My Dear Friend,
I still wonder what it would be like if smoke hadn’t drifted across the road all those years ago. Maybe you would still be here celebrating your seventeenth birthday. Your smile would still be brightening people’s days, your teasing jokes still making me roll my eyes. I wonder if you knew how much you would be missed. Did you know how many tears would be shed once you left us? Did I even know how much you meant to me?
We grew up together, our families were almost one. Your sister was and still is my best friend, but you were always there to add fun to whatever strange game we happened to be playing. As we grew older, you joined us less and less. You had your own pursuits, new friends, but when I came over for lunch, you would still talk to me as we used to. We were still good friends despite our...
My brain feels like a salad
All mixed an chopped 'til ragged
Ideas become invalid
So I write this lovely ballad
Ideas are like tomatoes
All squished like mashed potatoes
Misplaced 'til they decompose
So here I write this weird prose
We can't forget the carrot
With no ideas to merit
I feel like a parrot
And no one wants to read it
This tells the story of how my brain was eaten by the monster names School. RIP and I never knew something likes to eat salad that much.
The rain sees the world through a kaleidoscope. Each time I fall from the sky, the world around me is reinvented with a new life, a new story, a new reflection. Most of the time it is entertaining, but sometimes I let myself get too close, too attached. That is what happened with The Girl.
I fell from the sky onto a wooden cross. The Girl’s white knuckles clutched the dark wood, her rain-soaked arms trembling from the cold. Slowly, I began to adjust to my surroundings. The expanse of what I saw stunned me. The crowd of children around me stretched for what seemed like eternity. I had never realized there were so many children on the earth. Dirtied clothes and matted hair adorned their muddied bodies and faces. They were an eclectic and ragged bunch, but what they lacked in vigor they had five times that in belief. Some bore crosses, some emblems, but all possessed a grim...
tears stream down my face/i told myself it wasn't true
my breath comes in ragged gasps/i dreamed for a miracle
the world seemed to spin around me/why did this hit me so hard
i can't hear anything except a rushing /i guess being told finally makes it real
“Who me?” I asked, doing my best to sound innocent. My job at this point was to keep Marty guessing. I just needed to buy a little bit more time for Josh, my twin brother.
“Yes you, young sir.” Marty stared down at me through her evil librarian eyes. She wasn’t really a librarian, I just thought she looked like one. I mean, she had the tight bun, glasses, and stern glare. “This is the fourth time you told me you forgot your pencils in class.” I smirked at Marty. Maybe I should have come up with a more creative excuse. “I think you're up to something.” The humor in the room was evident. Everybody knew about the trick Josh and I were going to play on Marty. She was that evil sub that nobody liked, not even the janitor. I’m pretty sure the teachers knew not to expect you to get anything done when Marty was your sub....
It would be rated PG-13 maybe even R for language(What do you expect? Public school hallways are not kid-friendly) and mild dark themes. It would have strange mixture of comedic happy scenes where I somehow can laugh at my own mistakes, and depressing ones that deal self-confidence issues hidden behind a facade.
It would be filled with random dance numbers in the most unrealistic places. (And yes, I do somehow manage to restrain myself during passing-period. Barely) Mostly it would be me dancing while others stared, but sometimes my friends would join me.
It would have mild romantic dreams, but nothing actually happening. I know, I know. It's sad. Sometimes I think the most hopelessly romantic people have the hardest time.
It would include a lot of philosophical rants and random mind tangents because... Have you ever wondered why everything needs to be so political and divisive? I mean, a worldwide pandemic should be...
Where life doesn't cost happiness
Where love doesn't cost fear
Where sickness doesn't plague everyone
Where none shed a tear
When joy comes so easily
When hope isn't lost
When friends don't give up on me
When peace doesn't cost
Where there is equality
Where no one is judged
Where someone will set me free
Where all will be loved
I'm pretty sure everyone writes about writers block at some point. So I am not going to do it. Instead, I am going to write about things you can write about instead of writing about writers block. Here goes.
