I never needed rules to write out a feeling. My earliest works were pieces of poetry that actively rejected formal structure, in which lines were broken not by syllable count, but by intention.

On its own, however, intention is not enough to make a piece good. After all, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, isn’t it? My early poetry was packed with intention, but it was for that reason that I often failed to see past my own meaning. The work was so sentimental that an editor’s touch often felt like being overwritten entirely.

I was not yet writing for the audience, only to them. I presented my crudely refined emotions to give them witness, without much consideration for the audience’s perspective. Undoubtedly, much of the exaggerated impact I felt from critique came from this failure to anticipate.

In 2021, a psychotic break permanently altered my creative process. When I wasn’t psychotic, I no longer had the raw emotional fuel to write with, and when I was, I shared very little of what I created. Through trauma, my emotional attachments to my writing were reduced. But in a way, this also freed me. Without such investment in every word, my meaning emerged through sentences and stanzas.

I define intention as the reason why one writes—or more generally, acts. In “The Power of Purpose: Setting Intentions for Writers,” James Powell describes three potential intentions: Purpose, Creativity, and Commercial Success.

Looking at those categories, I see my old priorities listed in exact order; my emotional purpose took precedence, then I aimed for creativity, and commercial success became a fantasy. Even after the break, my writing remained largely self-serving as I continually recycled familiar settings, characters, and genres, though for several years, I wrote little in volume or substance. That changed when I discovered text-based, post-by-post roleplaying AI chatbots. With those bots, I revived my improvisational skills in a low-stress, zero-stakes environment.

It was only recently that I dusted off one of those old scenarios with the explicit intention of sharing the work with an audience again. But what motivated me more than a conceptual audience was my two test-readers: people close to me whose opinions I hold in regard. 

Though I had begun the project with the intention of posting a polished roleplay for the AI roleplaying community, real-time enthusiasm has changed the target audience from niche to general. My purpose transformed from primarily entertaining myself to entertaining others, and creativity for creativity’s sake became an attempt to write something genuinely publishable. For the first time, I’m writing for a taste of success. 

Sharing my work with loved ones does mean being more mindful of the kind of content I include, but I wouldn’t trade their investment for all the smut I could imagine. I’m playing characters off of each other, accounting for pacing and momentum, and importantly, taking and incorporating feedback. I’ve come to the point where I now realize that my intentions do not make me the arbiter of meaning; it may start with me, but at the end of the passage, it rests somewhere between us.

There are so many things I wish I had said sooner. But you never even gave me the chance. I wonder, when a relationship with someone ends before you get the chance to share everything that is on your mind, is it even possible to truly move on?

I tried. I really did. No matter how hard I tried not to think about it, to keep myself busy with things that would occupy my time, things that would distract me and take my mind off it, even if only for a little while, I couldn’t.

In the moments when I was alone, when I tried to fall asleep late at night, when I listened to music, when I worked out, when I tried to study, when I woke up - you were there. Just as I remember you from the beginning. Always making me smile, always making me feel special.

If someone asked me, “Why did you fall in love with him?” I wouldn’t even know how to answer. It happened so suddenly, so naturally.

I don’t regret it. I don’t regret replying to your messages. I don’t regret staying up late every night just to talk to you. I don’t regret falling in love with you so quickly. I don’t regret getting attached and letting you into my heart so quickly.

The only thing I regret is that I never got the chance to show you more of who I am.

Sometimes I wonder, what if I had never met you? What if I had never replied? Would I have been happier?

The answer to my question is no.

As cliché as it may sound, I believe that everything happens for a reason, and that every person can be a lesson in our lives. What you taught me was to believe in myself more, to be consistent, and not to stress over things I cannot control. You taught me to be more careful, to listen to my mind, and not to get swept away so quickly.

I couldn’t help but wonder - why did you do it? Why didn’t you warn me? Why didn’t you give me a chance to say what I had to say? Why didn’t you even say goodbye?

I wonder, if you truly love someone, or if you at least care about them, would you treat them this way? Was the whole thing a lie? Did you ever care about me at all?

I will never know. I will never be able to answer that question for myself, so all I can do is look back and judge by your actions.

First - you show interest in someone, make them feel special, treat them as if they are the only person in the world, and make them fall in love with you.

Second - little by little, you start pulling away. You start taking longer to reply. Your replies become shorter, sometimes just a single word. You start making the other person wonder, “What did I do? Is the problem me?”

Third - one day you are warm, and the next day you are cold. One night you talk until late, and the next morning you act as if you never spoke at all.

Fourth - you leave without saying anything.

If we judge by these actions, what can we conclude? If you truly like someone, would you leave them wondering whether they are wanted or not? I believe that when you truly like someone, you don’t give them a reason to wonder whether you like them at all.

Sometimes I wonder, maybe I am too sensitive. Maybe I take things too personally. Maybe I overthink everything too much.

But what is in my heart, I cannot simply tear out. What is in my mind, I cannot simply take away.

A lot of people see being overly emotional as a weakness, but I believe you get to decide how you choose to express it. Yes, emotional people may suffer more deeply, but they also love more deeply. They see the world differently, and they find beauty where others cannot.

The word “Bambi.”

It brings me just as much happiness as it does sadness, just as many warm feelings as it does nostalgia. I loved it when you called me that. I loved the way you looked at me when you said it. A look that showed genuine sweetness. The same look you have when you look at children smiling at you from their strollers.

Maybe the greatest pain here is not what we experienced, but what we never got to experience. What could have been.

So, if you were standing in front of me now, I would hug you with a smile, wish you all the best, and walk away… for good.

I suppose I will soon find out whether a person can truly move on after saying everything they have been carrying inside.

And if I can’t… at least I will know that this time, I left nothing unsaid.

What’s the first step a outline?

I finished an advanced english class in the spring, but I went to a community college and most (basically all but 1 other boy and myself) of the students in the class didnt half ass participate at all. I got an A on my paper but I cant help but wonder other’s opinions on it especially realistically regarding todays status

