The Sun is your friend. She gives you advice on difficult days, and her beams cradle you when you are upset - they have since you were but a mere infant. You seek her warmth when every other part of you is cold - cold fingers, cold toes, cold heart. She takes you in when you're shivering after getting out of the water and the towel has been rendered useless. You love the way you feel when you are playing with the Sun, the way her light shines on you as if it was only for you.
You are 5 when you start to drift apart. Get out of the Sun, they say, you'll get all dark. Because dark is ugly and white is pretty and no one loves an ugly girl. And you are sad to leave, but they must be right. They are older, after all, and older is wiser just as dark is ugly.
I've always had an aggressive edge to myself, one that eggs me on and carries me through life. It reflects in my manner of speech, and my actions. I'm not always proud of my forthright behaviour, and I know when I need to dial it down. I know when the world has no time for my outbursts or my dramatic diatribes. But I also know when it does.
I aggressively believe in the Creator - how could I not?
When I see the fierce fervor of the majestic mountains,
The passionate euphony of the chirping birds,
The intense zeal of the flowing rivers,
And how perfectly they all fit together.
Yet I see the outright hatred, the vehement diatribes, the hurtful blows, and with every hit, it seems harder and harder to pick myself back up and say, "I believe."
But that's the thing with aggressive people, isn't it? We won't succumb.
I see the people coming together, I see...
I decided that I was going to win the Tour de France when I was 10. I remember racing towards the paper in anticipation, when they announced that Odiel Defraeye won in 1912. A fellow Belgian! And he was Flemish too, just like me. I dreamed of the day when I would be the headline news. I would return to my small hometown to the cheers of my neighbor: “Thomas! Thomas! Thomas!” And there would be chocolates named after me, and I would get free apples from the grocer for the rest of my life, because I had made him so proud.
That was 108 years ago. I have yet to win the Tour de France, but that’s only really because I haven’t yet had a chance. You see, there were just too many distractions. And don’t say I didn’t work hard, because I did. But you don’t want to tire yourself out before the big race, do you? I...
Hey fellow writers! I have a question for you all: Are any of you thinking of doing Nanowrimo? I know I am, but I'm not sure I'll find the time and motivation to write a full-length 50,000 word novel, so I might do a truncated word goal. I have an outline and characters and so on, but they're not perfectly fleshed out yet.
Additional question if you said yes to the first one: are you a pantser or a plotter?
No one makes a sound, but I can still hear noise. It pounds in my head like a blacksmith with his hammer. On either side, the enemy threatens to close in, surrounding my defenses with their menacing shrieks and malefic cries. It has been two hours, but the fighting was ceaseless. Neither side was ready to surrender, but I was beginning to give up, and the fierce ambiance gave way to an eerie, lugubrious, static. In between the moments of bellicose combat, I can almost see my enemy disappearing, and suddenly, what was so indestructible moments ago feels just a little easier to defeat.
Your imagination will be your own worst enemy. It haunts me when I perambulate through the path that takes me to school, when the sound of rustling of hair makes me turn back in terror. When my duties take me late into the night, where even a shadow can transform into a Chimera. But perhaps, the...
In its most ubiquitous sense, the word is a
Cradle for early printed works
In 1501, the anthology ended, so now we
Cradle the exclusive collection like an infant
In the incipience of a word we study, we see a
Cradle of etymology, with an aperture for the development of language, for example
In, in an ethereal sense the single syllable
Cradles rumination, a miracle,
In itself so sublime, yet with the next syllables,
Cunae, cradle it with love, the word takes on a new meaning, enveloping the letters to create
Cradle of cradles, beginning of beginnings
In another life I would have seen the beginning, the
Cradle of civilization, the Fertile Crescent
In Mesopotamia, Ancient Egypt, incunabula of settled farming
Cradling the crops in its soil
In viewing myself, do I see incunabula, do I hold the
Cradle of an art form, or rather a theory, perhaps even a study
In following years, will my...
“Read a book”. Whether they were an avid or reluctant divulger of the written word, almost every child has heard this sentence from their elders. The reasons were simple and ingrained an impenetrable truth into their minds—readers are smarter, more knowledgeable, and more sophisticated than their plebeian counterparts. There is inherent value in reading, but despite the intellectual benefits, my mind always drifted to something more. Previously, novels were frowned down upon as lesser literature. Books were not only for the geniuses, rather, they were for the whimsical, dreamy, and imaginative.
My relationship with books as a young child always remained steady. As soon as I stepped back into my home after a trip to the library, I plopped down on an armchair and started reading. If the book was particularly riveting, I would spend the next hour or so in that same position until I finished it. After turning over the final page, I would reflect on that book...
I live in a world of my own creation, mountains made of words that can't quite reach the peak, canyons made of letters that tumble and flow with the river, and every crevice is unfinished. When I dare to dream, and dare to think, I learn and I fill in this unfinished portrait of my mind, where grammar doesn't matter and there is no limit on how much you can write. I imagine a sublimely disastrous world, and I believe in it.
32 multiplied by 56. Jan furrowed her brows. 30 multiplied by 56 and then 2 multiplied by 56. It was simple. 1792. Easy as that. Jan relaxed, her shoulders loosening as she sat back in her chair, thinking of more problems to do as the time passed.
She had been doing this kind of math ever since she was young. Ma would sometimes come home late after scrubbing floors, and while Jan was apprehensively waiting for her, she would come up with questions to do in her head. Math was simple, a huge contrast to life, which was complex and convoluted and sometimes nothing would ever add up. To Jan, Math wasn’t about finding the solution, Math was the solution. Emotions were the problem.
The real world, you see, was Jan’s enemy. It had been cruel to her. If it was up to Jan, she would just sit in this chair for the rest of her life, doing nothing but...
It's really warm today, eh?
No, I think ngoi min bei gaau laang.
Désolé, madame. Je pense qu'aujourd'hui, il fait froid, et je dois porter mes...mittens?
And so, a hybrid is formed. I have had a long interest in language and the way it shapes our thinking. Are we really limited by the language we think in? Perhaps. So, learning a new language and holding on to your roots can't hurt, right? Not if you aren't particularly fluent in any of them. Somehow, I think that's the beauty of multilingualism. Slang doesn't come from a dictionary; slang forms and reforms the dictionary.
I think about the Merriam-Webster Dictionary a lot. The 3rd edition was wildly controversial for the way it inserted slang into what was supposed to be an official document on the state of the English language. In a lot of ways, I can relate to the dissenters. Where am I going to check...