Are Writers the New Masterminds of Society?

Writers are unpredictable, a debris full of dimension. You could never decode, or grasp onto a trait, because they are full of anything and everything. And they become your friends, through portrayals of paper characters, uniting a world, that once felt alone.

A few nights ago, I looked at a bookshelf that held a vintage lamp, books of literature and travel guides of places I could only dream to visit. As I skimmed past the prefaces of many best selling books of all times,  and the gloss of the book covers, I looked at the roof and felt a sense of reverence. For these writers created stories, extracted by the own fragmented experiences in their lives and had imprinted, a need for people to understand them. Demanding people to understand life through sacrifice, love and existence. In those moments I laid on the comfort of coffee coloured carpet, spreading my arms in a sense of awe, watching my chest contract. And for a moment, I felt alive, a part of the constellations, mixed into a rubble of thoughts, unknown by the people around me.

What is it about a writer, that has the power to evoke emotion? It could be their ability to juxtapose characters or make us jump at unexpected plot twists. Is it the way lines break in between sentences, or where a quote is changed in italics? Maybe it is the sensation of flicking between pages with the tip of your index finger, or the smell of old books, that you walk past in a charity shop. I like miniature worlds, where it could be hidden within oak bookshelves. Presumably because it carries a universe within compacted paper, hidden underneath other stories, experiences. For me, I need to sink into a secretive world, where people wouldn’t invade, and breath, where someone could hear my silent screams. I like collecting different worlds, into a personal library, because I feel like these are the stories of me… And that’s the thing. Writers are never direct, but are people trying to understand themselves, hiding themselves behind protagonists and the characters of stories like us. Similar to readers, both the writer and the reader are a match needing to be heard, as they die to tell something, evoke something that they wish people could understand. It’s a mutual connection between 2 people under a tree, breathing in jasmine and green tea, broken, and patched back together.

In so many ways, writers are the the secrets behind our time, that shape us, represent the darkest parts of us, but also our happiness within all of the darkness. They hide behind the major motion films, and mould our little world, in nature and in all of its destruction. Furthermore, they create a need within you, to need them, immerse yourself in every book. To create stories, no one has the ability to express. But understand unconditionally that we are flawed, imperfected beings that don’t understand life in all of  its complexity. And to relate with someone, connect without having to physically touch, is something bittersweet leaving you with awe that escapes your breath after that last page, every time.


Fate Smiled On Me

I recite our story in poetry,

crushed into my bones.


An avalanche,

that gush over steep mountains,


of everlasting love songs

rustling through tree tops;


like a slow dance

over dry grass, that stirs

still-waters of my heart

with thoughts of you.


My divine souls retreat.

Return To Eden

My tongue twists into crazy
abbreviations, consequences
of not being complete:

like the flowers you left on my pillow
to fathom the braids of my hair.

On this auspicious day, my mind drifts
to thoughts of you.

I wish the world could’ve seen,
that I have kissed you at every point
of the Triangulum constellation.

It is there, I will kiss you again
and again, over and over; watch your
soil run through my veins, with flowers
blooming from your collarbone.

I know, I will decay some day,
but not alone; perhaps my language
is adequate enough to paint you into
constellations, into something so
intricate, even the thought makes
me tremble,

like when moonlight kisses your bare
skin; and you place a red rose there,
then you weave and knot yourself into me,

and teardrops bloom into winter stars
falling from my cheeks,

whispering, ‘Andromeda’

That Boy Has A Sweet Mouth

He writes love notes in Latin;

legs, tall as skyscrapers of Manhattan

trapped between the lips of a mad-woman,

captured by a flock of stars

He is  foreign, with love letters carved on Sirius:

I find them in Summer, trace every letter with my finger

leaving me a heap of dialogues

like poetry stuck in between abbreviations.

Beyond Auburn

Your poetry has sailed,

mist hangs soft as a feather with the sweetest ache.


Some call it broken;

a creature that pushes pain

leaving streets empty of flowers,

like how the sea erased your footsteps.


Never has the tide been so cruel, then taking your footprints,

chipping away echoes in my heart.


– Of a story told in woven yarn, of a boy and girl, and the colour red;

in threads of crimson and pink, blushing into obsidian skies,

where children know how to hold the moon close to their chest,

like fire spinning in all directions on the first day of August.


A place doors forget to close,

exposing our love, carved deep into stone.

Is Julia Blacke Beep-Tooting Her Way To Success?

“If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained, you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.” – Sun Tzu

Hey! Little munchkins did you see that little reference in the title? Wink Wink!

Julia Blacke, although glimmering unconditionally is a moral benchmark of who we all should be. I don’t highlight the aura or the personal characteristics of her, but the morals she holds as an alter ego. Now, isn’t that a true advantage to understanding success?

Success in itself is unpredictable when it comes to judgement on a global stand. Your disagreement in level to the other thousand scales of disagreement would be endless. For a Tootsy Bootsy like me to not ‘suggest’ but ‘imply’ that Julia Blacke sits on a scale confirmed by every citizen in the world, as someone that is the definition of ‘success’ is certainly a high expectation to fill. In fact, it cannot be measured accurately without everyone’s personal influences becoming factors to take into consideration. So what really do we as an audience define as success?

Success in a nutshell is accomplishment and a sense of fulfillment. For Julia Blacke, I can safely say that her head is accurately screwed in the right position. For the majority like you, watching this screen, as you temporarily step into the knowledge of economics, fashion; or even your friends news-feed, don’t know of her works, let alone her existence. Take a look at her Allpoetry profile status…elite level.

The term ‘free will’ is the ability to choose with freedom and with the belief of no pre-planned future (universal belief). For all the bruises you had on your leg from running in the play ground, was it planned? Or was the tip of a rock coincidentally touching the sole of your shoe? Like a milestone, what if even in the smallest of instances, we follow the path of ‘fate’. This doesn’t degrade the common perspective of ‘creating your own destiny’, but doesn’t it ignite a possibility that we progress in life with an ulterior motive?

Everyone has a motive for their existence and everyone has the right to choose how they want to live their lives. So if our actions are living proof of our control in our lives, we are in charge to guide ourselves towards our dreams. And for that, I believe that our choices we make close previous methods of perception, and open up new doors towards the future.

Julia Blacke, I believe, is one under influence by the rules of destiny. However I think that she is one to control ‘when’ she wants to experience  her ‘happening’. Even if sacrificing time, results in the merits of experience and maturity…success is a long expedition, eternal to one’s expectations…

So, once Julia Blacke steps on to the scale of judgement, does the definition of success become ‘debatable’?