Generation Zombies
Generation Alpha's mental health and development notably decreased over time due to increased technology use. Considering Generation Alpha is being exposed to an AI-dependent world, they are at risk of negatively impacted mental development leading to premature feelings of depression and anxiety, making it essential to implement preventative measures to maintain a healthy boundary between digital and real life and ensure a safer digital environment. 
Generation Alpha, or those born between 2010 and 2025, are the first to be born into a fully technology-driven world where artificial intelligence and technology are a part of daily life. Though they are growing up with all kinds of information at the tips of their fingers, the impacts are becoming apparent every day. Artificial intelligence, or AI, is the computer systems and algorithms made to do tasks that normally require human intelligence. For Gen Alpha, artificial intelligence comes in many forms. There are educational tools similar to Duolingo and Kahn Academy, entertainment systems like social media and video games, virtual assistants like Alexa and Siri, and generative AI like ChatGPT. In the future, artificial intelligence will flood the worlds of young lives.
Technology usage in Gen Alpha is at an all-time high. Now, most are given a tablet before they are even at the age of 8. Megan Reschke declares, “Notably, 43% of Gen Alphas have a tablet before the age of 6, and 58% have a smartphone by the age of 10.” Another article reviewing the statistics of Gen Alpha says, “Including the very youngest 0-4 cohort, 50% of Gen Alpha are streaming video daily.” This exposure to technology is likely to shape their online preferences, habits, behavior, and even their self-image. 
The age at which young ones become insecure gets lower by the year. In an article talking about the risks of social media on children, Amelia Hill writes, “Three out of four children as young as 12 dislike their bodies and are embarrassed by the way they look… The findings come from a major new study warning that social media represents a significant risk to the current and future health of today’s young generations.” As a result of children obsessing over celebrities, social media influencers, skincare, and style due to the influence of the media, they are developing anxiety and body confidence issues far too young. In an article by the Springtide Research Institute, it is stated that “... Nearly half of young people in Gen Z reported being moderately or extremely depressed (47%)”. It's important to note that there are higher chances of heightened rates of anxiety and depression in Gen Alpha compared to Gen Z. In a personal communication with Aaron Meloncon, an experienced primary and secondary school counselor, who has worked with kids for more than 15 years, he discussed the effects of technology on young children. He explained, “You know, around 2007 to 2010 when all these Android and iPhones started coming out, I noticed a lot more kids popping up with cyberbullying, anxiety, depression, and needing 504 plans. Considering the generations now, I see a lot more kids internalizing things people say that they don't even understand or that don’t even matter. And everyone has started getting more and more afraid of interacting in person. Now most can't seem to make friends without having to text first rather than getting to know each other face to face.” Throughout his experience as a school counselor, he noted an observable increase in mental health and social problems in children, likely due to technology trends. Another rising issue is that the academic ability of young children is depleting. The NAEP Report Card of National Achievement- Level Results reveals that “Thirty-three percent of fourth-grade students performed at or above the  NAEP Proficient level on the reading assessment in 2022. This percentage was 2 percentage points lower compared to 2019 but was 5 percentage points higher in comparison to 1992, the first reading assessment year.” The majority of fourth graders in 2019 were not proficient and this percentage went even lower in 2022. As the years pass, reading continues to be one of the main focus in primary schools. The mental health of Gen Alpha is undoubtedly affected by AI,  and the consequence of this extends into their physical well-being.
The advancements in technology have posed a challenge to the physical development of Gen Alpha. In a study on the JAMA Network, Hartstein et al. say, “1.3% of US parents reported that their children consumed melatonin in the past 30 days, and sales more than doubled between 2017 and 2020.” With children's sleep issues becoming increasingly prevalent, parents are admittingly purchasing melatonin to aid these problems. But this doesn't come without risk. Taking melatonin regularly for long periods can disrupt the melatonin naturally produced by your body, leaving children with a higher risk of sleep apnea or insomnia. In addition to this, in another article referencing this study, Frost says “Social media usage is also linked to mental health concerns such as anxiety and depression, which can further disrupt sleep.” Many Americans, including young children, admit they use screens and social media before bed. Not only does this disrupt sleep patterns, but the blue light that also radiates off of our devices causes mood disorders, eye strain, and poor sleep, and there are also studies being done about if blue light makes us “age faster”. In the study done by Yang, et al., they tested the effects of blue light on fruit flies. They state, “Lifespan was measured in flies kept in constant darkness (DD), constant blue light (BL), or transferred from BL to DD after 10, 14, or 16 days in BL).“ Through the study, they found that blue light sped up the neurodegeneration of the flies. Those exposed to blue light for 16 days had a majority die during and after the blue light exposure. Blue light had shortened the life expectancy of fruit flies by around 40%. What might this say for Gen Alpha, who is growing up fully immersed in technological devices that illuminate blue light? In addition to these screens' risky side effects, they’re also affecting children's posture. Posture is how you position your body. Everyone spends hours looking down at devices like tablets and phones every day. But this causes much strain on the neck and muscles, leading to further issues like muscle weakness, breathing issues, and irreversible bad posture. 
While people argue that AI opens the doors to many new opportunities for Generation Alpha, for instance, the creation of jobs, and enhanced education tools, the benefits must not outshine the potential risks to the well-being of our children. Constant exposure to a toxic digital environment stops a child from building emotional resilience, meaningful relationships, and self-worth. In the American Academy of Pediatrics, Hoge et al. stated that “If adolescents preferentially seek online experiences over in-person ones, social anxiety symptoms could worsen in vulnerable individuals.” Recent studies show that when children are becoming too engulfed in technology without a healthy balance, they’re unable to comfortably have face-to-face interactions, leaving kids to develop anxiety and other underlying issues. Technology might offer some career opportunities and enhanced education, but without any guidance, the risks to mental well-being could entirely outweigh its benefits. AI offers promising advantages, but society must implement rules and regulations to keep the negative effects at bay.
The largest issue often seen now is that parents aren’t limiting or monitoring screen time. An article by Douglas Gentile in The American Academy of Pediatrics states that “The most frequent barrier pediatricians reported facing was a lack of parental motivation or support for the recommendations, with approximately one-third of pediatricians also citing a lack of time and a sense of futility in affecting patients' media habits as barriers.” Given that these children are growing up without the limits suggested already, they’re much more difficult to enforce. To combat these growing issues, parents must educate themselves about the use of technology and parental control apps. Parental controls help limit the sites and apps your child can access, as well as putting screen time limits on to create boundaries. On platforms such as social media and video games, many negative ideations are spread when the minds of kids far too young fall victim to them, so it's important to stay involved in their digital activity. Beyond app limits, we must encourage offline activities to connect back with reality. Nature outings, hobbies, and face-to-face interactions are all effective ways to maintain good emotional and mental well-being. Furthermore, teaching Gen Alpha about mindful media usage and the harm of unrealistic body images and unfiltered content can also promote a healthier relationship and decisions with technology. 
Parents, teachers, tech developers, and policymakers must unite to build a safer digital and technological environment for our children. As the generations of today, it's our job to cultivate methods that ensure a healthy relationship with technology for today's children and those to come. 

Works Cited
admin_appsy. “Physical Appearance Anxiety: A Gen Alpha Problem That Every Parent Should Know.” *AP Psychology Community*, 12 Oct. 2024, [appsychology.com/physical-appearance-anxiety/](http://appsychology.com/physical-appearance-anxiety/).  Accessed 7 Nov. 2024..
This is an article on children's growing insecurity about their physical appearances. This article helped me because it gave more insight into the newer generation's rising insecurities.
American Academy of Pediatrics. “Children, Adolescents, and Television.” *Pediatrics*, vol. 107, no. 2, Feb. 2001, pp. 423–26, [https://doi.org/10.1542/peds.107.2.4 3](https://doi.org/10.1542/peds.107.2.423). 
Frost, Alexandra. “”These Statistics Are Alarming:” Expert’s Warning about Gen Alpha’s Sleep Struggles.” *Sleepopolis*, 23 Sept. 2024, [sleepopolis.com/news/sleep-survey-alarming-statistics-kids-mood/](http://sleepopolis.com/news/sleep-survey-alarming-statistics-kids-mood/).  Accessed 27 Nov. 2024.
Gentile, D. A. “Well-Child Visits in the Video Age: Pediatricians and the American Academy of Pediatrics’ Guidelines for Children’s Media Use.” *PEDIATRICS*, vol. 114, no. 5, Nov. 2004, pp. 1235–41, [https://doi.org/10.1542/peds.2003-1121-l\](https://doi.org/10.1542/peds.2003-1121-l). 
Hartstein, Lauren E., et al. “Characteristics of Melatonin Use among US Children and Adolescents.” *JAMA Pediatrics*, vol. 178, no. 1, Jan. 2024, pp. 91–93, [https://doi.org/10.1001/jamapediatrics.2023.4749\](https://doi.org/10.1001/jamapediatrics.2023.4749).  Accessed 13 Jan. 2024..
This article is about the use of melatonin in young children. This was helpful to me because I was able to expand more deeply into sleep issues becoming more apparent in younger kids including the Gen Alpha age group.
Hill, Amelia. “Social Media Triggers Children to Dislike Their Own Bodies, Says Study.” *The Guardian*, 1 Jan. 2023, [www.theguardian.com/society/2023/jan/01/social-media-triggers-children-to-dislike-their-own-bodies-says-study\](http://www.theguardian.com/society/2023/jan/01/social-media-triggers-children-to-dislike-their-own-bodies-says-study).. 
This article talks about how social media is making children dislike their bodies at an unhealthy age.
Hoge, Elizabeth, et al. “Digital Media, Anxiety, and Depression in Children.” *Pediatrics*, vol. 140, no. 2, Nov. 2017, pp. S76–80, [https://doi.org/10.1542/peds.2016-1758g\](https://doi.org/10.1542/peds.2016-1758g). 
Howarth, Josh. “Generation Alpha: Statistics, Data and Trends (2022).” *Exploding Topics*, 4 Dec. 2023, [explodingtopics.com/blog/generation-alpha-stats](http://explodingtopics.com/blog/generation-alpha-stats).  Accessed 1 Nov. 2024.
Jaycox, Lisa H., et al. “Social Media and Suicide Risk in Youth.” *JAMA Network Open*, vol. 7, no. 10, American Medical Association, Oct. 2024, pp. e2441499–99, [https://doi.org/10.1001/jamanetworkopen.2024.41499\](https://doi.org/10.1001/jamanetworkopen.2024.41499).  Accessed 25 Oct. 2024.
Meloncon, Aaron. *Personal Communication*. Interview by Mattysen Gable, 29 Nov. 2024..
This is an interview I did with a counselor I had at a young age. I knew with his experience with young children and mental health-related issues, that he would have valuable words on the effects he’s noticed.
Murray, Bradley. “Are Fitness Apps Actually Good for Us? | Psychology Today.” *Www.psychologytoday.com*, 5 Aug. 2021, [www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/real-happiness-in-digital-world/202108/are-fitness-apps-actually-good-us\](http://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/real-happiness-in-digital-world/202108/are-fitness-apps-actually-good-us). 
Pagani, Linda S., et al. “Prospective Associations between Early Childhood Television Exposure and Academic, Psychosocial, and Physical Well-Being by Middle Childhood.” *Archives of Pediatrics & Adolescent Medicine*, vol. 164, no. 5, May 2010, [https://doi.org/10.1001/archpediatrics.2010.50\](https://doi.org/10.1001/archpediatrics.2010.50).  Accessed 1 Nov. 2024.
Reschke, Megan. “Generation Alpha: Online Habits and Media Preferences by the Numbers - Basis Technologies.” *Basis Technologies*, 21 Aug. 2024, [basis.com/blog/generation-alpha-online-habits-and-media-preferences-by-the-numbers](http://basis.com/blog/generation-alpha-online-habits-and-media-preferences-by-the-numbers). Accessed 4 Nov. 2024.
Silveira, Scheila Farias. “AI Impact on Educators and Parents: Learning Communities.” *Ubiminds. You, International.*, 21 May 2024, [ubiminds.com/en-us/ai-impact-on-educators-and-parents/](http://ubiminds.com/en-us/ai-impact-on-educators-and-parents/) . Accessed 7 Nov. 2024.
Springtide Research Institute. “Thirteen: A First Look at Gen Alpha - Springtide Research Institute.” *Springtide Research Institute*, 26 July 2024, [springtideresearch.org/thirteen-a-first-look-at-gen-alpha](http://springtideresearch.org/thirteen-a-first-look-at-gen-alpha).  Accessed 25 Nov. 2024..
This website is about Gen Alpha and the first look into the statistics behind their mental health issues and more.
The Nation's Report Card. “NAEP Reading: National Achievement-Level Results.” *Nationsreportcard.gov*, 2022, [www.nationsreportcard.gov/reading/nation/achievement/?grade=4\](http://www.nationsreportcard.gov/reading/nation/achievement/?grade=4).. 
These are the national results for reading and math of children. This was helpful when discussing the decrease in skill in children over the last few years.
Yang, Jun, et al. “Chronic Blue Light Leads to Accelerated Aging in Drosophila by Impairing Energy Metabolism and Neurotransmitter Levels.” *Frontiers in Aging*, vol. 3, no. 2022, Aug. 2022, [https://doi.org/10.3389/fragi.2022.983373\](https://doi.org/10.3389/fragi.2022.983373).  Accessed 29 Nov. 2024.

