Author S. K. Nicholas

Birthdays aren’t a big deal to me; this one was spent mostly editing the journal. It’s pretty much done, maybe a week or two left, and then it’s being sent off to be proofread. It’s not perfect, but I’m proud of it. You can sense the growth of my endeavours within every page, and although it lacks direction somewhat, I think that’s part of its charm. I mean, this whole thing started off as an attempt to win back a lover. There were no long-term plans; no dreams of releasing the best bits of two years worth of input. Halfway through this blog’s lifespan (I gave birth to it one Sunday evening in the middle of January 2014 while eating pizza), the girl I had previously tried winning over was gone, and truth be told, I wasn’t sure what to do anymore. I’d spent so many years chasing a reality that didn’t exist; a happy ending where there wasn’t one. As a result, my writing reflected my mental state, it shifted to abstract, and more often than not, I wrote without thinking, and it all became a bit thankless. But, I carried on, even when there didn’t seem much point. This was to be my saving grace, because through a system of conditioning, I fell in love with the act of writing and begun to realise what worked and what didn’t. The more the words poured, the more I could see what resonated with others and what moved them enough to interact with me. Broken relationships. Loneliness. Melancholy. If there’s one thing I want more than anything, it’s for a girl to walk into my life and rip my heart from my chest to replace it with her own. And yet it seems I have a knack for fucking things up and making it enjoyable to read for those who know what it feels like being on the outside.

We can dress up our pain and pretend we’re okay, but underneath, we’re a beautiful mess that far outshine those who live the perfect lives we’re supposed to adore. They’re not perfect, far from it. They’re bland and lacking in substance like the cover of a fashion magazine. There are so many that cling to the image of conformity because they’re afraid of being shown to be weak. But it’s the weak who feel; it’s the weak who speak words with meaning, who have a voice worth listening to. To be broken isn’t something to be ashamed of, it’s a way of life. It’s not a flaw to be a mess; it’s a flaw to be an exact replica of those bored couples you see posing for the same old photographs trying so desperately to show the world they’re okay. Well, fuck that. I ain’t normal, and I ain’t no knight in shining armour who wants a damsel in distress clinging onto his arm flashing white teeth, either. I’m a damned lover writing to save himself from oblivion. A man who’s made a mess of every relationship he’s ever been in because he’s selfish, immature, introvert, and most of all, afraid of losing his spark in a society that preaches the same ol’ same ol’. This is why writing is important to me. The journal is a document; a testament to those days where being afraid was the norm. I’m still afraid now, but it’s not so hopeless anymore. There’s a rage in me that’s never far from the surface, but not an hour goes by when the warmth in my heart doesn’t choke me until I’m unable to breathe. We are not machines. We’re a mess of organic wonder that grows not in the light, but in the shadows those without hearts fear to tread. So yeah, my birthday was boring, but that’s okay. The journal should be ready by the end of the year, and I’m not afraid to say I’m still a mess. In fact, doing so gives me quite the kick.