justified thought procees

midnight sobs

broken sobs at 1am, flickering candles across sketchy papers. freshly picked sunflowers on the windowsill, dark under-eye circles. cold, sweet coffee and quiet words. city lights from a highrise, plants by the window. flannel and soft, sad songs. flower crowns and gentle touches late at night. impatience, pale colours, early morning blog posts. oversized hoodies and warm strawberries. bright sunsets, empty eyes, broken handwritten letters atop a desk. gentle smiles, sadness without reasoning, dancing in the rain. soft laughter. allnighters, easy love. uncompleted homework, filled notebooks. stars at 4am. unshed tears, paint covered hands, late night calls. silver rings, long-haired cats. miniature sketchbooks. smudged pencil lines, impulse buys. late night flirting, embroidered denim. midnight tea, vanilla, doodles in margins. abandoned projects, messy hair. daisies and daffodils. notebooks, new blossoms, fallen leaves. historical musicals. pencil doodles on desks, old books. too many emotions. quiet libraries, procrastination. lavender, nostalgia, photographs. almond milk, raspberries, lattes. spiderwebs, dewdrops in the morning. butterflies. unorganized routines, sad laughter. slam poetry, wax-sealed envelopes. warm sheets, skinny jeans. neon city lights, pressed flowers, tangled headphones. repetitive patterns, shaking fits. numbers, the colour yellow. leaves and bush walks. forgotten words, memorised faces. coloured voices, withheld secrets. quiet conversations, blaring music. torn receipts, rainy days, dark chocolate. old memories, small details. sparkles, journals, muted colour. leather jackets, cafes and cookie dough. piano music, soft whispers, clear skies. sea salt, moonlight, eyes. lemon water, gel pens.

open hearts, empty eyes. broken souls, forgotten thoughts. sad smiles, soft laughs. acoustic music, paint filled pages. taped up photographs, winter mornings.

memories made, faces forgotten.

misplaced dreams.


so that was sort of a ‘my aesthetic’ post. but my aesthetic is a lot of contradicting things bunched together, a bit like me. it’s a lot of soft, yet a lot of dark.
tell me about your aesthetic, just for fun. it doesn’t have to be as long as mine, just as long as the last three or four lines, but it’d be cool to see your aesthetics too!

emily xo

A Fear of Leaving? | Moving On

Hi peoples.

That started really morbid, but that’s okay. This post is going to be really morbid and reminiscent.

So so so. If you didn’t already know (and I really wouldn’t expect you to unless you a. follow my Instagram and actually read my captions, b. read every single tiny thing in this post or c. are one of my like, very close friends who I rant to) we are trying to sell the house. Sell the house and move closer to school and work.
This post is going to be about a whole lot of things that I’m thinking about this entire moving thing. It’s pretty much going to be me being kinda sad about it all. I don’t know why, but I feel sad and I’ll cover all that in the post.

Pretty much this post is going to be split in half and I might will do another post on pros and cons and maybe something else. I might to a bunch of moving blog posts, I don’t know now. But we’re starting with this. Half of it’s going to be me being super sad and hating stuff and the other little tiny bit is going to be thinking about positives. If there are any. Let’s go.

editing me: screw that there’s no happiness in this. it’s all sad and morbid. you’ve been warned


As a super quick start thing, we moved up here in 2012 when I was 8 from our house in Christchurch where I had been living for all but one month of my life. We were on a small piece of land there and lived in a smallish village with people close and a small amount of land, chickens, some animals and a huge vege garden.
We moved up here to the North Island on idk the date, I’ll edit this and insert it here (the date was 12 November 2012) when I was 8 and my sisters were almost 1 and 3. We now live with a whole bunch of animals (we’re talking rabbits, budgies, chickens, cows, alpaca, sheep, goats, pigs, calves, cats and dogs) and lots of land and some kinda vege gardens in the middle of fricking nowhere.
That’s just what the house and shit where we are now is like versus the place we use to live. Pros and cons of both, obviously. But this ain’t about all that, this is about moving from here, to somewhere new. And my thoughts. Clearly.