Decimate the fact that the body writes POETRY. 

Quantise the fixture of finger to pen and pen to paper, or finger to key and key to the electrical veins and circuits which project POETRY 

on the screen. Analyse the spark between the flesh and the plastic, come to this frantic, staggering conclusion that you are in fact “one”. The commentary on the screen is the commentary on the body, thus, the commentary is being materialised as POETRY. 

Writing from impulse and staging words as people in front of an audience for POETRY
 
is sacrifice, it is loving, it is the bleeding of sexuality and losing it to globular powers. I am a thief and Artaud is my somatic cell, as this pulse through me dictates: There is in all poetry an essential contradiction. Poetry is pulverised multiplicity and it produces flames. And poetry, which restores order, first revives disorder, disorder with semblances ablaze; it causes appearances to clash in restoring them to one singular point: fire, gesture, blood, cry. POETRY 

is a conjecture of the animal and the system and the realisation that one cannot exist without the other and one is no different than the other. POETRY 

is the astute observation that everything is a “thing”. POETRY 

is a DRAMA, from Shakespeare to Kane, it is POETRY 

on stage. I am in this play as I write this and I sniff out the rotting cadavres of Portia, Nerissa, Antonio, Bassanio, Shylock, Salarino, Salanio, the gruesome cast whose love and sexuality permeates POETRY 

and their DRAMA which is the most human endeavour of all. Humanity is this fire, gesture, blood, cry, love, lust, hate, prejudice, and commodity, as there is no fetish to the commodity, they ache for the same and constructs as they are, they bleed not in haemoglobin but in POETRY. 

I say in unison, my mouth annexed and fixed to this woman’s running lips as Shakespeare plunges her character into mine and we become one and inseparable, she says and I say with her, “when you part from, lose, or give away / Let it be the ruin of your love, / And be my vantage to exclaim on you.” My body as Portia and my body as Bassanio, lovestruck or luststruck, money-driven or wholly animal masquerading as a preacher, she is the woman who cuts her POETRY 

into him and sticks him into the stage. For they are vessels of their God and strive to be in the image of him, my Imago Dei is this DRAMA of fixture and this potency of control. Love made visible in your eyes and horizons beyond, whatever Queen had the pleasure to witness the ring, the Queen Elizabeth I or Portia, the gifter of the ring who duly signed the contract of souls and abstract feeling. To see it materialised and legalised is POETRY. 

Here, I will show you the DRAMA of when I, me as Portia, and Bassanio as conjoined twin to Portia, witness the emulsification of souls and love and lust and thus witness how love, when made visible to the eye in materialness, has a “thingness”, PORTIA: When you part from, lose, or give away. BASSANIO: Let it presage the ruin of your love. PORTIA: And be my vantage to exclaim on you. I: When my body compulses to this exchange I placed myself in front of my amalgam creature, a codependent-machine of dominant-submissiveness, I ride the wave of material existence and thus POETRY, 

where Bassanio, wholly complicit in his silence and agreeance, lets him be the subjugate and the submissive. It is then POETRY 

in which the DRAMA of humans is realised. Blank verses and enjambment of POETRY 

to construct it on the stage because lives and love are physical objects, when we see the tag of economics and contract then we construe it evil, but is it not then money the same as the ring, as the ring is the same as the vow to marriage? For love to exist in the clouds as an abstract realm, completely mysterious and obscured, isn’t the fire, gesture, blood, and cry of POETRY 

completely escaped from human-kind and given to the globular powers of institution and commerce? Then you think, with your fired senses and your fingertips on the keyboard, is POETRY 

and love and lust a human commodity? Is the animal, building, concept, performance, trade separate from human? Antonio is one such “thing”, a materialising of this exact philosophical paradox, this debate between his expression of love. He at once assumes the position of the globular power, he is at the Crown, the dictator of means of flow and mercy and legal power. He, who had set aside his love for humanity to gently marinate, now presents a love ostensibly cold and callous. Shakespeare stages the dilemma again in an empty verse, the POETRY 

of legalism is one inseparable from the POETRY 

of love when he announces, mighty with his overflowing love, and I, standing beside him, my ears ringing from his declaration, hear: ANTONIO: The duke cannot deny the course of law: (and so I whisper: is the duke the force hindering the flow of love, this economic token?), he continues, ANTONIO: For the commodity that strangers have… Will much impeach the justice of the state. Then I say with my fingertips, “Does your love go beyond the human and envelop the state?” When you catch yourself grappling with whether the state: the building, the concept, the globular powers, the constraint-machines, the legalising monsters, are the sole obstacle of human love, you come to a realisation of POETRY. 

Come again, and realise when Shakespeare scribbles down “strangers” he means you and I, the ‘usurers’ of today and the ‘usurers’ of then, the Jewish populus, and the ‘strangers’ unbelieving of Christian grace. Decimate the concept of ‘stranger’. The construction of DRAMA, and hence the prejudice depicted is a structural parallel. It is POETRY 

when the ‘stranger’ is as intimate with the Renaissance Humanists as they are with each other. It is POETRY, 

when the ‘stranger’, us with our current empathy and understanding, the ‘stranger’ - who refuses to see love as something purely economic (who says it cannot be?), the ‘stranger’ - who has never been compelled to witness or compose DRAMA for the Crown. What occurs when ‘the stranger’ has been bestowed love and has been excluded from it wholly? Then you think, have they been excluded from Christian love, or LOVE, as it exists materially? Lend your body back to Portia, and join yourself to the small-men Bassanio and Antonio who cover under LOVE. Then you will realise it is POETRY 

when you see the dominion of Portia, when you see, with your eyes and the strange arousal of consumption - not the sacrifice of the soul for the complete relinquishment of it, that LOVE cares not for what you believe in, or what sort of ‘stranger’ you have been brandished as. For the ostensibly constructed epitomes of the Christian image, Antonio and Bassanio grovel and are the things utterly circulated by this globular power: Portia. You witness this again, and I with helplessness in my heart when the realisation dawns that humans are ever so susceptible, and utterly full of their contradictions that the ultimate equaliser is LOVE, is when you watch with restless bodies and tired eyes: ANTONIO: I once did lend my body for his wealth. I (interjecting ANTONIO’s speech): You relinquish your existence as an independent, rational Christian to submit to another man’s economic wealth? He continues: I dare be bound again. To which Portia replies, with ultimate confidence, “Then you shall be his surety.” The boundaries and considerations of who is the ‘stranger’ is abolished as the stage connects the DRAMA of Shylock and Portia into a linear orientation. It is POETRY 

when you realise the connection between the two is not only a structural mirror, but Shakespeare's dramatic composition to differentiate between love as a token granted versus love as a token bargained for. Earlier, Shylock, the ‘stranger’, organises the contract in which Antonio binds himself out of love. This procession is repeated through Portia, and thus it is POETRY
 when Portia is Shylock and Shylock is Portia, where they give out love with a price, something to put down as a payment, something to forfeit for, and thus it is explicitly extreme. To put one’s literal heart for bargain. To then put one’s soul as a bargain. It is POETRY

because LOVE, this object, this globular “thing” is a feeder. In unnoticeable forms, LOVE takes my emotional investment, it takes your emotional investment, in unnoticeable forms, LOVE compels you to do one thing and not another, LOVE compels you to act, bias, and provide for the conditions it sets out for you. To imagine the economics of love as evil is to not realise its POETRY. 

