An overused cliché.

“Important things are inevitably cliché but nobody wants to accept that.” – Chuck Klosterman

Be it a ring in the cake, a stereotypical place in the house or an overused phrase, clichés are inevitable. Why do we detest them as much as we do?

  • I was broke and broken. My house was as big a mess as my life, and you couldn’t walk one step into my house without stepping on a shattered and scattered piece of my heart. The morning birds sang a chirpy song of flight and life, a flutter on their faces that seemed to be a smile. I felt a pull, a small whisper in my ears asking me to walk beside the ocean and I did. The sand was wet against my feet, the sun bright against my eyes and I sat down. And it felt nice, because I heard the same voice whisper a cliché in my ears, and I believed him : You’ll be okay.
  • She was looking at the computer screen, the keyboard a little wet as her tears flowing down her flushed cheeks. Her pupils moved frantically as she replayed the incident over and over in her head. A few hours ago, her husband had asked her to stop working, leave her career and stay at home all day from now on. Women are never stay-at-home, cook and smile kind of people, no one is. We are all “I am human and I’ll do what I want”. She had asked why a thousand times and the only reply she got was a cliché : that is where women belong.
  • They were a cliché and they were fine with it. He cooked for her, she bought roses for him and he proposed in a fancy restaurant with the ring in the cake. They had two kids, grew old together and got to say when they were eighty and together that they made it. They were happy.
    They were happy being a cliché because if you miss your chance, clichés won’t be cliché anymore. Forever would become a fake promise and you would run out of time.

Make sure you don’t run out of time. Fight against the bad clichés and smile for the right ones. This might be a cliché, but be happy. Smile.


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Languages, medicines and magicians.

What has music been for you? Let me know in the comment section below! Enjoy reading. Instagram handle: @myspirals


“Music is a safe kind of high.” – Jimi Hendrix

Music is a language, a medicine and a magic trick. Dance to it.

  • Music was his mother-tongue. His tongue fumbled when he spoke English as if it were a foreign language that he hadn’t heard all his life, but when he was alone, he hummed a tune and did not miss a single note. He stuttered and shied away from conversations with strangers, but sang songs with a broad grin around camp fires. When he wasn’t feeling alright, he would shut out completely and listen to music as he thought and thought about what had gone wrong, but you could find small clues hidden in his playlist to make him feel alright.
  • Her soul had been crushed into absolute pieces and her heart had cuts all over. There was a constant ache, that seemed to run like blood in her veins and pillows couldn’t drown it out. But earplugs seemed to drive the pain away completely, or at least numb it. As the lyrics stopped her mind from wandering about, and the music brought her a much-needed gift, she could smile without wanting to scream. Music was her band-aid and no one could rip it off her scars. For her, music was like a steady dose of pain-killers and peace. Music was the only pillow that could drown out the screams, and it was the only shoulder she could cry on.
  • He was broke and broken, but managed to get into the bar right across the street. He needed to feel lost and alive, and so he stepped onto the dance-floor swarmed with broken hearts and night-outs. The music was loud enough to make him disappear as his feet moved about in an unsteady pace. The broken pieces of his heart rattled against each other, but no one could hear it. The pieces slammed against each other and broke into smaller pieces until all that was left was dust. He smiled as he took the dust and blew on it, as if it were fairy-dust and his wishes were going to come true.

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