1. A description of a scene.
You don't have to write the scene, just write the description. Write about how you would start the scene. Here's my example.
Fynne stood alone in the forest. But this wasn't a normal forest; it was a broken forest, a dead forest. The trees were bare of leaves and devoid of colors. To Fynne, it seemed strange how much the forest resembled battlefield. The trees served a dual-purpose. They were both the bodies strewn across the ground, and the arrowheads, sticking conspicuously out of the dried earth.
2. A description of your desk or workspace.
Sometimes its good to practice descriptions, and in my opinion, a workspace can tell a lot about a person. Again,...
"Ew, I hate writing."
"I guess that's good for you."
"I'm just too lazy."
These are all responses I have gotten after telling people that I like to write. It's almost like I'm that one kid at school who has the weird hobbies. Most of the time, people seem disgusted or the just don't care. I've just about stopped telling my friends that I write when they ask what has kept me busy all summer.
Why do I have to feel afraid that people are going to judge me just because I like to write. If I said that I am a volleyball player that would probably just make me more popular. Why the difference?
That's why I seek community here. A place where we are all united by the same thing. I love to write things and a desire to get better. Sometimes I pretend that you guys are people I know from my regular life, people who have...
how do you teach respect/by showing respect/being respectable?
how can you show those around you how to respect/who to respect/when to respect?
respect is for your elders/your friends/your siblings/your enemies.
even the hardest one - people who are different from you
the people who vote different from you/the people who believe different from you/the people who think different from you/the people who live different from you
all this hate could be solved by one thing/one thing could quell the violence
you can disagree/but still respect
how do you teach respect
help me understand
How do you dream?
Do you dream in colors and lights?
Smells and tastes?
My dreams aren't made of ballads or sonnets.
They don't use Shakespearean languages or metaphors.
The words don't flow like music out of a master musician or water through a stream.
Truly, I cannot tell you how I dream.
The memories of my dreams fade fade faster than the morning dew.
Do I dream in colors or sound, tastes or smells?
Maybe my dreams are in ideas and pictures.
Ideas give me emotions to feel.
Pictures give me the way to feel.
Does this tell you something about me?
Will it tell you how hopelessly romantic I am?
How I dream and overthink everything?
I live by emotion rather than logic.
I don't want to see people hurting.
I live my life in vibrant colors and gut feelings.
I dream through emotion, how do you dream?
I don't like the saying "The pen is mightier in the sword."
I've known from a young age what that saying means. It means that you should use your words to convince others rather than your muscles. The pen can win any battle with only proverbial bloodshed.
But is it really the pen that is mighty?
What about the hand that wields the pen? After all, the hand is the mastermind of all of the pen's successes.
Without the hand, there would be no pen. So I say, the hand is mightier than the sword.
But the cutting edge of the blade is also guided by the hand. Where would the sword be if left in the sheath?
The hand is the director of the show. It guides the pen and sword, telling them where to move and what to say.
It is the knight charging into battle. It picks its weapon with careful precision.
The hand is the mastermind of the evil...
It couldn’t take much longer, he thought. A day or two at most. He sat down at his big maple desk and wrote a promise. A promise to remember the things long forgotten. He wrote of the stories. The legends and tales of faraway places, a time long gone. He wrote of the spells of the ancient ones and the practices of the mages. Time was limited, but memories are eternal. Even when lost in the deepest darkness, memories will remain unmarred. So that is what he wrote of. Not only did he write memories, but he wrote memories of memories. Two days at most before they would come knocking on his door. He had committed a travesty unimaginable to others. He had done something unforgivable. He had remembered. He had told stories. And he was going to be punished. It had started simply; a fairy tale told to a street urchin. As is the nature of anything in his...
Some may say they hate humanity.
Others say they hate ideas.
Hatred isn't for humanity. It isn't for the broken. We are all equally terrible, equally broken, equally defeated.