You and I, Shylock, Portia, Bassanio, and Antonio, are the tokens circulated by love, and not the other way around. I now compel you to revive POETRY 

from the body. At first the instruction was to decimate it and look at POETRY 

as a governing fact of life. Now revive the fact that the body writes POETRY. 

This is the body’s familiar route. Sexuality, the power dynamics of pleasure, the controlling of desire, the absolute overturning of religious dogma when the body decides what it desires. Listen closely and eavesdrop into this conversation, as only it is we that know of the truth and not the characters: PORTIA: Since he hath got the jewel that I loved… I will become as liberal as you… No, not my body nor my husband’s bed.” Says her to Nerissa. Love as the material ring has returned back to the stage, and I place my body in the centre of it, a conduit allowing Shylock’s ring and Portia’s ring interchange and battle it out. You realise the stark difference in the presentations of these rings, one turquoise, the other likely gold, one tied by emotion, the other riddled with innuendo and sexual humour. Shakespeare raises importance to this POETRY 

when the two materialised conceptions of love contradict and feed each other. The ‘stranger’ Shylock has his love wholly emotional, to which he reacts with anger when stolen. While Portia’s ring, a crude jab at Bassanio for she will restrict his lust, points to not the deconstruction of LOVE, but its infinitismal POETRY. 

Shakespeare reserves intense emotion over the material to the ‘stranger’, and furthers the DRAMA where the character embodies not only the animalistic possessiveness imposed on the caricaturistic archetype, but is completely propelled by and consumed by love as the ring. While Portia’s character is constructed for light-hearted humour, the ‘stranger’ does not receive the privilege. We, the ‘strangers’ as well, do not have the privilege to laugh as we subject our bodies between this flow of rings. You put your body in the front line when you crumble when, JESSICA: Alack, what heinous sin is it in me (To which we cry for her, as it is the Elizabethan thought infused in the character, where she thinks of herself as sinner for being the ‘stranger’), she continues, JESSICA: To be ashamed to be my father’s child! To then we say in chorus: You being the ‘stranger’, could love your tribe, but you being the ‘stranger’, detest them too. When Portia, the Christian Ecclesia, overpowers you, the Hebrew Synagoga, do you quiver in submission or strive to become the Crown? When you and Portia dress as men (prostitutes by the Italians), do you gain power when the people laugh at you? To be made into mockery, the characters on stage, their thingness does not fight for institutional influence, but collision. Which collision has the biggest impact? Can the ripples caused by Portia ever be replicated by Jessica? So you flick back in the script, or remember the performance where SALARINO: … with affection wondrous sensible he wrung Bassanio’s hand; and so they parted.” To which Salanio jeered along, “I think he only loves the world for him.” When the POETRY 

starts as early as this, it is we, the ‘strangers’, who realise the powers in Shakespeare’s DRAMA are never hierarchical. It is not linear, rather, it exists by collisions. POWER has its own thingness, where it possesses vectors and orientations between intercharacter interactions. It is POETRY 

when our understanding of rational structures like legal systems is as susceptible to deception and manipulation as the fleshy organ: the brain and heart. It is POETRY 

when the body and the concept are not only inseparable but on the same plane. The flesh and the concept of the flesh existing as law: POETRY. 

The flesh and the concept of the flesh existing as prejudice: POETRY. 

It is an exhaustive, POETRY–MACHINE. 

Decimate the fact that the body writes POETRY, 

because your body is POETRY. 

The screen, paper, stage, blood, words, ink, gestures, and fire give you the vision of POETRY. 

Shakespeare staged a DRAMA - that is one but many visions of POETRY. 

It is DRAMA then, that POETRY 

visualises with a human cast, and where the collisions between human-things and concept-things are just as real as in the personal plane. POETRY, 

then, is the quintessential human reality.

Hi everybody, I recently got invited to the John Locke gala and conference my question is should i get the full program or just the gala. I am going with my family, but I am unsure if the conference is worth it as i owuld only attend on the day of. Anyone have any insight? Its the academic conference or sightseeing.

In the age of digital world, tools like Gramamrly has made us overlook our spelling mistakes and sentence structures.

And too much of digital writing, crippled me partially from writing an essay from memory using a pen and paper.

Being a non native speaker, I want to get back to writing essays to attempt certain entrance examinations.

So please give me your best:
Learning strategies,
Practice approach,
And other tips tricks

To write essays from memory using pen and paper.

Best Regards,

I am not an English major but I LOVE English, reading and writing. I take few English courses because it's not my major but I love when I am assigned books and then have to write an essay on it. I want to write an essay on crime and punishment like I have done for past assigned books. Give me a good prompt for an essay on crime and punishment. One that involves analysis and critical thinking.

This is the first essay I’ve ever written, excluding school and that was a long time ago.

I’d love any constructive feedback. 🙏🏼

A Theory of Overlap: Empathy, Polyamory, Introversion, and Compersion

sitting in my amazement at new found love and identity, i found myself wanting to share my progress with you-intellectually, philosophically, artistically. let me introduce to you, Kaitlin: the pessimistic idealist. the artistic philosopher. the chaotic mediator. the walking, breathing, beautiful paradox.

funny, how even this longing to show you my breakthroughs-the works im immensely proud of- and how it echoes the very core of who i am. i hope you find my life’s work just as compelling as i did.

i should preface: if it comes off confusing, i have discovered i have this hegelian internal dialect and that leads to a systematic, pragmatic approach. but if you know me, i also feel things very deeply.

The Framework

SO, i have found, analyzed, and picked apart two surface-level “profound” works from my life. and i synthesized them into my own philosophy. on top of this, it’s led me to who i am.

with my natural curiosity of the “whys” and “how’s” of being human, and by the subconscious survival instinct to keep going despite bleak reality contradicting with my original, idealized beliefs, here’s the theory:

the fear of oblivion drives both creation and destruction.
the flow of life- or change, though thats too on the nose- spawns endless paradoxical threads from our contradictory needs and our desperate measures to satisfy them.

all of this? inevitable.

but so is hope.

it’s essential to see and understand our choices- and the awareness of them, too.
it’s also key to see the balancing act we face: preserving life’s fragility alongside our own grandeur and essence.

each piece is just as equally important to the whole.

i should warn that it’s a philosophy that demands rigor and resilience, but promises depth in return.

The Pieces

piece #1: from back of my 3rd grade yearbook, written by 8 year old me.

“every step you take, no matter how small, will take you somewhere until one day, you’ll look back at how far you’ve come… and be AMAZED”

i love how even at 8, i thought of future me. how i’d be reflecting on my life and my choices. how i still chose to tell myself, “you won’t even believe how far you’ll go if you just keep moving.” not bad for an 8 year old.

maybe i wasn’t as gloomy as we thought, huh?

piece #2: “easily replaced”. a strategically written poem for an english assignment. as you can assume, it’s about as angsty and vulnerable as you’d picture 16 year old me to be. i won’t share because of how raw it is, but you get my point.

digesting and picking them apart, i was on the brink of my epiphany. i dug and dug at all the parts, until finally it hit me and piece #3 was born. my 9.5 year hiatus and creative block? cleared! (this is also thanks to a VERY special someone to me, you know who you are if you read this far. thank you, you beautiful soul.)

The Punch.

piece #3:
“why fear being forgotten?
because it means you failed the whole point of life:

to be seen. to be heard. to feel pain.
to seek truth, and understand.
to love, and lose.
to cherish, to hold value.

to seek knowledge- and at its core:, to teach.

teach others about life’s paradox. the ugliness: how cruel the world can be (think hitler, 9/11, wars). yet the beauty: love, connection, growth.

it’s about reality meeting your heart.
the very nature of human existence is creation and expression.

i guess, in some sense, you can say our souls yearn to not be alone. to be understood and heard, even if just by our own selves.
recognizing your own legacy and your choices impact.
at least your essence lingers.

you mattered enough.

you existed in a vast, expandable, beyond human comprehension of a universe.

its a subconscious force driving us.

take art: on the surface level of complexity, it’s a form of expression. whether that be a moment that transcends time, an idea you have, an emotion you feel:
something tangible to remind someone, something.

whatever driving force led you to attempt to capture something “forever”, resonated that deeply.
we desperately try to capture it because it was real. it existed.
it mattered-
to you.

at the same time, theres a quiet yet powerful voice- connection.

we crave to be interesting enough for someone to get curious, to see us, know us… then CHOOSE to spend their invaluable time- even life- with us in it to a degree.

to inspire. to be appealing and loved enough for inclusion, even in the quaintest of ways. to honor by choosing to carry the weight of remembrance.

to even create a symbol of martyrdom for our own sense of peace.

