She stood in front of the doorframe. Predictable rectangular thing it was, plastered onto the wall holding a sheer red door with a brass sphere. It felt coldly on her pale fingers, sending shockwaves running up her frail arm. Today, Matilda faced a door that wasn’t hers. Maybe it was the fact that she was 17; maybe it was the fact that there was an absence of the boring curvature on her lips when there should’ve been. Maybe it was that particular day, how the sun didn’t visit her bedroom in the early wake like it used to when she was 16 or 15, either way she couldn’t remember how that felt anymore.

Maybe it was simply for the fact that Matilda wasn’t Matilda anymore. The crevasses around her joints deepened like glacial cracks, reminiscent of snake-like bodies slithering up the natural paths carved into her skin as if they had left something there. Her hardened eyes that slept in their sockets have not been admired for quite some time for no one truly saw through them, its glazed pupils dipped in some dull russet hue that couldn’t interest even the most na├»ve 6 year old child. In this disinterest of others she had learned to be enamored of the great poets of the world - ignored in a sense, like her. Somehow, she could connect with the most inconsolable beings for what it was worth. Only they would she reveal her softened core within her, the caring characteristics concealed to the world by her organic abrasiveness. Cascading locks of onyx-veined tresses fell beneath her neck. Summers before this one, her veil of hair had been lovingly chopped into an uneven bob in an attempt to slice the strands of her self-deprecating harsh words that had desperately hung onto her. Nevertheless, it was easy to forget about the ringing incessant voices of her self-doubt (which happened to sound like how those poets she adored) until they’d find themselves revolved around her musings again, growing like vines beside her ear, whispering those harmful judgments into the canal of thought, ridden of profoundly jaded slander.

How did a perfect orthodox girl fall so far into Lucifer’s isolated abyss?

Had she not spent her days behind a flickering screen, surrounded by the aggressive cry of the abused keyboard. In the company of others, detachment was a palpable suffering that had always remained. She wondered…how did I end up with so cold? So sick? When everyone had tried several times to save me, how did I manage to fail with such pathetic grace? These inquiries had reverberated in the small spaces of her aching, wonderful mind; these inquiries had been sounded by voices that were not her own.

Yes, Matilda, I answer you now. Once, as likely as you’d forget, you were once, too, filled with such uncontainable euphoric curiosity. Your arms marvelously plump - like a small child; Eyes soft with deep, unfathomable love that tessellated across any stranger’s smile. Countless days were spent routinely attending your soulless academy, engaged in vapid conversations with your ignorant friends during the food breaks in between. Nonetheless, you were happy in the purest way of the word. So unaware of the deceit that exists in our flawed world, your radiance was engraved into every inch of your soul, finding itself in the braids of your unkempt hair, even. If it had not been for your recent affinity for your own losses: the lack of opportunity, the friends that had estranged themselves from you after realizing you couldn’t run their pace no longer. The list seemed to continue endlessly, numbing untroubled figments from reaching you.

Yet what is broken is never lost, impure facets can never simply be severed but carried with you, endured. The clank of the tip of the doorknob amplified itself in the hollow stillness. She, the magnetic Matilda, inhaled her faltering sighs.

With a twist of a wrist, she was gone.



"My body is a cage that keeps me from dancing with the one I love, but my mind holds the key"

I've started on my watercolour moleskin notebook a few days ago. I've been meaning to start on it for a while, but it looked so pristine I felt like I shouldn't touch it being the perfectionist that I am. This is a much more serious work than I usually do. First of all, it's in watercolour, which I dare not touch on a casual basis considering it's such a beautiful medium to work in. But, on that day, I was feeling inspired - and a little adventurous if I do say so myself.

One thing I've had an issue with for a long, long time is my identity issues. I'm an only child, and even if this just means that I don't have siblings, it's taken a big part of who I consider myself to be and how I grew up. I spend alot of time by myself still, because both my parents work and I can't see my friends 24/7. I'm not trying to dwell in self-pity here, I love being by myself, it's how it always has been. But, like everyone else, I have my own demons and, to be frank, maybe a little too many.

Identity to people is a sum of simplified categorised parts; ethnicity, age, nationality etc. But I never felt as if this information defined me in any way. Everyone always has a "self", the "self" they show to their parents, their friends, their teachers, their co-workers... you name it. This is all pretty obvious so far. With me though, I felt like I've had to modify my own self so many times, that my personality not only has different 'parts' to show to other people, but complete sub-personalities. I think it's because we as humans crave acceptance so much that I've already adopted this need to change myself to be accepted too. However, the difference with me is that I don't tweak certain parts of myself that others don't like. I fabricate this completely new being with its own personality treats and new demeanour. And I think that after a while, my old REAL self has deteriorated because it's been picked to pieces to form these new personalities.

People have constantly beaten me down for who I was, and although I am a head-strong person who doesn't take that from anyone, I subconsciously multiply new "selves" in order to integrate with others.

'My Body is a Cage' painting shows three people. All of them, which are me but don't resemble eachother. This is meant to represent my problem. Here, you have three different personalities who are essentially the same person (notice how the colour coordination is the same with each 'girl') but look different, with a different painting style too. I did this to show the differences in how one of them may act or be like.

I've never thought that I was overthinking all of this. Who knows. Maybe I'm so filled with self-doubt that this is all that's left of me. I wish I knew how to be myself, how to be kinder to myself. I'm so sick of feeling like an empty shell. I can't do this anymore. Please leave me alone.


I don't usually post my old things, especially if I don't find them very impressive. I decided to post these because they were a part of my developing stage a long time ago. The first is song lyrics copied and layered over eachother in a motif-like pattern. I basically took a page from my experimenting sketchbook and etched down every phrase I heard while I was listening to the album 'Dye it Blonde' by Smith Westerns. That album is so dreamy and fun that I really wanted to make some sort of work from it. 

The yellowed drawings come from the same sketchbook, but I did them last year on the plane to New York. I watched countless movies on my trip (typical me). There were stills that really captured me in its unmoved charm. I quickly whipped out my sketchbook and started sketching out the paused movie scene with my fine Artline pen. 

The last drawing is an experimentation with a more minimalistic drawing style. The sad eyes belong to a girl on my cover of 'Norwegian Wood' by Haruki Murakami. I did it late in the night.


"When I was saying goodbye, I said, "Au revoir! Bonne chance."And she smiled."
- Angeline


This was the ending result of my first coursework project at school. The theme was 'Similarities and/or differences'. Instead of choosing solely one theme to focus on, I wanted to use the theme to its full potential. My focus was space, and the personification of them, all while using textures to bring it to life. My clay planets still need to be fired up in the kiln, but these are how they look like (they will resort to a beige, neutral brown after their trip in the kiln).

Left to right: Saturn, Venus, Moon
The full explanations + artist connections remain in my book. I have to admit, though, that this was a rather personal project for me. I felt really pushed and shoved by the GCSE curriculum throughout my project, it often clouded my vision of what I wanted it to be and how I wanted to execute it.

I am still proud of my final project. There will be more insight soon on the internal textures and my progress throughout the experience.