Hatred is for the ideas that cause that cause the brokenness; for the thoughts that draw out the evil.
Hatred is for the acts of oppression, the belief of superiority, the acceptance of maltreatment.
No one, absolutely NO ONE, should be persecuted because of their belief. No one should be hurt for the way they look. But I still don't hate the people that hurt them. Yes, I hate the acts they do, but we are all human, and we make mistakes.
Humanity is for love. How can we hope to rid the world of acts of hatred when we are committing the exact same crime that we are protesting against? Don't hate the people, hate the hatred. blind others with your love and kindness. Show them how strong, how secure,...
I think humans prefer to look at life through a mirror rather than through a window.
We as a society have an unnatural tendency to ignore everything we don't agree with. Anything that makes us uncomfortable goes in the back of our minds. Instead of facing life head on, we prefer to reflect the truth, positioning our mirror so that we only see what we want to see. Mirrors are just so convenient...We love seeing the way that they reverse everything. The truth of our transgressions turns into absolute innocence. The atrocities being committed around the world every second are completely forgotten. A mirror shows us what we want to see, not the truth.
That's why humans should learn to look through a window. Instead of standing next to each other and talking through the mirror, we should stand face to face. We need to look through the window at everything on the other side. We need to see and acknowledge...
a moment/fragment/piece of memory/second in time/captured forever/context forgotten/piece of a picture/picture of peace/smiling light/broken dream/memory forgotten/lost deep in the abyss/want to remember/what happened is gone/photograph shows me/the past is rerun/can i remember what has been undone/frozen evermore/past in a frame/photograph hangs/will i remember again?
How should we measure time that has passed?
Minutes seem too trivial.
Seconds move too quickly.
Hours are too hard to swallow.
Months are too confusing; they aren't even all the same length.
By years then? Hours? Decades?
Should we even measure time at all?
Do I really want to count my life away?
If I can't enjoy this moment in life, what will I ever enjoy?
It seems just yesterday that I was striding confidently through the halls of elementary school, so proud of how mature I was.
Now, I hold my breath and bite my tongue.
I wait, hoping each second that time freezes.
I no longer want to grow older.
I want to stay in high school forever.
I want to keep learning about fascinating subjects, and meeting new friends, and writing about life.
But I know that isn't possible.
If I sit here dreading the next second, then nothing good will ever come of me.
The sky would flow beneath me like the current on a never ending stream.
My obstacles would be like clouds of mist; inconsequential enough to brush away.
I would soar high above my fears, leaving them to stew while I float high in the atmosphere.
The eagles would keep me company, showing me how to be brave and strong.
My dreams would loom ever nearer, almost tangible in the cool air around me.
I would be friends with the larks and learn lessons from the swallows.
I could be free from my anxiety and frustrations.
Nothing would hold me down.
I would no longer wonder if I was constantly being judged.
I could forget the pressure telling me to always be perfect.
I would be confident that there is a place that I belong.
I would be free.
Free to reach above the trivial things of this world and to touch the moon.
If only I had wings.
I've known freedom.
Freedom when I choose how to live.
Freedom when I am not held back by uncontrollable powers.
I've even known the freedom of rules.
Rules that taught me how to be safe. Why to be safe.
Even the rules that I hate give me freedom.
But I want to know how to give freedom to others.
How can I help the oppressed?
How can I make a difference?
Can these questions really be answered?
Am I free to make a difference?
I struggle and still do not know.
Where do I find the freedom to free other?
Someone please give me the answer.
Please show me how to solve the unsolvable problem.
The answer have always seemed so logical, so easy.
I have always known the answers intuitively.
But now I don't know and I don't know how to know.
Someone teach me how to help.
Fifty doesn't seem like a lot most of the time.
Fifty minutes is how long a class period is.
Fifty seconds isn't even a minute.
But fifty followers...
Fifty different people who took time to read my brain vomit.
Fifty different times someone decided they were interested.