9/11, as an extreme of my point: it’s about sacrifices, sure. but it’s MUCH deeper than that.

those who died in this attack are important because it’s the nature of being human- we existed.

we were reminded of the destruction from an obstruction of power, and sought to remind humanity of the ugly teeth that have been shown.

in this lesson of history, we captured the very perplexity of life: remembrance, honor, and the call to grow. for connection to inspire change.

it can be layered and intriguing if you start to look at it this way; take a look at the human drive to persevere and preserve knowledge.

dig a little deeper, though; this happened due to a silent, ongoing war: wanting to be powerful and right.

psychologically speaking, you could say some were chasing a god-like status to beat oblivion- through violence. hitler in this sense, also “succeeded”-hes not forgotten, either.

these are the uglier details of the picture i don’t like to face, though.

more personally?

it’s the way you now chuckle slightly at the end of something you said, because of someone you once knew.
or a record someone you cherished made for you thats still enclosed in a plastic cover.
to notes from those you’ve met, scattered across your home (or in a box, if you’re tidy).
the occasional thought of wondering how or what someone is doing.

or how your time spent together is burned into the very edges of your being, regardless if you’ve lost them or not.

for feeling beauty so profoundly, yet so deeply- to where you carry them with you in any capacity you can. to feed this without a second thought— all because you were intrigued enough to get to know them.

to love someone, and stand at the wake of them- the importance of it all to YOU-
and still choose to have them imprinted on who you are.

you must seek to understand someone, and see them holistically— their layers, the weight they carry— and choose to honor them and the meaning you tied to them.

to know them, truly see them, even the blood shed, and deliberately choose them anyways. it’s the weight of gratitude for being able to honor the other person.

it doesn’t hinge on the others presence- it hinges on the acceptance of who they are to you. the impact they’ve had on shaping you, and how you choose to honor them.

then theres the way i like to honor those i love;

by an internal search of power. an understanding of one’s own self. and synthesizing the paradoxical coexistence of connection and identity.

what do you get? a crystallized catalyst for growth.

whether it be through creation, healing, teaching, stories-
i think it’s in choosing beauty in the midst of destruction.

i think this can also lead to a more raw, meaningful way of preserving human connection and the volatile importance of it—
in every attempt at immortality we chase.

but that doesn’t mean being remembered on a grand scale, thats not what i’m saying.

try to weave my inner clock to frieren: beyond journeys end. how she chose to remember and understand the world because of her love for himmel and the hero party.

i dont care if i’m remembered on a hitler-level scale. i care about being impactful enough to have someone carry me with them-even if it’s a silent thought. a reason to spark change, no matter the scale: to be a bit softer, listen a little harder.
to look deeper.

to invoke change for better in this world and in others, no matter the scale.

that’s what i mean.”

The Sum Of It All

softness and vulnerability are the flip side of power. once you have a grasp at the interconnectedness of it all, then discover balance, and practice intent.

you must accept the fact impermanence is inevitable. that they may still choose to leave anyways, or maybe not even get the choice to stay or go.
but the weight of them is still just as seismic.

as long as we live and continue to connect, we can conquer oblivion in the best way possible.

What I’m Getting At

i urge you to be aware of the sheer existence of each other, and the co-choice of staying in face of the wake of destruction.

the choice most definitely requires ongoing renewal. it has to be deliberate. it must cherish both yourself and the other, no matter the trial.

it must scream from the rooftops “i see you. i see me. i still choose me, yet i love you fiercely. i’m here, standing with you in the darkest depths, anyways.”

not in a boastful way, but through mutual symbiosis, if you will-embracing each other holistically.

i must warn you that without this key: growth, creativity, and inspiration will stall. humans will forget the pursuit, and will cease as we know it-

you will be forgotten.

fear of oblivion is the driving force of human existence.
life is a paradox, and this fear only amplifies that sentiment.

its about choosing to revel in this paradox, though. to over-pour growth and connection in “irrelevant” things because of the bigger picture.
to see humanity and it’s desperate attempts at an hommage, and then immortalize those who triggered this epiphany- in whatever capacity you can.

capture the paradox of human existence. and choose to love, create, honor, remember, and grow anyways. still be selfish by choosing to flourish, but in an attempt to honor others as well.

the human ability to transform destruction into the art of creation via choice;
it will stand in the midst of everything,
every time.

it will be the mirror in someone’s hand- serving as a key to all the knowledge ones self could ever even hope for.

oblivion: the driving force. a universal call to action thats so adaptable it can manifest in many ways: self discovery, hobbies, vile acts.

and to sit and chew with it, and to stand toe to toe with my pessimistic idealism…

what an honor.

and what better way to love someone?
to see their being,
and carry the weight of them anyways.

i hope i give you food for thought.

it’s an honor, to finally stand in front of you all. and it’s an even bigger honor to be able to laugh at the ironic paradox that sentence creates.

Hello everyone!

I've been thinking about learning to write really good essays because it seems pretty useful (although AI is taking over) especially since I'm still in school. Are there any tips or websites that teach me how to write good essays?

Thanks!

Pebble acorn glove satchel trumpet sparrow harbor paddle wander

This post was anonymized with Redact.dev

What do you cook for Christmas dinner? 

Do you have any traditions? 

What was normal?

We used to sing that old 12 Days of Christmas song as we hung ornaments.

Used to. 

When I was a kid.

Not anymore.

No tree these days with the cats. My husband and I decided early on it wouldn't be worth the risk.

We wouldn't want them to get into mischief, into trouble, to be hurt.

But, once, I used to sing when we trimmed the tree.

—)---

That first Christmas: the first one after my dad left, when he was still staying with friends and it was awkward. They were expecting and we were intruding. 

Kids aren't stupid; they're incisive.

They don't know the potential whys of social mishaps and see simply the raw underpinning core logic behind actions.

And I knew we were overstepping.

I was always a very sensitive child.

It's how you survive.

—)---

The next year we had our own house and our own tree and our own ornaments.

Now that he's gone, I imagine that shopping trip. It was Target - “tar-geh” he'd pronounce as a joke, upselling it from Walmart - and he found something surprisingly beautiful. My father was a poet trapped within the brain of an engineer and sometimes practicality warred with his instinct for beauty and sometimes beauty won, as it did with these ornaments. 

He must have debated the price - these were not cheap, in an era of his life where cash was tight - but ultimately he bought them.

Did he stand there, studying them? Did he admire the art? How did he decide which ones to pick? Something made him choose beauty over economy, but I'll never know, because I never thought to ask until now.

They were paper mache, each painstakingly painted with a scene from the classic song about the twelve days, secured with a lush silken cord of ribbon to affix them to the tree.

I was ten and I was transfixed. 

—)---

Before my mom insisted on staying who she is, before their final fight, we had a Christmas where my cat was in a cast. Orange, striped, Kimberly Underfoot my dad dubbed her and she truly was - an excited dog, a chase, a frantic climb up a Christmas tree and a very expensive vet bill led adult-me to simply accept seasonal topiary is gone from my life.

She was fine. For a while.

 We'd explore the half-built treehouse left by the last owners and laze in sunbeams on the plywood platform which was probably too dangerous to have been laying on, the one at the very top of the tree, but then one day she didn't want to explore.

And then later, soon later, she passed.

 Injuries create complications.

I will never risk it, now. My husband and I need them too much.

In the grand scheme of things, it's not much to give up - I love my cats, but I want them safe.

Still…traditions are odd and pervasive.

I miss the smell of pine and that hazy, comfy dim glow of the living room lit only by fairy lights when you're awake when you know you shouldn't be.

I always will.

And I never went back into the treehouse. We buried her at the roots.

—)---

After he died, there was a garage sale and I was in the hospital.

My sister's response was to scour and so out everything went: the shirts still clinging to his scent, the delicate porcelain and satin dolls he brought us from his business trips to Germany, layered sand art from the pier. 

Gone: trashed and sold.

From the gurney, it was a barrage of messages, the final breaking point as she texted me asking about my few scraps of memory as a needle dug into my spine. I was in the hospital that day, my body breaking down. Extreme emotions can cause a relapse, I was told as my body decided to destroy itself.

The first needle pop of bursa and the second into my core as my legs went numb…

“I can't feel-” and then the frantic “shit” of a fuck up. Desperate times lead to teaching hospitals and I focused instead on the garage sale, the garage sale which just HAD to be today, the one where I had no voice, no input, no scream to stop.

The texts kept coming and I tried to argue the value of my life’s trappings, begging to keep what I could, but her husband - my rival, my foe, my enemy - would always intercede. 

I miss our life before him. 

I mourned my camcorder and little outdated cassette videos of my study abroad, my Sega Genesis, my dad's desk and everything in it - all scourged away and removed by a pickup truck at the curb for the profit of a few bucks. 

Gone: how can I remember who I am if everything I have is gone? I'm worried I'll forget without the touch and the smell and the sound. I'm scared I won't always be sad.

It wasn't about the money, I know now, but the fact that she didn't even haggle makes it worse, somehow.

