to leave soon. I will write letters and exile my love to crave loving further. I want to make a decision that does not affect the future as I see it but strengthens the days I see ahead. I want to be happy in a place people will question. I want to call myself home.

Cuba-05.11.18 Angela (Age 19)


I don’t want this notebook to end. I fear that I can’t continue this bliss for a thousand pages more. I am aware that it is simply a binding of pages, yet they have been holding my life for over a year. Mine. Not the one I shared and forgot to write about but the one I, and only I have experienced and dwelled on. I only fear change when life feels as rewarding as it has been feeling. This feeling should be fucking eternal. How lucky to be my own companion.

At the same time, however, I am excited to start a new journal. I am in love with this one. But it holds things that have been causing grief. I fell in love with it while I fell in love with someone who has left. The next one could hold Miles’ response to my mailed letter, a trip to Italy alone, a new name, progress in my writing or growing changes that will evoke a bigger purpose to write. I might write in it from balconies. I might feel affection towards someone new, adapt to my mess, quit my job, or have fallen in love with it.

Prague In February

Prague In December

A very casual update.





the state of being or living alone; seclusion:

to enjoy one’s solitude.


My choice of subject originates from my fascination of the feeling that solitude evokes. My interest for this concept came from the comfort I was able to create for myself when choosing to spend time for and by myself. It was noted by an increase in change how easy it is to adapt when you separate the feeling of loneliness with the enriching sense of solitude. Solitude has personally always been a provisional aspect I needed. I have yearned for the temporary breaks I physically and mentally long for to feel myself grow into my character and adjust to my romanticism of time.

This collection surrounds the concept of solitude strangers enjoy both in public and in the comfort of their spaces. During this project, I contemplated the ethical issues with my invasion of privacy of those who I photographed. This ended the morning that the man whose window faces mine started looking into my room. I often wake up feeling lonely, as though I am the only person waking up in the dark. That morning, I looked into his kitchen and saw him making coffee. I don’t think he knows it, but I joined him and drank mine while he stood by his window.

Throughout the months that this project took place, I noticed my focus shifting from technique to authenticity. Viewing the vulnerability that strangers expose when enjoying time alone transformed this theme into simplicity, where the narrators of the photographs took all significance.


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Para mi amor

Me ha encantado quererte,

y por eso me pregunto;

por que no vuelves, mi amor?

Almost 4 years later

Almost four years later, the boy who broke my heart, the boy’s friend who humiliated me and made me hate the skin people had seen, and the boy who cheated on me met in England. ‘They told me about this book you’re writing’, one of them said. It was the closure I thought I had found in the past four years. To think, that time truly did its healing. That three men now sat in a different country and had my name make its way into the conversation. And for the first time, followed with truth.

Four years later, the boy, now man, who broke my heart messaged me the words I didn’t need to hear. I promise to you that I did not need to hear them. Yet I understand why I cried and smiled after reading it.

‘Listen Angela I’m sorry but if truth be told I’m not in a good place. I’m very ashamed of who I was and what I’ve become and it’s taking its toll on me. I just want to change my life around, be the good guy and all that stereotypical bullshit you see on TV. And honestly, I’m so disgusted by my relationship with you, all I want is to try and make it right, and I feel like the first step is to change my life, and as selfish and pathetic as it sounds, you’re a painful reminder of who I once was, and I need to change that. I’m trying to move out by saving money working odd jobs, and honestly I’m stressed the fuck out and I’m not the most equipped person to handle it. I’m sorry Angela, you at least deserve to know why im acting like this. I really hope to have that coffee with you when all this is all over, and we can have a proper laugh about how ridiculous we once were, but right now I just need some time. I really hope you’re doing well and that you’re life is finally taking the path you want to lead, you really deserve the world Angela. I’m sorry for all the pain and heartache I’ve caused you, you didn’t deserve any of it. From the bottom of my heart I really hope you’ve finally found peace, you really do mean a lot to me.’

Four years later, I have not stopped loving, but rather stopped waiting to be loved. Four years later, I got to be the girl they did not know how to care for. And four years later, I am no longer the girl who lost them, but rather the girl they did not know how to love.


‘You really deserve the world, Angela’.

The words I am most grateful for.

Femininity- An endless chapter

I realised that femininity is vulnerability, often hidden by men in order to avoid the lack of masculinity. It’s the choice of using everything that applies to beauty from your perspective. I now choose what makes me feel feminine. It can be a red dress or black overalls with a bandana around my natural hair and small hoops that peak through my waves. It is being naked when I am alone and naked with him. It is having the choice to avoid shaving and the choice to crave a silk-like surface on my legs. It is making mistakes and smiling at those who see it and crying as if shame had never been invented. It is sitting on a balcony and feeling like life won’t stop for you, and you wouldn’t choose for it to stop.

After years of doubting where happiness could originate from; I found it. It’s where I am and what I turn the place into. On a sunny day, you will find me in my balcony, or any balcony for that matter. I will be wearing a yellow jumpsuit, a red tied-on top with white polka dots or my very well-utilised red bathing suit top. On a good day, joined by good company, you will find me topless. I will have a cup of espresso with no sugar and no milk, accompanied by long overdue coffee cups that I should put in the sink, and a cigarette in between my two right fingers. I’ll be wearing my hoop earrings that decorate my naked face and I will sit on the floor so that the neighbour’s gardener doesn’t see me. I will be writing. About anything. And everything about that. I will be deep in thought about the things time does not stop for. I will look happy; even if I am not smiling. And I think that the feeling of happiness exudes femininity. It exudes it in a way that a smile will never be able to.


