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ConstellationsEvery night it was the same; they would lay a towel large enough for the two of them in the backyard, turn off all of the lights and lie down just in time to see the sunset and the stars rise.
Every night he would turn to her, point out a different constellation and tell her the story or legend behind each one. In turn she pointed out unidentified constellations where the stars resembled shapes of events that happened in their past.
Every night they found old, and new, constellations.
CalculationsFor him, everything was carefully calculated. The amount of steps he took to get to class maintained a constant count, and the amount of time allotted for homework was exactly 3 hours, 2 minutes and 29 seconds everyday.
When he attended football games, he predicted exactly where the ball would land before it even peaked. While everyone cheered because of an out for the other team, he sat still as though it were just another moment in life.
For him, all of life was precise to the finest detail.
Even in love, he moved as though every move and detail had a number or letter attached to it.
With You"Every time there's a hypothetical situation, you create a new parallel world. For example, we're at the stop light right now, but in another we could be past it, approaching it, or not even on the road.
"In one world you're driving and I'm a girl, or you're a guy in the passenger seat, or we're both girls or both guys and we're both driving our own trucks." He turned the wheel and accelerated as the light switched to green.
Yeah... and in another world we're together, she thought as conversation fell silent on the highway.
Last OneHe turned to her and asked, "Would you be mine if I were the last guy on Earth?" She thought for a moment before she replied.
"No, you're way before that."
The Corner of First and MainIf you walk down the street one day, and go to the corner of First and Main, you'll find a homeless man sitting against the building with his hands cupped in front of his bent legs as though asking for loose change.
A penny, a nickel, he won't take those. No, not even the quarter or dollar bill that you found three blocks away on your way to work. If you try to hand him those he'll shake his head and say, "I won't take your money, but I'll take your beliefs. What's life to you? What's important, and what's not? I have a question for you, one dressed in a suit. Which is more important, your love or your job? Of two important values, which do you value more: the money that keeps your life steady, or the love that moves it along?"
While pondering that thought he smiles and says, "It's not an answer you'll find right away. This is the kind of question you have to wait for it to come true. Only then will you find what you'll really do."
The twenty that you were saving for that daily morning
Wishful Thinking.There are days her eyes droop and she looks at the ground as he whispers in her ear. "It'll be better in time." And strokes her hair as though all the hurt would simply disappear.
There are days her keyboard stares back at her while a friend talks to her over instant messaging. "This will all be easier in time." In the end, they both know it simply might not.
Then there are days that follow each other, where smiles and laughter are all that she's surrounded by.
And there are days that she wishes he could do the same for days at a time.
Clock IIThere's a clock that sits on the wall, the numbers clear from miles away, the steady ticking sounds audible in even a train crash right next to it.
It's a difficult thing for anyone to ignore, but somehow you're doing an incredibly revolutionary job of avoiding the clock every day.
ClockThe clock on that wall on the other side of the room ticks in my ear, and it's just a constant reminder that the end is just another second closer to arriving. Yet you stand there with oblivion surrounding you, unaware of the impending end.
Maybe you can't hear the clock, and that may as well be my fault for I've never told you that it's mounted on that wall for as long as anyone can remember. On the same argument, maybe it's also your fault for you've never taken the time to consider the existence of the clock that ticks on the other side of the room.
But maybe being aware of the clock just makes all of our problems known.
Sense of SmellWhenever she slid into the bed at one in the morning, he knew she had been on the rooftop; he could smell the night sky on her skin, and the nicotine on her lips. He knew when she snuck out to the library; the smell of slowly molding papers and aged pages stuck on her skin and clothes.
When he caught the smells of packaged microwave popcorn, fresh nail polish, and romantic movies, he knew she had been lazing at a friend's house for the day. Sometimes she came home with floral scents as attachments, and he knew that she had spent an hour too long in the garden section of Wal-Mart again.
She smelled of varying things, from the night to the flowers; her taste, however, remained the same. It would always be her, the nicotine, and the blankets beneath them.
Nature.We've overcomplicated life. We've compromised the natural order of things, and what's more we've gotten complacent. Theres a flow to it all, a set of rules nature follows, that works…it work's without us meddling. Our mind's may be our biggest adversary, it feeds our ego, our ego feed's our thoughts, our thoughts feed our actions, and we act like we're superior to nature, when in actuality we are also, nature. We try and figure things out, we conclude answer's that we accept undoubtedly as truth, and this from the people who once thought with all sincerity that the world was flat––it's true until it isn't, that's how it works; which means that there's a heavy chance all we believe to be true, might not be. Why the need to know all, why the need for superiority and detachment from every other living species (over 8 million species, not the amount of them, just the amount of groups of entities we've managed to track, take in mind the ocean is pretty much a big question
Alexander the FakeEver heard of Alexander the Great?
Do you believe he is real, that he existed and did all things we have been told he did? Of course you do. It is in our history books, so it must've really happened.
Alexander the Great ruled in the 300's BC. We know a great deal about him based on written documents giving us historical accounts of his life and deeds. Did you know though, that the only surviving documents of these historical accounts were written 300 or more years after Alexander the Great lived? Yet we trust these documents and the older sources they cite, even though we do not have those older sources available to confirm what is written.
