human7lilly

Latest Posts by human7lilly

“Has social media become a platform for bragging or does it serve a purpose?”

“At first, social media existed to help end users connect digitally with friends, colleagues, family members, and like-minded individuals they might never have met in person.” is a quote from a study done by Maryville University, unfortunately I could not find the writer of the article, as they had the option to be anonymous. They chose to not put a name to their work. Social media has multiple intended uses, but if it was only a platform for bragging, would that necessary be a bad thing? Society today is quick to call someone an attention seeker, especially for the material they post on their social platforms. Society immediately interprets this as a bad thing. But why? Being “attention seeking” just means that someone has been deprived of attention. They are only trying to fill the need to be noticed and acknowledged by others. It is not our place to judge those we do not know. There forth, social media is used for more than just seeking validation. Social media has quickly become a multi-use platform. What was once a dedicated entertainment feature, quickly developed into a platform that can be educational and resourceful in other ways.

Social media is a way of connecting with strangers. Bonding over a shared love for a particular show, book, film etc. Social media is a way to share information and bring forth awareness over social crises, mental health or even knowledge over day-to-day things that just isn’t taught anywhere else. Social media has the potential to be a wonderful thing, if seen and used in a positive light.

Unfortunately, social media has many negative connotations and there in brings along the stereotypes and the idea that social media is unnecessary or “toxic”. It is true social media can influence a person negatively, affecting one’s perception of one's self and of their outlook on the world and others. But that is where the positive and beauty of social media comes in. Social media can help people. It has helped people. It offers them solace and support in ways they might not have access to in their real lives. It provides them with the freedom to be themselves in a way that isn’t judged by others, or at least not as quickly as they would’ve been judged in real life.

Social media is an escape. It is where people can be who they want to be. Pretend to be someone else. Social media is dangerous yes, but it always will be, just as driving a car will always be dangerous, leaving your house. We live in constant chance of danger, but yet we still find beauty and freedom in our days, with social media we are given the capability to share that beauty. That could bring a light to someone who is on the other side of the world. Helping and sharing can be stretched further and that is because of social media.

So, if social media was just a platform created to brag, then I will envy the sunsets that others got to experience.

19

Why did no one warn me about how weird it is to turn 19. It's just this gap in your life. You can choose to further your education, get a job, or just experience life. Except all of that comes at a price. Student debt, 100 years of experience, money. Some 18 year old's have all of this, some don't. I don't. I have the misfortune of having grown up under difficult circumstances and deciding to move across the continent to try and escape that. Which I did. But now I've made being 19 so much more difficult. I'm in a place where I don't know the areas, I don't have friends, I don't have connections. Experiencing life is a chance. Being 18 going on 19 will be the easiest and most difficult thing I've ever done. There's so much time left for me to grow and experience, but time is also running out. And I'm stuck feeling like the decisions I make in the next 3 months, will affect my entire life. Maybe turning 20 will be easier. Probably not.

Ghost Chicken

My boyfriend, the sweetest man in existence, who is very peculiar about cuss words, came up to me after I gave him my left over chicken schnitzel and said the following:

Him: I apologise for how crude I'm about to be, but I am this close to buying an oujia board just so that I can tell that chicken he served cunt.

Extract from a book I'm (trying to) writing

Wasn’t that a strange thought? That other people existed and had their own thoughts and feelings and lives and experiences. Alice usually tried not to think about it. She hated it. The thought that the things she does actually affect other people. Consequences. What a strange word. Con-se-quen-ces. Alice knew that word. It meant “a result or effect, typically one that is unwelcome or unpleasant”. They had gotten it in last week's spelling test. Alice had gotten it right. Her teacher had given her a sticker.  

Alice had felt proud.  

What did she feel now?  

Her head hurt.  

It was cold. She thoughts so at least.  

She kept humming.  

Alice saw the traffic light turn red. She thought of how harsh the colour looked. She imagined it was a cut bleeding out, her eyes happily providing the same image, making it all look like blurs of stretched out light. She saw the headlights of the cars, heard the honking, and felt the rumble of the ground as the truck hit her.  

Alice also forgot that her actions, also affected her.  

Little snippet from a book I'm working on

“What makes me different?” Alice asked. Robin gave her a soft smile. “You’re kind. Naturally. You don’t force it. It’s not about people liking you. You find ways to talk to people, even if you have nothing in common, You ask questions, out of genuine curiosity, not because you feel obligated to.” Alice frowned. “But I’m not a good person. “No, but I don’t think anyone is a good person. But you’re a good friend.” A silence followed. Alice had never seen herself the way Robin saw her. She wondered how Robin saw herself. “I think you’re wrong," Alice said “Mhm?” Robin hummed in response. “I think there can be good people. I believe you're a good person. Isn't that enough?” Robin wanted to protest, but Alice gave her a stern look. She sighed. Alice would find out soon. Robin was not a good person. She was far from it. 

Do you ever get that weird like homesick feeling, even though you're curled up in your bed with your cat next to you, but something just feels inherently wrong.

As Sweet as Death

A purple flower grows in a meadow. A blue flower grows next to a river. A pink flower grows in my grandmothers garden. And a black flower is growing in my attic.