Not that I should be defined by a number.
I would be worth just as much if I had two or a thousand.
But for now, I like the number fifty.
So thank you.
Being in public high school is a lot like baking cookies. To really show you what I mean, I decided to write you a generic recipe.
1. Gather the ingredients
Grab a bunch of seemingly random ingredients together. What an eclectic group. In fact, the only thing they have in common is the fact that they all come from the same area of the grocery isle.
Grab a bunch of seemingly random teenage children. Even more diverse than the cookie ingredients. Still, the do all seem to live in a similar area of the county.
2. Mix the ingredients
Put all the ingredients in the mixer. Mix until they won't combine any more. Hopefully they turn into something a little more cohesive.
Bring all the kids to school on the first day. Mix up all the friend groups, the cliques, the grades, the ability levels. Stick 'em into random classes with...
To the people I ignored.
To the one I should have smiled at.
To the piece of gum I should have shared.
To the person I should have helped with homework.
I'm sorry I couldn't be brave enough to smile.
I'm sorry I couldn't bring myself to offer to help.
I should have, but I didn't.
We both lost someone who could have been our friend.
Next time, I will try to be better.
I cannot promise that I will see you, but I can promise that I will remember you,
I will remember you when I offer a stick of gum to the kid who sits next to me in class.
I will remember how much I lost by not being brave enough to speak.
I will bring myself to smile. To offer the gum. To help with homework.
In memory of you, I will help.
I lost my chance for you, but I will help others. ...
crickets sing their story - a constant chirping and chattering of their mouths - loud enough that to notice, but quiet enough that it could be ignored
birds squeal at each other - complaining about the inequalities that define their life in the crown of the tree - they almost sound like monkeys
leaves massage each other - whispering of their dread of the death that is to come - blown by an invisible being entitled wind
bullfrog croaks - once, twice, then once again - bemoaning and groaning the end of the summer sun
dried leaf skitters across pavement - screaming out memories of a time when life was gossip, and glorious heights - bitter lament of dying dreams
fingers type on keyboard - spelling out the music of creation - capture the sounds of a single moment in a few words
I have always wondered if people perceive the world in the same way.
What if I see the color blue differently than you do? The color I call blue you might call red. We just don't know that there is any difference because that is what we have been taught our entire lives. What if colors are viewed completely differently from person to person. For me, the sky is blue. The sky is blue for you too, but the word blue means a different thing.
I have always been fascinated by this idea that we perceive the world differently.
I look at the world and see different things than you do. Not because one of us is better or worse, but because we each have different things to bring to this earth. We each see something different that is beautiful. We each see a different thing we want to change. Our view on life is completely different and unique.
Where do I put my hope?
I wonder what I rely on to save me.
What is the subject of my adoration?
What is at the center of my life?
I came up with two answers to this question, none of them telling me what I wanted them to.
The first is my grades, or just my works in general. If I preform better than average, that I am better than average by association. Or at least, that is what my brain tells me. If my piece of writing gets a certain amount of likes, if I get a certain amount of followers, if my grades are better than my friends, if I can do one more turn in dance class, then I am finally worth something. This mindset comes from a lack of confidence, but a pride at the same time. That pride I feel with that perfect score lasts only momentarily, leaving me feeling like I don't deserve...
If Scrabble tiles were people, these things would happen:
1. The J, X, Z, and K would band together to start a revolution. They would decide it was unfair that other letters such as E and A get such a disproportionately huge percentage of the tiles. They would advocate to change the makeup of the Scrabble Tiles to give equal representation to each letter.
2. Q would decide that the community of Scrabble Tiles should be a monarchy. And no one would be a better leader than Q himself. Q would band all of the E's and A's into a group to serve as his personal guard. They would battle against J, X, Z, and K for ultimate reign over the community of Scrabble Tiles.
3. The two blank tiles would leave. They would decide that they were done just listening to the whims of others and that they needed to find their own identity. They would embark upon a...