Now what about Jesus? I know many people who do not believe He existed. Yet we have historical documents, both those of the Bible and those unrelated to the Bible that give us accounts of Jesus.
The Biblical documents were written as early as 30 years after the death of Jesus! And non-Bi
Holocaust Reflection : Reflection on UsVisiting the Holocaust Museum is a difficult subject, especially in Israel. Unlike many museums which are houses of a people's history and triumph, this museum is a walk through a people's history and suffering. The Holocaust stands as a mark of identity for modern-day Jews just as World War II stands as a mark of identity for most Westerners of the past three generations (born 1910-1995).
We are now moving into the third and fourth generations past the Holocaust and WWII, where things such as “Nazi” and “Communist” and people such as Hitler and Stalin have become more of a byword than a warning for future generations. Many people are all too likely to associate government actions with the Nazi party and many people are just as ready to roll their eyes.
When visiting Yad Vashem (the site of the Museum) I entered with a reverent and somber silence, in my mind befitting such a chapter of our human history. I found it odd, then, to find teenagers in there laughing,
Was ist nur los mit mir?
Warum bin ich alleine?
Warum fing ich an den Schmerz zu lieben?
Die Welt da draussen wird schwarz
sie lassen mich nicht rein
was ich auch tue
es nützt nichts!
Ich muss sie ertragen
die Kälte der Einsamkeit
nie fühlte ich mich so verstossen
Noch seh ich den Sinn nicht darin
warum all diese Entäuschungen
all diese falsche Freundlichkeit
was ist los mit dieser Welt?
Bin ich es??
Ich atme tief ein
und schlucke die Qual,
ich möchte blühen wie eine Blume
doch nehmen sie mir das Licht
ich ersticke an meiner Fröhlichkeit!
Was soll ich glücklich sein
wenn es keinen gibt
mit dem ich das Glück teilen kann
ich will es nicht behaltet es!
Wenn ich doch nur
meine Augen schliessen könnte
und mich einfach nur
in Luft auflösen könnte!
Nie mehr diese Trauer ertragen zu müssen
würde ich mir wünschen!
Doch leider bin ich hier
und ertrage nüchtern
Who Am I?Nobody, to be straightforward.
Like the common individual, living my life, scuttering along this earth like an ant. But, an ant with a destination in mind. A somewhat unclear path that I tread on, with an occasional fallen tree, a fog so dense that I become disoriented, a storm so lasting that I mistake a tear for a rain drop. But I know these unfortunate obstructions degrade eventually. Over time, the withering timber will accumulate new life on it's decaying surface. The white mist will evaporate, and the path will once again be clear. The storm will pass, and the sunlight will shine beyond the clouds. No matter if I have a mountain in my path, nothing will stop me. It could take days, weeks, maybe months to climb such a height, but time is not a factor. I am as patient as I am also strong. Soon, this path will come to an end. I will reach the sands, the crash of the surf will exhaust itself on the shores, and return to the foam-laced sea. An endless cycle. Do I r
Raw hopeThis is raw hope. This isn't structure, this isn't style. This is "universe looking itself through new eyes" - through eyes that are trying to solve a problem, to learn a lessson. This is pure hope, this is believing in future, beliveing that this has a purpose.
This is something that I would delete, throw away, regret. I've written a few; now deleted. I've told myself that I won't delete it. I have deleted them. This is life, this is an attempt to jump into the flow, and in the end think that it was a pretty good ride. This is a permission slip. This is an untamed dream. Of a possiblity.
Not a dream of writing, but possibly. This is a message that says: i'm somewhere. I exist. I want to make you aware of it, I want to see, to feel, to create. I want to be the universe looking itself through new eyes and think to itself that it's okay. That it's allowed. This message is a open-handed invitation to life, hope and dreams.
I have a lot of personalities. I would like to write about them. I
65. HorrorWith a title of "Horror," you would expect me to write something of sterotypical horror; the gore and violence, or even zombies or ghosts, that the population's mind is predominantly set to when they hear "horror."
No, its none of those, I'm sorry to say; but I shall speak of the horror of loneliness surrounding you, while the world around you binds together.
How would that be, for horror in life? How often do we come along loneliness and take it with much disdain? More than we encounter zombies I should think.
Some are taken by this horror much more than others; and I for one start to wonder what happens later on down the road if they let it affect them. I always wonder what happens: do they continue to live by themselves in this world, or do they eventually grow out of it, and move on from the past?
It scares me sometimes, to realize that some of the people close to me, are haunted by this everyday of their lives, having to live in their own world, alone.
HomesickI am the river's son,
my arteries flowing turquoise
and turning to rapids
rushing around my frame,
filling me with this sense
of buoyancy, minnows
tickling my sternum.
I am the river's son.
My palms caress each
silty shoreline, every
battered bank and bend,
and these places I know
so well become me
as my fingerprint,
even the bridge above me
inflamed by the afternoon
sun-glow, burning rusty and
the steel blue sky.
I am the river's son;
I bring my home along
like hermit crab,
where I step
I pull water from the earth.
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More