None of us know how it got there or even how the flower was able to give off the pigmented black. We dared not to go near it. My father believed it was poisonous. My brother believed it was fake. My mother believes it is an omen of death. I believe she is right. The bud was always closed, through out all the seasons, but it always blooms and spreads its petals after a death. 

We lived in a small town. We knew of al the news and gossip within a day. My family had connections all across town so we were usually some of the first to hear if something has happened or someone has died. And well every time we got the call, the flower would sit openly and bask in the sunlight. 

I was home alone when it happened. I had been looking for an old book I had stored away as a child. The cover was green with the drawing of a treehouse on it. It had been hidden away under a stack of my grandmother’s cookbooks and when I had tried to pull it out the stack stumbled to the ground. The attic floor slightly shook, but it had been no catastrophe. 

I had bent down to pick up the fallen books and a petal of midnight black caught my eye. One singular petal had fallen off of the flower. The edges looked burnt, with a smokey brown colour. My curiosity got the better of me and I picked it up. It was soft, like any other petal. I raised it to my nose and a soft earthy smell claimed me. I had imagined it to smell like rot and well, death. But it smelled nice.

I tilted my head at the strange flower. It leaned against the wall, almost looking tired. I held the fallen petal in my hand and went downstairs. I returned with a cup of water. I gently poured it over the flower and the effect was almost instant. It stood tall and the petals closed once more into a beautiful dark bud. The petal in my hand faded into a complete brown and crumpled into dust. 

I smiled at the misjudged flower. A little love and attention was all it needed. I didn’t think it was fun predicting death, even your own. I let the flower be and stalked out of the attic. 

22/05/23

Nothing

I never wanted to exist. To be created. But now I have to live, I have to create in return. But how does one do that when one’s world is nothing. There isn’t joy, but there also isn’t pain. I simply just exist. I’m not sure how. But I must create, that’s what I was created for. But creation originates from something. A feeling, a thought, an experience. I’ve had those, but none good enough to create.

I tried learning the piano when I was 5, my mother stopped my lessons when I turned 6. In the one year I had created nothing but noise. Not pleasant noise.

I tried painting when I was 9, I followed a step by step tutorial, but my painting still came out…wrong. The colours all looked boring and the image itself looked like…nothing. It was just paint on a canvas.

I tried writing when I was 13. Maybe the new experiences of a teenager would inspire me. Maybe I could make my english teacher proud. But my words felt empty. My english teacher returned the paper without an expression. It had gotten a decent mark, but it wasn’t good enough.

By age 16 I gave up. I couldn’t create. It brought nothingness and it was never good enough. I wasn’t good enough. It was strange, trying to create, but the people around me always responded to my work with silence or a neutral expression, as if it made them feel nothing. I started to feel like perhaps I was nothing. 

At age 18 I had no friends. I had become a no one. I disappeared into the nothingness of whatever I did. Until I met a girl. I had hummed a song. Nothing specific. Just a tune. I had zoned out. The girl was sat next to me. She had gasped and said that it was, “beautiful”. I made sure she was talking to me. She laughed and nodded. She was very passionate about music and talked my ear off the rest of the period. A feeling stirred. She walked with me to my next class and hummed the tune I created. I created. Purely on accident. She teased that it would be stuck in her head all day. I saw her again the next day and she was still humming my tune. She asked if I ever thought of making music. I told her I didn’t make stuff. She laughed.

“Of course you make stuff, you make carbon dioxide, you make sounds, beautiful and catchy ones at that.” she laughed and the feeling stirred again. “I guess.” I replied. “You make me laugh.” she said, but she had whispered it, as if the sentence wasn’t supposed to be heard. “Oh, well, that’s on accident. It’s nothing.” 

“It’s not nothing. I haven’t laughed in a while, so thank you.” she said. “Why have you not laughed?” I couldn’t help but ask. She gave me a shy smile. “I had nothing that made me laugh.” I felt my heart plummet. I blinked. That didn’t make sense. I was nothing. How could I make her laugh if I was nothing. It didn’t make sense. 

She smiled at me again and my breath hitched. “I’m Alice by the way, I never actually introduced myself.”

I hesitated. “I’m..” nothing, “…Robin. I’m Robin.” 

Maybe it wasn’t that I couldn’t create, maybe it was that the people around me just couldn’t understand it. 

I once...

I once talked to a whore. She was kind. We had very philosophical conversations about love and fear. She told me how she had no regrets. I shared her sentiment. What was the point of regret?

I once talked to a bitch. She had a beautiful smile She was funny and joked until my stomach hurt.She had a natural friendliness to her. She knew how to cheer you up. She asked me what my favourite ice-cream flavour was. Hers was Cookies and cream.

I once talked to a prude. She was clever and witty. Her sarcasm had me rolling my eyes, but I couldn’t hold back my smile. She was never rude. She had honey brown eyes. She questioned my taste for black clothing. She always wore color.

I once talked to a slut. She was never scared. She had a confidence that radiated off of her. I always felt safest with her. She had sat with me when I cried. She gave the best hugs. She never asked why I cried. I never asked why she didn’t. 

I once had a conversation with myself. I looked into the mirror. My reflection looked back. I had so many questions, but I already knew the answers. Except for one. What am I? I had asked the mirror and it echoed in response. I turned my back to the mirror. It was a very short conversation. My reflection had given me the answer.

I once talked to a woman.