How do I say goodbye when what I'm leaving is an idea?
How do I say goodbye when no one is left.
"People grow apart" is what they saying says, but I don't want to.
I do my best to hold together the piece of a broken bond.
I try to knit the cut strings back together.
Why is this so hard?
Am I the only one who wants the old times back?
Is everyone else so eager to continue on with life that they just want to forget the memories we made together?
I get why the don't want to continue, but I that doesn't stop me from blaming them just a little.
Maybe if they didn't quit so easily... Maybe if they could continue like I'm doing... Maybe thing would go back to normal.
I say that I understand and I don't blame them, but secretly I do.
I just want to laugh with my friends, and hug...
The cloud descends upon you, filling you with a feeling of awesome wonder. The fluttering wings around you bring you joy as the beautiful colors dance. The noise of the wings disturbs the air around you, both gentle and deafening. You never realized how much beauty could actually be present on this earth. You feel tears of joy streaming down your face in a cascade of wonder. You know this is dream, but you don't want it to be one. You want to see this sight every moment from no until the end of eternity. The colors smear together, brushing your cheeks and arms with delicate wings. You have never seen this amount of beauty in the world. You take a deep breath in, and slowly let it go, trying not to disturb the butterflies. The joy of this beauty is something you have never before seen.
The ominous music plays in the background. Stormy clouds fill the skies. The horse bounces on the trampoline. Up and down it continues to bounce. You stare at it the dread choking you. You have no idea why you find this so terrifying, but you do all the same. You can feel the doom impending as the horse continues to bounce up and down. The music grows louder, each second becoming more ominous. It seems to keep time with the bouncing horse. You can feel the chills run up your arms. Why is the this horse so threatening? The bouncing horse should be comical, not this. It is the horse of doom.
The time where the sun kisses the world goodbye.
That bright, burning, ball of plasma that brings warmth to this world leaves.
The sun exits the sky with a fanfare of color, a symphony of light.
I look at the sky and wonder if the sun will return.
Will those bright rays ever again illuminate these dark skies?
Why would it leave with such a dramatic show if it were to come back?
Is it really cruel enough to leave me alone in this dark night?
Alone with nothing to illuminate the evil that is happening all around?
These thoughts are almost enough to embitter the sweet show of sunset.
Then I realize, the sunset isn't a goodbye, it's a see-you-later.
The spectacular painting on the sky isn't the last work of art by a master painter.
That painting is a promise.
It isn't a promise that dark times won't come, for that will never be true.
I want desperately to be loved.
I need to be needed.
Why can't I just go about life not caring what other people think about me? The pressure to impress is a stressor I can't deal with.
I constantly ask myself why I have to think like this. Why do I have to be so self-critical? Why do I have to over-think everything? A simple text from a friend becomes the biggest deal. Did I come off as rude? Overeager? Uninterested? Just plain irritating? Did they just invite me to be polite? But if I decline the invitation it's going to look like I don't care.
Why can't I just love myself for who I am instead of seeking the approval of others?
Every second, I am pounded with self-doubt. Even my writing becomes something I can't look at without cringing.
When did I become this person plagued with a lack of self-confidence?
I look for help. I know where I will find...
You are jumping on a trampoline. The only thing you can process is the up and down motion. Up. Down. Up. Down. Turkey. Duck. Goose. Chicken... Wait What? You keep jumping wondering why you keep jumping. You want stop, but you just can't. Up. Down. Up. Down. Harry Potter. Lord of The Rings. Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe... NO. Why do you keep getting distracted? You should be focusing on the up and down motion. For some reason. Up. Down. Up. Down. You start losing your breath. You really need to stop now before you wear yourself out any more. Up. Down. Up. Down. Hairbrush. Water-glass. Bookmark... You are having a hard time catching your breath now. Why can't you just stop? Up. Down. Up. Down. You know you won't be able to continue this much longer, but you can't stop. Your body is forcing you into a dance that is killing your energy. You can no longer breath....
