Ed Sheeran – X (Multiply)


Ed Sheeran - X (Multiply)

This album came out last Monday 23rd and I’m already addicted to it. Maybe I’m a bit biased, because I certainly love Ed Sheeran’s lyrics and voice, but I assure you this album is pure gold. So far, my favorites are “Don’t” (which is supposedly about fellow singer Ellie Goulding), “Nina” (about a past love), “Bloodstream” and “The Man”. Give it a try if you can, I’m sure you won’t regret it.


Random Sunday Story: Lacy Lace



Lacy Lace was only fourteen when her parents found her lifeless body laying on the left side of her bed. But it didn’t matter for her, as she grew to love the cemetery she was later buried in. The green grass grew all around her grave, the elms provided a great shadow above her and summer days were spent in bliss observing lost lovers who had misguidedly entered the cemetery. Lacy Lace looked upon them with marvelous delight. Their bodies full of life and breath provoked a strange warm feeling of despair in her. Morgan Moth, her neighbor from the grave next to hers, sat in silence every time an old lady arrived to set flowers on her dead husband’s grave. Morgan Moth was an old lady herself when she passed, but no one ever brought her flowers now that she was dead, just as no one had ever brought her flowers when she was alive. Lacy Lace knew that her neighbor didn’t like to share her life story with anyone, but she had guessed she was a lonely woman from the envious yet wishful way she observed the lovers or the families that often came into the cemetery.

Lacy Lace was only fourteen when her parents found her lifeless body laying on the left side of her bed, but now she was much more. She was a ethereal spirit, a soul without a vessel, a chilly feeling down living people’s backs. Lacy Lace liked to greet their parents in this manner every time they came to visit her. Maybe that was why they had not gone in a very long time. She wondered if they had found bliss somewhere else, just like she had found bliss in a grave. After years of suffering, laying on the left side of her bed, Lacy Lace had found bliss in death.

That day, when the cemetery guard had closed the gates at 5pm, as usual, Lacy Lace spied him through the bushes and spotted him hanging a sign on the entrance: “Breath should be held when passing the cemetery as breathing is disrespectful to the dead”. Her breathless giggles were manifested in the crowing of a crow, who also seemed to find the sign extremely funny. As usual, David Daith locked the gates and returned to his little barrow at the center of the cemetery. He passed the graves of his lifeless friends and greeted each of them. “Good night, Maggie May”, “Sleep tight, Morgan Moth”, “See you tomorrow, Lacy Lace”.

Lacy Lace liked the guard. He was tender in his grave cleaning. He liked to trim the bushes in peculiar forms and one of his favorite pastimes was cutting flowers and bringing them to abandoned, unvisited graves. Lacy Lace had seen him bringing peonies to Morgan Moth’s grave once, and had noticed the gleam of her eyes when she had noticed them after returning from her silent wandering. He never touched her own grave, though.

After silently replying to David Daith’s farewell, Lacy Lace approached the cemetery gates, like she usually did at night. She fitted her invisible head between the bars and sighed, as dawn was her least favorite time of the day. Moments crept upon her like breath had crept away from her the night she passed. She thought of the new sign adorning the gates, and would have liked to write something else: “Watches should be stopped when passing the cemetery as time is trivial to the dead”.



It’s currently raining outside, I think I’m hearing some thunders too. Well, no, I’m not hearing them, because I (as usual) am listening to music through my headphones. Blasting music through my headphones, I should say. A ginger named Ed Sheeran is serenading me today. My aunt’s furry white dog is sitting next to my feet, trembling like she always does when there’s a storm. She’ll be fine, though. She is fine. Oh, there’s also a lighting storm.

Summer storms are my favorite. The smell of rain is my favorite. The chilly air after a row of hot days is my favorite.

I took a selfie earlier and I noticed that my collarbones are showing. I’ve been losing weight and I’ve been feeling more confident lately. I feel like I need to go shopping to complete my make-over.

In spite of the warm feelings I could have today, I also feel like a slacker. Mostly because I’ve been procrastinating more than usual and I still have a Final to sit in July, 2nd (one day after my birthday). So, today instead of reading Shakespeare’s “King Lear”‘s themes and motifs, I’ve been mellowly listening to Ed Sheeran’s new album (X “Multiply”) and making playlists.

Summer is here, it’s Tuesday, and it’s raining.


Random Sunday Story: Blended



I like to believe this is what you did to me. I was like dark tea in a porcelain cup, unsweetened and strong. I had always thought that life within porcelain walls was the usual: I was determined to feel lonely. I was self-centered. I was sad. I wasn’t aware of my loneliness until you got here and unexpectedly blended up in my life. You, like milk, were fresh, light, sweet. You, like milk, were a healthy blow. Maybe you hit me right when I needed it, and you made my life within porcelain walls become a blended mixture of feelings. I can’t describe with words what it was like.

But as I look into this picture and think of you, I push myself to compose a short piece about you, about what I’ve become after you.

They say it’s hard to rely on other people, especially after being let down so many times before. I guess that was what scared me at first. But it was worth it.

The whirlwind you created in my life was… refreshing. Yes, refreshing. Your traits created a turmoil in mine. You influenced my nature, we became one. Now I say thank you every day to whichever phenomenom that brought you into my life. Thank you, universe. Tea days are gone, porcelain walls are not constraining anymore.

Shakespeare, Sonnet XVIII


Been reading this in preparation for one of my finals, and God, I love it.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st;
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.


And we did, Will. We saw your lover’s fairness -we read about it in your poetry.
Here you go, folks. One more proof that poetry/writing is a tool for inmortality.