Alone, But Please Not Lonely- A Very Personal Podcast

Charles Bukowski- Sleep for 3 days


I have periods where, you know, when I feel a little weak or depressed. Fuck it! The Wheaties aren’t going down right. I just go to bed for three days and four nights, pull down all the shades and just go to bed. Get up. Shit. Piss. Drink a beer down and go back to bed. I come out of that completely re-enlightened for 2 or 3 months. I get power from that.

I think someday…they’ll say this psychotic guy knew something that…you know in days ahead and medicine, and how they figure these things out. Everybody should go to bed now and then, when they’re down low and give it up for three or four days. Then they’ll come back good for a while.

But we’re so obsessed with, we have to get up and do it and go back to sleep. In fact there’s a woman I’m living with now, get’s around 12:30, 1pm, I say: “I’m sleepy. I want to go to sleep.” She says: “What? You want to go to sleep, it’s only 1pm!” We’re not even drinking, you know. Hell, there’s nothing else to do but sleep.

People are nailed to the processes. Up. Down. Do something. Get up, do something, go to sleep. Get up. They can’t get out of that circle. You’ll see, someday they’ll say: “Bukowski knew.” Lay down for 3 or 4 days till you get your juices back, then get up, look around and do it. But who the hell can do it cause you need a dollar. That’s all. That’s a long speech, isn’t it? But it means something.

Things I’ve learned about myself when living alone

  1. I love doing laundry. I sit in front of the washing machine every time I load it and watch for 30 minutes. It’s odd, but it’s the most interesting thing I’ve sat to watch thus far. I am currently writing this while sitting against my wall, facing the washing machine.
  2. I love adding a red sock with white clothes in the washing machine. There’s something about purposefully fucking up that makes me undeniably happy. I no longer have white underwear. It’s all light pink.
  3. I am never home. I love being out and often will go out of my way of avoiding coming back just to have the feeling of longing for the space I’ve made my own. I now leave my apartment at 6 or 7 am and get home at 4 am. I have never slept better.
  4. There is nothing better than putting away the groceries I could barely afford. I now only have 20 euros and no credit card because I messed up and everyone I know has been inviting me to free events with free food. I am getting by and I’m happy while doing so.
  5. My roommate is lovely. When I first moved in I feared we wouldn’t talk at all due to our clash in schedules yet she often has friends over and I get invited to join. Last week she made pancakes and I now go to my university’s coffee shop every morning, where one of her friends works. I have learned to give things time.
  6. I no longer worry about the decisions I make. A few days ago I got the nose ring I always wanted and I forgot what it was like to do things for myself, without planning a speech before getting home.
  7. I miss people more than they seem to miss me. I haven’t just learnt that; but I accept it now. I am not a victim for being in that position, just lucky.
  8. Having people over is oddly the most independent act you can encounter. You choosing to share your space, cooking for them and showing them around is a beautiful experience.
  9. I love waking up early and taking 10 minutes to get ready. I now hate wasting time more than I ever have. I no longer have to wait for plans to happen or people to decide on where to go. I’ll be out of my flat before the plans happen and it’s a constant chaos that I can’t get enough of.
  10. My local coffee shop finally feels like home. After going 5 times a day for the past 2 weeks, the waiter has pointed out my daily visits and every time I see him in the metro or the mini market near my street, we talk. Again, things take time.
  11. I love being responsible and enjoy being a mess. I have never had both cases happen at once. I will stay out after my 9 pm lecture and get home late, yet wake up at 6 am and show up on time to my morning lecture. It’s a blissful mix that makes me acknowledge the fact that I am living life my way.
  12. I never really had friends until now. I had Laura, and Luca and a few other people I loved, but I didn’t have a group. Or singular people who where constantly there. Two weeks in, the friends I made and I have already experienced more than I experienced with past friendships. From breakups, to tattoos, to losses, to laughter in our usual 24-hour restaurant these people made me feel like the most lovable person they have met.
  13. I want to keep creating. After signing up for photography and meeting someone willing to take pictures around the city before out exhibition, I crave it so much more. Nik wants me to keep writing. Mikey wants me to buy a camera. Mary wants me to keep creating. Sarah wants me to keep making podcasts. Rebecca wants me to keep posting here. Shane wants me to joing the universty’s radio station. Stefan wants me to keep dancing and everyone wants me to keep reading. I have learnt that friendship isn’t that without their interests in your passions. What a stupid thing to forget.

l o n e l i n e s s

Do you remember when I wrote about loneliness? I didn’t know what it was then. I thought that loneliness was a feeling you chose to label when you could not feel fulfilled by people. Now I know that it is an unavoidable cause of death. And that if I remained in this empty city, with the roommates that do not leave their room and within these empty walls, I could quite possibly die within them. Loneliness is the root of different cries for help. Loneliness is silence. Silence within crowds and silence within your mind- when it reaches your soul, the one you never knew existed until it ached, you are inevitably trapped. I am trapped. I always believed in understanding your emotions and thriving through their acknowledgement. Now I only want to avoid them. And how exhausting it is to want time to pass, days to pass, life to pass. I want calls. Visits. Love. It feels like you’re getting higher and higher on a branch that you want to get down from. And the lonelier you feel, the higher up you go. The higher up you are, the longer the ladder needs to be. So you begin to expect bigger gestures from people. You begin to need a bigger ladder. I am a child in desperate need of a hug- asking for affection through words. I am begging for friendship. For love. For a touch. I am longing for a conversation. For laughter. And it is so so silent. And when you feel this lonely, you are so fucking terrified that it wont end. Because if it doesn’t- it is possible that the person you have spent years building could.