*untitled by Cerys…

I want to write for this zine, because there are a lot of words in my head, desperate to escape in a logical order and hopefully mean something to someone, we can play snap with our thoughts and the words on the paper. If that’s a cliche then so be it, it doesn’t mean I mean it any less, more my brain fell out and I had to resort to over-used phrases and the like. And if someone empathizes or even relates then even better - we haven’t created a cliche cause there’s two of us, you know. Original thoughts aren’t necessarily the best ones if it was for the sake of being different and not for the sake of expressing yourself in real heartfelt language. Hmm. Anyway, I wish I was seven again, because when I was seven I had imagination (or at least, one that hadn’t been corrupted or forced through a filter) and I could write - and what I wrote was real. Real from my real viewpoint. It’s hard to tell now what’s from me and what’s come from absorbing influences and others writing. When I was seven I used to write stories all day long- I used to draw and make up a story while I drew, talking to myself or singing to myself - and only being quiet when I was interrupted and asked was I crazy. No, I wasn’t, thank you. Of course, this is probably a filtered and sentimental version of that time but it’s as close as I can get, and that’s near enough (it’ll have to be). Constantly thinking abstract thoughts, questioning, questioning, experimenting. And out of those processes would come real words, that meant something true to me. But people laugh at seven year olds for trying things out, which makes you think ‘I’d better not show anyone what I’m doing’ and so the processes begin to die, and yr friends tell you it’s silly so you start to believe them and by the time yr 12 it’s all gone, there’s a scared seven year old hiding inside of you, wanting to escape, longing to keep on experimenting and talking to itself and trying anything out: dancing and singing under water, lying low in the grass and trying to be ant-sized, everything is there but pushed aside, slowing rotting away until there’s nothing but a shell and a mound of dust where that child once danced and sung and ate crayons to see what each colour tasted of and ran through the sprinkler just to get wet and feel those water droplets on yr hot sticky summer skin. I’m 17 now, still a kid, and for some reason I never let go of her. Maybe at times she was rejected, but here we are today, my seven-year-old self and I, hand in hand, in unison, running through the sprinkler together. Without her I would be empty, I wouldn’t see the irony and sadness in spending my life in pursuit of a hollow dream - of sex and office blocks and jealousy and superficiality. But here we are, and finally the words are coming out.

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