I stand alone.
Only the raindrops are there to keep me company.
They tell me their secrets in the whisper of noise they make when hitting the concrete.
How wise they must be after all the different lives they have lived.
Maybe they can teach me how to love myself.
I wrap my cold arms around me in a sort of hug.
The rain stings my face as I look towards the gray sky.
I begin to dance.
My feet press against the wet concrete with each motion.
My body works in harmony with the rhythm of the rain.
This is the music I need for my dance, the song of the wild.
The crickets chirping, the bullfrog groaning, the birds whistling.
My arm sculpt the air, reaching out for anything that might save me from drowning.
I can't continue this way any longer.
So again I stand.
The sound of my hard breathing joins the music around me.
How could all of this happened? You are running extremely late for the most important meeting of your whole potato selling career. The number one potato buyer in the entire country sought you out! You hope that you might be able to supply the potatoes for the great potato eating festival. That festival is like no others in the amount of potatoes it sells. At the festival, the potato selling booths are plentiful. Everywhere you look, people are munching on raw potatoes almost as if they are apples. You just hope that your potatoes can be contributed to this joyous event.
You're doing it again. You have completely forgotten about the bigger problem here. You are late to the meeting with Fried Chicken Incorporated. Your business is failing and you need to sign this deal with Fried Chicken Incorporated. You barely stop at the stop sign as you continue to drive. You know you should be focusing on...
It seems so simple.
One of the first words you know.
One of the last ones you truly understand.
What I feel when I look at my family.
That feeling I feel for my friends.
But is that all that love is?
An uncontrollable impulse?
Or is love also an action?
Can I can control who I love?
Should I love those who hurt me?
Those who irritate me?
Those who annoy me?
What about myself?
What if I don't love the person I see in the mirror?
I am broken.
I am torn.
But I am loved.
I am deeply loved by the one who made me.
And I can love.
Through my brokenness, I can love my family.
In the midst of my sorrow, I can love my friends.
Even through the depths of my imperfections, I will love my enemies.
One of the last words you truly understand.
One of the first words you...
Friends are the people who make you feel sane.
They are the people that will stand up for you when no one else will.
Friends are the people you aspire to be like; people who are funny, kind, and human.
Friends do their best to forgive each other's flaws.
They understand that everyone is human, and humans hurt each other.
But growth comes from hurt just as a rainbow comes after the rain.
Friends are the people who will love you when you feel inside-out and backwards.
Friends help each other through the tough parts of life.
Even through loss, the arms of a true friend is where you want to be.
Friends are the people you can go to when all else is gone.
I understand these things but I still struggle.
How can I be a true friend?
How can I show others that I care?
I dream of a time when true friends are easy to be...
The beauty around me is blinding. Blinding almost to the point that I don't notice it. How am I supposed to appreciate the beauty of the blue sky, green trees, autumn breeze and literally everything else if I am so used to it that I don't notice it. The small pieces of beauty around me are barely even interesting anymore. Why should I care about that one leaf that is the perfect mix of orange, yellow, and red? The buzz and chirp of the hummingbirds as they go through their routine battle over the bird feeders is barely even worth the thought. It's been there all summer, just waiting for me. It's not like there's anything new. In fact, everything is old. Dying flowers just waiting to be claimed by mother natures ice. Summer birds filling up on food only so they can start their journey away. When that happens, I know that I will be upset about how much...
You are flying through the sky on the back of a beaver. You barely even stop to wonder why a beaver is flying. You don't even wonder how the beaver is flying.
"What's going on? you ask the beaver.
"What do you mean?" the beaver replies. "It's all normal in this neighborhood." You wonder whether this means that you routinely fly around on the back of the beaver.
"What's your name?" You think maybe you should get to know the person that happens to be flying you around.