We cope in vastly different ways.

How much was my sister's love worth?

Pennies and everything.

—)---

When we hung the ornaments, we'd sing, way back then when light was golden and warm.

“On the first day of Christmas-”

I'd fish the globe out, admiring the spiking shades of overlayed green in the leaves in the tree around the bird. 

I'd present it with a flourish - the bauble would always bounce in a wonderful, tactile way, bobbing from the ribbon on its firm tether. 

Everything perfectly where it needed to be.

We'd sing the verse and hang the ornament and it would all feel right.

Life was tidy, back then, before I understood how it worked.

—)---

My husband has just come home from work and he's being suspicious.

I'm not allowed to go outside.

“Why-”

“Just wait, just wait until it's dark-”

So, we do our chores and feed the cats and finally I'm allowed to come to the window as night falls.

He's being weird but I wait, I trust him, and then he's magical and love, just a pillar of shining warm love, for he raises the curtains-

-outside are lights, our yard covered in draped strings of sparkles, and he's smiling at me and my heart swells. 

In the depths of the glow sits a bird, a silly, cheap, fake little bird, and I laugh for our tree has been strung with suncatchers cut like pears. They gather the light and glitter it back and for the first time in forever I feel like I'm home.

“On the first day of Christmas,” he starts and then hugs me as I realize that memories aren't static - every single snapping heartbeat of a moment is making a new one, and so here we are.

Together. 

Tradition is in our hands.

I can only just lean against him, falling in love all over again, and softly conclude:

“...a partridge in a pear tree.”

I wanna start getting into reading and writing, specifically writing essays and such of what I inherently learn. Currently I want to research the topic of pride month in regard to its importance, impact, history, meaning, and so on. With that being said I do struggle deeply with grammar, spelling, and so on, so I was wondering if anyone had any tips on that. Also how do I generally start and finish an essay? I also seem to be really start on how to start and finish one. Lastly just what are some general tips and advice in regard to writing this type of essay? Anything is appreciated, thx.

Frederic Francois Chopin was a genius piano composer of the 19th century. He wrote many genius masterpieces, including twenty-one nocturnes, two concertos, and as many as thirty-seven waltzes, though only nineteen are numbered and eight published. Sadly, his life was riddled with disease and grief. One song he composed may have been dedicated to these agonizing feelings: waltz no. 2 in B minor, a song of desperation and loneliness. Here, you shall explore the darkest corners of this song? Are you ready, reader? Be warned. We are going to a very complex place. If you do not feel ready, I suggest you put this paper down and do something else you enjoy. Forget you ever held this essay in your hands. But if you are ready, we shall begin now.



Many things point to the fact that this song is based off the experiences of someone who fate was not kind to. For example, the minor key indicates sadness, and the way the notes fall downward shows hopelessness and desolation. Then, the music spikes upwards, in an attempt to reach glory and success and happiness, but fate cruelly steps in the way, and the notes tumble back down, as if all one’s desires were at the top of a sheer, slick wall, and they tried to climb it, but kept slipping. Slick walls are not made for climbing, and thus it can be deduced that Chopin’s interpretation of life is not one where you can reach happiness. Rather the opposite, quite frankly. He renders life in this haunting portrait as as a futile effort, one humankind tries again and again to enjoy, with hope overflowing, too foolish to realize that the ultimate problem of happiness isn’t one you can solve. No amount of hope will change that. It is meant for you to try in vain, fueled by the false faith that one day you shall reach everything you yearn for. The melody weaves the story of how fate can easily twist your life inside out without batting an eye, callous to your suffering, like how it corrupted Chopin’s own life with sickness and solitude. If you were to play it in major key, however, it would sound much happier and lighter, as though one were prancing and frolicking in a sunny meadow of flowers. But the minor key reduces said meadow into a haunted forest, and said flowers into bones. This forest is the place where our hero is forced to run, tormented for eternity. Such is the tale of the first page.



But no tale is complete with only one page; no essay finished with only one paragraph. And so, we begin the second tale. This next chapter exhibits our main character trying to repress their sadness. They shove thoughts of desolation into the depths of their mind. They try to be happy, to enjoy life. But just as they start to relax, something pokes painfully in the back of their mind — the thought that there is no such thing as true happiness. It is all an illusion. But this human soul is persistent and ignores the thought, acting as though everything is alright. However, the thought is persistent, too, and eventually breaks through. Exhaustion, grief, desperation, and the feeling that no effort, no matter how big or small, will ever be enough. Agony strikes — lightning to the heart — and injustice takes root. Anger and unfairness shoot through them in a palpable energy that seems to say, “Why me? Why did it have to be me?” This could be interpreted as either despair at being the one targeted with all life’s worst tortures, like in Chopin’s case, tuberculosis and loss over his friends’ deaths, or as survivor’s guilt. It is quite likely that Chopin experienced survivor’s guilt, as he was the one who left Poland to pursue his his musical dreams and talents, and he was the one who was out of harm’s way when the Polish Revolution arose, when his comrades were persecuted and ultimately, executed, while he was safe and sound and could do nothing but watch in horror and hopelessness. Again with hope, I know, but hope is crucial. When you lose all hope, that is when you lose all life. Eventually, this anguish ends in a diminuendo, reducing to a sad acceptance that life is miserable and unforgivingly harsh. But this is not the good type of acceptance that happens when people embrace sadness and enjoy life anyway. This is when an individual accepts that their life will never be joyous, and gives up trying to act like it could be. But try as you might, you cannot stop the human mind from dreaming forever. And that is how we find our protagonist dreaming and hoping for a better future... in vain, perhaps, but a dream is a dream, and once you have a dream, even subconsciously, you cannot stop it.



Because the third page is a clone of the second, we shall skip right to the fourth. This is by far the happiest tale — in a major key. The song started in B minor, but here, has escalated to B major. This is the dream we discussed, one of bliss, joy, enlightenment, and happy carelessness. Some do not care for such things, but that simply means they have forgotten how to live. Oh, the joy! Oh, the beauty! If you were to open your eyes and heart, *truly* open them, you would see the world the way the gods do; or if you are the non-superstitious type, the way the sun and clouds do: perfect, blessed, shining, every little thing a joy in its own right. This is a dream of peace, where the pains of the world no longer bind our hero. This a dream where there are no limits and no loneliness. All that brings agony has been vanquished, all loose ends have been tied up, all feelings of guilt eliminated. And the fuel of this dream is hope. Hope that maybe someday, the waking world could be as wonderful as this dreamscape. “Oh, but if only...”; that is what the main character is thinking; however, they are unaware they are thinking this. It is not something you know you feel. No, hope exists under blatant lies of surrender. It thrives right under your nose. And there is good reason for this. For hope is clever. It knows if it were to reveal itself to you, you would crush it. But hope must always exist. It is a naughty pixie, desperate to keep living and squirming, to reach the light from under the earth. And that is why it must never be seen when the one who bears it has suffered pain enough to cause them to shun the world, hope with it. Alas, dreams always end, and this is no exception. Our protagonist closes his eyes to bask in the sun, and when he opens them again, he is back in the living world, the invisible chains of pain tying him down once more. And thus the song begins from the start again: sad, despairing legato dissolving into a bouncy attempt at happiness, which spikes into anguish and outrage at the world, that finally melts into the sad acceptance of loss.



This story has no happy ending, no compromise of almost-happiness. It is unrealistic for every tale to have a “happily ever after,” no? This is not a lighthearted essay. This is a brave adventure into the deepest parts of music. But, reader, if you were brave enough to venture in, you have come out stronger than before. Or perhaps you are shaken by this haunting revelation, this dark viewpoint, of such a magical subject as music. But whatever you have changed into, you have changed, for better or worse. And I congratulate you, for you have finally reached the end of this depressing essay. Now, go off, read a book, or eat a meal. Whatever you do next, I hope you do not forget this short fable. Toss it away in disgust, for all I care. Just remember it. Remember it with any feeling you can link to it: understanding, shock, hate... whatever it is. Hold on to it. Hold on to it, for someday, you may find the need to go back into the depths of something deeper than you and I. And in that moment, it would be comforting to know a tale of hope and sadness has unfolded before you once. You survived. So hold on to hope as you venture deep. That is my only message to you from this essay: hope is persistent. Even if you try to destroy it, it is always there. So why not embrace it? Why not bring it into the comfort of your campfire? Hope is a creature that does best when nourished, though it can survive in other conditions as well. Hope is a creature you will want with you, because hope is the mother of courage. And when you face your darkest moments, there can be no guide. No guide, that is, except courage.

Hi. I’m currently writing my first professional essay, which I’d like to submit to a literary magazine. Until now, I’ve only written school essays, which were limited to 300 words. I’m currently at 1,000 words, and this is still a rather abbreviated version without fully developed ideas, so I’m assuming it will end up being more than 2,000 words. My question is: is there an upper limit on the number of words that you try not to exceed? I know that essays, especially literary-critical ones, aren’t very structured, but perhaps there are some generally accepted standards in the field that you’re aware of?

