Writing, I'm sure, is for many writers a clever trick to avoid having to bottle up troubled inner thoughts, by spewing and weaving them into properly formed prose, regardless how bad it sounds raw or with work. I've given up on writing for longer than I should have for the latter, and have gone back into the game for the former. I've gathered up my work through the years in poem collection and journals, in the hope I would one day have the courage to let them seep out into the world. And I've recently had to face the crushing pressure of university, rediscovering oneself in a world where so many are competing for a chance to shine, of finding meaning when one realises there is no great goal for life in this universe. Thus, here I share these antiquities of my childhood, juxtaposed to the challenges of my present as a young adult.