"Thor, god of thunder." Well that's strange, you think. You can feel the wind whipping your hair around and drying your eyes out. Finally, you bring yourself to look down at the ground. Below you is an ocean floor. You look up and suddenly realize that the beaver is swimming deep in the depths of the ocean. The water causes your eyes to blur...
The seed sprouts from the damp soil.
It has no chance, no hope.
The rain bombards it. The sun scorches it. The wind buffets it.
Each time it thinks it has a chance to breathe, it is overcome by something new.
This seed is our world.
When will this all stop? When will the violence end?
That is one question I cannot answer.
If it were up to me, the answer would be now.
But it isn't up to me.
It's up to all of us.
Will you make the choice to let the seed of our planet sprout into something more beautiful?
Why do I write?
Why do I breathe?
I would say that I write for the same reason I breathe, but that really isn't true. It's not like I would die if my keyboard and pencils and pens were all taken away from me. I write because that is who I am. I write to make a difference in the world. I write to express the emotions that I don't feel ready to talk about. I write for communication. I write when I need a place to put the feelings that I think people are going to judge. Writing down those emotions doesn't prevent them from being judged. Writing invites judging. Writing is emotion, and evokes emotion. If you judge me or my writing, I have done my job. If you love my writing, I have done my job. If no one cares, I haven't.
I write to care. To care about people, to care about the world, to care...
The leaf of my houseplant blowing in the fan.
The smell of baking bread.
That one movie I know every line from because that's just how nostalgic it is.
An amazing book.
Learning a new way to do a math problem.
A piece of artwork that just makes my eyes happy.
The smell of a new pencil.
The warm feel of the paper right after I printed something from the school printer.
An inside joke that just a couple people think is funny.
It's the little things that make life worth living
It's the little thoughts that change the world.
In January if you told me this is where I would be right now, I would have laughed at you.
A worldwide pandemic? Absolutely no chance.
Schools cancelled for months? Impossible.
Homeschooling to protect family members? Long shot.
But guess what? I'm here, and not anywhere near where I was expecting to be.
Life is full of the unexpected. In fact, you aren't really living if you haven't been surprised at least once.
"See you sophomore year..." We jokingly said as we exited the building that last day of school.
I knew for a fact that we were not going to be doing online school that long.
Everyone was just thinking wishfully when they said we wouldn't be back until next year.
Maybe it was just me thinking wishfully.
The two weeks of online school turned into two months.
Hopefully it won't turn into two years.
But I can't say.
I've learned my lesson that anything can happen.
“So how do I know what decision to make? If they’re so important, how do I make sure I’m not making the wrong decision?” Atlas asked.
“Life isn’t about the decisions you make." Spear responded, "It’s what you do with those decisions. You may have heard the saying, ‘it’s not the destination, but the journey’. I like to rephrase that to a different saying. ‘It’s not the road you take, but the way you take it.’”
“I still don’t get what you’re saying.” Spear was talking in riddles, and Atlas didn’t like it. She had no idea what Spear was trying to tell her.
“The right path is important, but follow the wrong fork and you aren’t stuck. Don’t ever let yourself be forced into doing something that you know isn’t right just because that is where your path led. I’ve made that mistake too many times. I want you to know that it isn’t the only...
I'm supposed to be doing my history homework.
But sometimes I have to let myself shirk.
That's why I'm here instead of there.
This pointless poem with you I will share.
Definition - the process of being alone or apart from others.
But is that really what it means?
You isolate because you get exposed.
You isolate to protect others.
I didn't get exposed, but I am still trying to protect others.
I see my friends return to school.
I return to online school.
School for me has turned into a verb not a noun.
I don't go to school. I do school.
I find myself isolated.
Isolated from my friends, only in contact with my family.
But are they really my friends if we stop talking once we don't come in contact with each other?
I care about them, but do they care about me?
I want to believe so, and I do.
But deep down inside, a doubt worms its way through.
It tells me that I'm not good enough, not pretty enough, not smart enough, not skinny enough.
It tells me that I'm obnoxious and irritating, no...