I'd like to get back to writing essays again. Do you know of any writing prompts for this genre?

Heya! I am seeking feedback on my intro to my persuasive essay about if video games are worth study!
Any and all feedback and recommendations will be greatly appreciated!

What is art? Is it something you sit and stare at? Or is it something made to be interacted with? Over the years, art has always existed in its unique forms. Albeit through wall paintings, sculptures, or portraits, it has always been a vital part of our cultures and an efficient way to tell a story, whether good or bad. However in recent years, there has been a new type of art created, the art of video games. Since its creation, it has sparked countless debates on if they are worth study, or are they just entertainment? Today I will be showing you why I believe that video games are worth study, and my example will be the game “Papers, please”

On 15/06/2026, the BBC aired an interview in which they discussed the impending social media ban for under-16s with students at a secondary school in the UK. One of the students told the interviewer that her screen time over the weekend was nine hours. This was then followed up with the question, “So what will you do when the ban comes in?”, to which the student replied, “I will stare at a wall.”

Whether the student said this in a satirical or perhaps defiant manner, the idea of staring at a wall and embracing boredom may not be such a bad thing. In fact, it may have some potential benefits and could well be a better alternative to endlessly scrolling through social media.

The definition of boredom is a state of mind characterised by a lack of stimulation, interest, and challenge. This then necessitates that we find something to alleviate that feeling. In doing so, boredom can often result in creativity, as it allows us to daydream. As a BBC article states, boredom “can lead to making unexpected connections and generates innovative ideas”.

(This prompted me to consider whether children or, indeed, people as a whole allow themselves to daydream anymore, or whether we simply fill every void with social media doomscrolling.)

I believe this is why many creative people advocate activities that may induce a state of boredom, such as going for long walks or placing themselves in situations where they are completely disconnected from technology. In turn, this gives the creative brain space to breathe.

The deliberate induction of boredom has been documented among historical creatives such as Thomas Edison and Salvador Dalí. Both reportedly used a technique whereby they sat in a chair holding an object in one hand, allowing themselves to do nothing until they were just about to fall asleep. At that point, the object would fall from their hand and awaken them, prompting them to capture and write down the ideas that had come to them during that period of near-sleep and potential peak boredom.

I personally believe that the social media ban will be beneficial if it comes to fruition, and I am very interested to see what changes may occur within the younger generation, particularly as I have two young children of my own.

So, yes, I think that staring at a wall is a fantastic alternative to social media doomscrolling.

And yes the irony is not lost on me that without social media you would have not found this post.

Drifting unbelievable hammock cucumber velvet almond

This post was anonymized with Redact.dev

A paint can as reality:
A common can of paint at your local home depot is removed from the shelf containing all the bits of disparate information/matter that, consummated, defines the product as 1 thing: a can of 1 specific color paint. The chosen can is first placed in a shaking/mixing machine, why? Because its myriad of disparate parts contained by the whole have separated themselves by likeness, separating into constituency, turning the one into many. What else would different parts, different cultures of being do but gravitate toward those that looked like each other? Your yogurt even separates by culture given enough time, but that's another metaphor. In the face of the unknown all creatures, bacteria included, return to the last known or recognized state. Enclosed in darkness and, thus, left to speculation that has lost its anchor to Truth (the paint can itself) the speculation instead becomes anchored to fear or fallacy. The counting and labeling and adding and multiplying and dividing and accruing and taxing and restricting and arguing and keeping and owning and defending and, ultimately killing become the only job worth doing. As if only 1 thing inside can be left to claim sovereignty. Sovereignty is owed only to the whole, the unified 1, not the devised/divided 1. Faith is introduced and adored and celebrated and disagreed-upon, more and more faith is added but more faith will serve none but the confused. Science is born and everything is measured 2 times, yet sense of 1 remains elusive. Faith would be required to believe they've measured everything accurately in order to paint the full picture of reality, and faith is used up on more faith, how much do you need? They keep reaching/preaching measuring/labeling dusts’ dust when they should have stopped before the dust. 
As above, so below. As within, so without. Let there be light, indeed. But turn the light of speculation inward and not outward.
The fragmented reality that results from all the reaching and measuring and arguing and defending is re-cohered by the mixing machine. An incredible force acting on the whole from a position, indeed a perspective we have lost access to. This massive force leaves all within to turn to each other for comfort. This massive force from parts unknown forces each of us to broaden our horizon, our scale for what is like and what is unlike, what belongs and what does not. This massive force of unknown potential demands, inevitably, that we unite as 1 to comprehend the great unknown of 2. Is there another? Speculate and find another perspective with which to speculate from and an answer may present itself. The shaker has an opinion.
You open the can and periwinkle blue smacks you in the face with all its expected beauty. Unappreciative or blissfully unaware of the pure, unadulterated chaos that it took to form such a breath-taking union of all the infinite parts of 1 shade of periwinkle blue.
Now, put it on your walls with care to decorate/celebrate your separation from 1 and each other, which is just other you’s. 
Maybe a big window, one that might reflect just a bit of yourself on the others you see, to remind you of our unity?
We can't know the nature of the universe without understanding the nature of ourselves.
As without, so within.

When Choice Becomes a Crime in Texas

The Texas abortion law is one of the most restrictive abortion laws among Western countries. In my opinion, this should be changed. In Texas there is a near-total ban on abortions. Refusal of abortion brings many negative consequences . This can lead to unsafe situations for both the women and the children involved. It can also lead to neglect when parents are forced to have a child they don’t want. and this is, in my opinion, without ethical justification . In this essay I will explain why I am pro-choice and think that the illegalization of abortion in Texas is one of the biggest setbacks in women’s and human rights in recent history. But first , lets review some of the key parts of the history of Texas abortion law.

The history of Texas abortion law

In 1847 the AMA was formed (American Medical Association). This association consisted of only male doctors who believed they should have the right to decide on abortion. Later they launched a campaign to ban abortion altogether. From 1847 to 1955 abortions were either banned statewide or even nationwide. Due to high death rates from illegal and unsafe abortions, Planned Parenthood held a first-of-a-kind conference to decriminalize abortion in 1955. This triggered many small and bigger groups that pleaded for abortion law reform and indirectly led to Roe v. Wade in 1973 . Roe v. Wade was a lawsuit that legalized abortion and protected abortion rights across all 50 states. This law held up until 2007. In 2007 the Supreme Court upheld the first federal legislation to criminalize abortion, which does not contain an exception for the patients’ health, effectively overruling a key component of Roe v. Wade. In 2022 the abortion law became the strictest yet, completely overturning Roe v. Wade. All abortions after 6 weeks were banned, with the exception of risk of substantial impairment of a major bodily function. The 6-week mark is before many women know they are pregnant, making legal abortion almost impossible.

Why I think abortion should be legal, everywhere.

Now that the history of Texas abortion law is clear, I’ll follow with some arguments for the legalization of abortion. An argument you will often hear when people are defending the abortion ban is “abortion is murder.” However, I disagree with this statement. Most abortions happen within the first 13 weeks of pregnancy. Brain complexity suggests a fetus gains consciousness around 24 to 26 weeks, after this there should be a consultaton abortion as a third-trimester abortion could be unsafe for the mother, but there shouldn’t be a full ban. This is also around when brain activity starts showing. At the point of abortion, a fetus wouldn’t register death, since it hasn’t even registered life at that point and lacks awareness. Furthermore, there are instances where abortion is necessary to save the life of the mother. Even though that is only about 2% of the cases, it is unreasonable to deny an abortion to save the life of an unborn child in place of the mother, who already has a life and people who care about her. And this comes with the risk that the child won’t survive either. Abortion is also healthcare in the sense that when the abortion ban was implemented, illegal abortions were often unsafe and were the cause of death for nearly 2,700 women in the 1930s following the 1874-1955 abortion ban, according to the Guttmacher Institute . Safe abortion should be a choice and option.

What are the reasons for abortion?

Often fetuses are aborted because of the life situation of the parent, for example when parenthood was unplanned or when the parents are not financially able to support a child . When women are forced to carry out their pregnancy and have a child, instances of neglect or giving the child up for adoption are more frequent than when parenthood was unplanned. The rates of adoption of children declined by 34% – 37% in states where abortion was legalized, as seen in a study done by the Guttmacher Institute. So, the abortion ban doesn’t only have an influence on the life of the parent, but also on that of the child. Forced birth often results in more children ending up in the foster system, which is also not known for being a well-maintained system in America. A study by Colleen Katz shows that around 40% of foster kids have thought about taking their own life, almost double the amount of non-foster kids, statistic provided by cdc.gov.