Super quickly, we’re painting the house to try to get more money and sell it better? If that made sense. We’re also not moving heaps, just 1-2 hours away from where we currently are. Let’s go.


So I was in my room for most of the day today and went out to feed rabbits, shower and get some food before about 1. Then I came back in and did more stuff and people went out and I was asked to put away some dishes. Which I did at 5pm. So at 5pm I left my room and walked down the corridor and into the dining room before turning to go into the kitchen and stopping. And I cried. I’m not going to lie here, I stopped and turned into the kitchen and just stopped walking and cried. Which is not unusual for me, I cry all the time, but usually because I’m depressed (which, surprise, I am because I’d been being nostalgic and people are being shitty currently) or anxious (which I also am) but those are not the reasons I cried then. I cried because I looked at the kitchen and it was almost empty. There was nothing of the walls and it just looked so empty. There were all the appliances and utensils and stuff still there, but it was empty. There was no noticeboard, no cookbook-shelf, no little coffee sign. There were no bottles on the cupboards and fridge, no people, no books, no curtains. There was nothing but the things that had to be there, the cutlery and utensils, the plates and bowls and a few things on the benches. The knife racks had been taken down, the appliances had been pulled away from the walls. Everything had moved and it made me cry. I was so saddened by its emptiness and I didn’t know what to do.

I literally walked into the kitchen and just walked around. And I didn’t know why. I was just watching everything, looking at everything. Noticing every little thing that was missing. All the books and stuff. There was NOTHING that made it our kitchen. And I was broken. For no particular reason other than that. It didn’t look like our kitchen. Sure, the walls were still there, our appliances were still there, our fridges, our cupboards, but anyone could have had those things. The things that made the kitchen ours weren’t there. The little notes and pictures on the noticeboard, the little coffee sign, the books with their little scribbles in the margins, the bottles and torch and jars that cluttered the tops of things and annoyed me. It may have annoyed me how cluttered everything was, but I think the big thing I want to say here, was that it was ours. It was very unique, very special, very clearly ours with all that stuff there. And without it, it didn’t seem ours.

I don;t know what’s going to happen after the kitchen is painted, I don’t know whether we’re going to be putting everything back up or not. I don’t know whether all of the things that made it mine are going to be back or if they’re just going to stay down. But we’re painting it. We’re taking away the ugly, old, off-white colour of the walls and ceiling and we’re replacing it with bright white and mushroom. And that’s big That doesn’t make it mine. Even empty like it is now, the kitchen still has those colours that make it mine. But with what’s happening with it, with the colours, it’s not going to be my kitchen. Even with all the things back in it. It’s just going to be a kitchen.

The kitchen is going to remind me whenever I look at it, that we’re moving. That we’re leaving here, the place I’ve learnt to call home.

We repainted the dining room a while ago, repainted the bathroom and the hallway. That was before we were moving. Before we had decided to put the house on the market. And I loved the new looks then, I still do, but I can’t help but think now, about the old colours. About the old bathroom. About the awful orange and white dining room and the pink frieze around the hallway. I can’t help but think about all of those things and think about what they are now. The creams and the mushrooms and the whites. And I love them as they are, but it makes me sad. Because I was here for 6 years and those were all like that. As horrible as they were, they made this place home for me. The foot mark on the mirror in the bathroom that I looked over to wash my face twice a day, it’s gone now. Everything like that is gone.

And then there’s my personal stuff. I spent a week decluttering and tidying out my room. Removing a whole bunch of the things I didn’t need anymore. All the things that were too annoying, took up too much space. They all went. And I cried. I cried a lot during that time. Finding things that old friends had given me, going through my camera and finding pictures from years ago when I had different friends, friends who I haven’t spoken to in a year, in two years, three. And then there were photos of people who I was friends with last year but am not now. And those hurt me, Everything hurt me. Clearing out my camera log, my laptop, my phone. Clearing out my old schoolbooks even made me sad. I found pictures of a young me. A me from years ago. And I cried over them too. I cried over the pictures of me when I could fit clothes I now can’t, pictures of me with animals I’ve lost, Friends and family I’ve lost. And it was hard.
I threw away things I’d been given years ago, found old phone numbers, email addresses of people who had promised to contact me, who I’d promised to contact, but never had. And I threw them all out. I threw out bags upon bags of fabric that had been under my desk for months, yarn that I’d had for years. I threw out, took apart, things that I’d worked hard on last year, the year before, because they took up a whole bunch of space and didn’t need to.

And it hit home for me really this afternoon when I walked into the kitchen. It all hit home. This wasn’t going to be home for much longer. I was going to have to call somewhere else home. Because this would no longer be it. And that’s hard for me.

It took me a while to call this place home, because I was so used to the place we used to live being home. For me, as a young child, I didn’t understand it fully, didn’t understand that this was now home, this was now the place that I had to call home. Because it was. But I was young, I didn’t really think about all that, I didn’t really think about this place not being home. It took a while to grip that concept, but this place was home soon enough. Now I’m older, I’m 15 in 6 months time, I’m going into my second year of highschool, I’ve finished primary school, I’ve been to two different primary schools and have been homeschooled for a year. I’ve been here for 6 years and to me it’s more of my life than in Christchurch. Yes, in time I was there for longer than I’ve been here, but I wasn’t able to remember a whole lot of that. I can remember little things, I still wake up at 3am and draw my old schools, yes, I still recall all my old friends names, the street names, my old phone number, but I don’t remember a lot of the things that went on down there. I was too young. But I’ve been here for a lot of, most of, the age where I am able to remember things, to create core memories. Being up here is what has really shaped who I am. And I’m leaving that. I don’t know what makes that so difficult to comprehend, but it is hard to comprehend.

I think that for me, moving is going to be hard. Having to call a new place ‘home’ when this has been home for most of my memorable life is going to be difficult. I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to have to ability to call somewhere else home, but I know it’s not going to be fast, it’s not going to be easy.

For me, a huge thing about moving is that we’re not moving to somewhere like here. We’re not moving from the middle of fricking nowhere to the middle of fricking nowhere but closer to school, we’re moving from the middle of fricking nowhere to somewhere. To a centre. To somewhere close to a town, a city. We’re moving away from somewhere where you can walk for 10 minutes and get to a place where you cannot see any civilisation to somewhere where we’ll be close to civilisation. Which is hard.
We’ll be moving from somewhere with animals and space and open air to somewhere where we may not have land, may not have animals, may be surrounded on all sides by houses and people. We’re going to have to give up the majority of our animals, our sheep and calves that we’ve raised from 2 days old, since birth in some cases, we’re going to have to get rid of the cows who have become our family, the alpaca who was a gift for my sister. We’re going to have to possibly get rid of the rabbits, my babies for the last 5 years even though the actual animal has changed, the animal has stayed the same. We may have to give up more, maybe the chickens, maybe others, I don’t know, I don’t want to know, I don’t want to know how much of an impact this is going to have on me. Not being able to walk out and go down to the creek, walking the paths I cantered up on the horses, I’m not going to be able to go and sit by the resting spot of my horse and just talk to her like I did when she was alive. I’m not going to be able to do that. I’m not going to be able to walk to the top of the hill and scream and have no one hear me. To stand there and just be for hours on end until I’m cold and windblown. That’s not going to be able to happen. There’s not going to be the nature.

I’ve been walking with the dog for the past few nights, just up and down the hills a few times, just walkking for an hour or so, just walking. And it’s been nice. It’s been really nice. But I walk and then I get back home and remember that that is going to be something that this time next year, I may not be doing. Because we probably won’t be here next year. And that hurts It hurts to say that, write that,

Okay, I’m full out crying now. Great. Anyway, continuing.

I talked to Mum a few days ago, a week or so ago, and I said that I probably wouldn’t be able to have a birthday party this year because none of my friends really need to drive all the way out here to say happy birthday when I can go out with a couple of them on the last day of school as a birthday thing. But then Mum said that we probably wouldn’t be here by then. By July. And that hit home. It hit me so hard that we probably wouldn’t get to be here for my 15th birthday. and that’s scary. Because I love this place and I would really like to have that one last birthday here, whether I have friends here or not, I want to be here. Because this is home. And I don’t want to have my birthday anywhere but home. I don’t care if my friends can’t be here, I like private, quiet birthdays and 15 isn’t that big, but I want to be here. Here. Where home is. Not somewhere that isn’t home. That isn’t a place I know. I don’t want that.


It’s late now and I’m full out sobbing and struggling to write now, so I might just stop, but I needed to get that out, out of my system because it’s really hard for me to deal with and I want others to know it. I don’t know why, but that’s what this blog is for. So yes. Thank you if you read through this full thing and I’m sorry it ended so abruptly but I actually couldn’t write anything else and this is meant to be up in 5 minutes and I’ve gotta do graphics, editing and tags so we’ll see how that goes.

I’ll continue to update you on how this house selling shit goes, but thanks again for reading this.

editing me: it’s 11:18pm and i’m done. this was meant to be up at 11 but oh well, it’ll get up!

see you in the next post!
emily xo

The Fog – Sad Story + Birthday Wishes!

You asked for writing!

And……I give you what you want. You guys are soooooooooooooooo lucky!

Just a brief intro for this piece, we were often asked to write stories at school using Pobble365 to find picture prompts . This story is written from one of these pictures, it’s the photo from March 17th and was originally called ‘Into the mist’.  It was not written that long ago, I think I wrote it at the end of November? But, this is The Fog.

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The Fog

resource image

The fog surrounded her, a thick, grey blanket. It crept up her legs, jumping up the snow white dress she wore, eating her slowly. Her dark, tousled hair flowed down her back in a waving torrent, a dark waterfall. The lantern she held in her hand flickered, a futile attempt to stay alight. It died.

        A sound, a rustle behind her. The girl jumped, startled and spun, staring about her in alarm. Nothing, there was nothing there. She straightened the halo of flowers atop her head and continued on her way. The water – as that’s what she struggled aimlessly through – crept up her legs. It reached her thighs and she shivered with cold – or maybe it was fear. She continued on; a lone figure in a city of death.

Everything about the city was dead. It was grey, a city of skeletons. The ships she headed hopelessly toward were just skeletons, old remnants of a life once gone. Without the light everything was dangerous – or so it seemed. The borderline of wire – barbed and threatening – loomed to her right. She steered herself away from it, the unbeknown fence, no one had passed it’s barrier and made it back. For all she knew at her young age, no one had passed it. She was young and ignorant.

The Spectres had taken the life from the place. Everything was scary, the people gone. The Spectres had taken everything and left the city in ruins.

She continued on into the fog. Walking on and on. It leapt and yanked. Spun and recoiled. She continued on and on. The fog shrouding her small body until she was overtaken by it. It pulled at her and the last amount of energy she had left in her left the body and she was under.

The last star in a city gone. An angel. Gone to the arms of the fog.

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I have to admit, just reading that, that it is very deep and sad. It’s not the nicest story ever, but it is my sort of style, I’ve got several more. Something you need to know about me: I always kill off story characters. Always… Every. Single. Time. I’m not very nice. But, that’s just my style. And usually it’s the main character that I kill off. Or their best friend. Or their parents. Or all of the above!

But…What did you think of it? Did you like me death scene?

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Happy Birthday Briar!

Well, happy slightly late birthday at least. I told her I’d give her a shout out on her for her birthday, so there it is, just for you Briar. A birthday shout out. Her birthday was the 12th if you were wondering. Happy birthday if yours was too!

Sign off