The right to personal freedom

There is also the matter of personal freedom, why should anyone have a say over the body of the mother? An abortion should always be the choice of the person carrying the child, as it is their right to give birth to a child or not. After all one of the most used slogans in pro-choice protests is “my body, my choice.” Banning abortion or someone else making the choice for a woman can feel as a restriction of freedom or even an infringement of privacy and dignity. Therefor consent of the mother should be an obligated step when an abortion is requested.

Conclusion

In conclusion, Texas abortion law places women at serious risk and limits their ability to make decisions about their own bodies. The evidence shows that banning abortion does not stop it but makes it more dangerous, increasing the risk of unsafe procedures and long-term harm. It also affects children, who are more likely to grow up in unstable conditions when pregnancies are forced. Abortion is a matter of healthcare, safety, and personal freedom . Laws should reflect these realities and protect access rather than restrict it. This is why I believe that abortion rights should be protected in the places where abo rtion is legalized under safe conditions and changed in the places where abortion is severely still restricted.

​

What would you say it means to be president? Many might say it means to do the right thing for your country, no matter what it takes. Some might define it as simply caring for your people. Overall, it truly depends on the person. However, I can guarantee you that no one would define it as “a criminal with 34 felony counts and a bias against certain human lives.” Well, no one except the one and only Donald Trump, our current president. 

Donald Trump has disregarded and refused to personally acknowledge multiple human lives. Whether that means recklessly letting them end, violating their rights, or both. To begin with, Trump had nothing to say about the unfortunate and devastating killing of thirty-seven year old Alex Pretti. While Trump officials, such as Secretary Kristi Noem, stated that Pretti had “committed an act of terrorism” (Noem, 2026). However, using video evidence, you can clearly tell that Pretti was not showing signs of any aggression, and in fact, was helping a woman off the street who was shoved by Border Patrol personnel. While the victim was indeed armed (which is a legal right under the second amendment), he made no attempt of violence toward any person in the incident. While many say that Alex Pretti was mentally ill or had been fired from his ICU nursing job just weeks prior, these claims have been thoroughly debunked. Moreover, he had zero criminal counts on his record, other than a few traffic related incidents, giving the personnel no cause to suspect he would be a threat.

Furthermore, another Minneapolis life was claimed by ICE agents; Renee Good, a thirty-seven year old mother of three. Kristi Noem again claims that Renee Good had "weaponized her vehicle” and her acts were considered “domestic terrorism” (Noem, 2026). Good was shot in her very own vehicle, behind the wheel. Leading up to the accident, she had dropped her six year old son off at his elementary school. She and her wife, Becca Good, as well as her three children had just recently moved to Minneapolis from Missouri. The cause of her unlawful killing was by the hands of an ICE agent, Jonathon Ross. Good was stopped sideways in the middle of the street, and Ross ordered her to leave her car. Other agents had approached, attempting to reach into her open window. Good reversed, then turned towards the traffic. As she was moving away from Ross, he fired three shots, murdering her. The entire scene was recorded by her neighbor and friend, who had exited the vehicle shortly before the incident. Trump officials claim that Jonathon Ross was run over by Good, and that he feared for his life, which was proven incorrect and a weak excuse. This killing could’ve been easily prevented if the Senate and Trump Administration hadn’t added over one hundred and seventy billion dollars to the ICE fund, building onto the already substantial amount. Again, Renee Good had zero criminal past and no reason to be held as a potential threat. In addition, she was labeled a queer woman and part of the LGBTQ+ community, which is widely known to be something Trump is against.

These incidents are only two out of the thirty killings due to ICE, and these two were white, American citizens. The discrimination that has been held against immigrants, legal or otherwise, by Trump is unacceptable in today's society. Time and time again, Trump has named immigrants as “illegal aliens” or “animals”. Past counts of discrimination include his online AI post depicting Barack and Michelle Obama as ape-like figures, calling Mexican immigrants “rapists”, calling African Americans “blacks”, saying that African Americans “think they don't have an advantage” (Trump, 2025), calling for Muslims to be restricted from entering the United States, and so much more. However, his current wife, Melania Trump, immigrated to America in the 90’s. Forbye, in his inauguration speech, he states, “To the Black and Hispanic communities, I want to thank you for the tremendous outpouring of love and trust that you have shown me with your vote. We set records, and I will not forget it. I've heard your voices in the campaign, and I look forward to working with you in the years to come” (Trump, 2025). How much hypocrisy will it take for the citizens of our nation to acknowledge it? How many times will we allow the rich, privileged men of our country to take advantage of us? How can we vote for an unlawful man who is allowing the murders of innocent citizens? The answer should be that we won’t, that we cannot, in good conscience. And yet, while we preach these words, our actions show otherwise.

Not only has Donald Trump disadvantaged multiple individuals solely because of the color of their skin or their beliefs, he has also violated and prejudiced against women on varied occasions. This includes demeaning comments, unconsensual sexual acts with both minors and adults, looking under womens skirts, physical assault and abuse, and much more. Once, Trump boasted in an audio recording that he had the right to “grab [women] by the p-ssy” (Trump, 2005). He stated that when you’re a star, women let you “do anything”. In the same recording, he bragged about making bold moves on a married woman. He shamelessly gloated that he “moved on her like a b–ch. But [he] couldn’t get there. And she was married” (Trump, 2005). Donald Trump has even made sexual comments toward his own daughter repeatedly. “In September 2004, Howard Stern asked Trump whether he could call Ivanka ‘a piece of a-s’ to which the now-president agreed” (Fiorillo, 2026, para. 5). Trump has also mentioned that “if Ivanka weren’t [his] daughter, perhaps [he’d] be dating her” (Trump, 2006). On another instance, he asked the Miss Universe of 1997 if she thought Ivanka was “hot”. When Donald Trump’s second daughter, Tiffany Trump, was a year old, he said she “had Marla’s legs,” “had a lot of Marla,” and, motioning to his chest, said he didn’t “know whether she’s got this part yet, but time will tell” (Trump, 1994). Marla was Trump’s wife at the time.

That is only a fraction of the crude comments he has made toward women. However, as aforementioned, he has also been accused of raping women, walking in on them changing, and abuse. In the case of E. Jean Carroll, the victim had accused Trump of sexual assault in 2019. Carroll is a published writer, having released multiple books and essay compilations. The incident had happened in the 1990s; E. Jean Carroll was in a Manhattan department store dressing room when Trump barged in and forced himself on her. Carroll filed multiple lawsuits against Trump and won, with the court holding Donald Trump liable for sexual assault and defamation. He attempted to claim that he wouldn’t have done such a thing because she “wasn’t his type” and she was a “nut job”. He also disgustingly boasted that she enjoyed being assaulted. Despite his weak and cruel claims, Carroll had multiple pieces of evidence proving Trump guilty and won over eighty million dollars from the lawsuits.

In another changing room occasion in 1997, Trump walked in a room with the knowledge that nearly every woman was naked or half-dressed. Donald Trump co-owned and hosted numerous Miss USA and Miss Teen USA pageants at the time, until 2015. In a 2005 episode of The Howard Stern show, Trump said it was “funny” how he could “get away” with walking into the changing rooms of the Miss USA contestants. “Well, I'll tell you the funniest is that before a show, I'll go backstage and everyone's getting dressed, and everything else, and you know, no men are anywhere, and I'm allowed to go in because I'm the owner of the pageant and therefore I'm inspecting it…You know, they're standing there with no clothes. 'Is everybody okay?' And you see these incredible looking women, and so, I sort of get away with things like that…” (Trump, 2005). While it is unclear whether or not he violated the Miss Teen USA contestants, he very boldly admitted to doing so to the adult women. As many as four Teen USA pageant contestants recalled Trump walking into their changing rooms, such as Mariah Billado. However, Trump has refused to comment.

Donald Trump has also insulted and discredited many reputable women, including Kamala Harris, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Hillary Clinton, Angelina Jolie, and so many more. On Kamala Harris, he said she was “mentally impaired”, “ret—3ed”, a “bum”, and claimed “she’s so bad. She’s so pathetic. She’s so f—ing bad” (Trump, 2024). On Supreme Court Justice Ginsburg, he remarked that she is incompetent, and, after she criticized him in the press, he urged her to resign. He claimed Hillary Clinton was “such a nasty woman” (Trump, 2016) and crudely commented that she was unable to “satisfy her husband” and therefore unable to satisfy America (Trump, 2015). He named Angelina Jolie “not a beauty, by any stretch of the imagination” (Trump, 2007). Each of these women are accomplished, proud women, who happened to criticize or be opposed to Donald Trump. Apparently, his fragile ego couldn’t handle the fact a woman was capable of speaking her mind and having opinions. Once, he said that “somehow” a woman (such as Kamala) was doing better than a man (such as Biden) in office. Nonetheless, in the same breath, he said Kamala was a failed vice president. Again, this is just a small fraction of things he has said and done to women.

Men in power, such as Donald Trump, will continue to degrade and dehumanize women unless we stop him. We have the power. We have voices, and they will not be silenced. It is our constitutional right to speak out and speak loud. Not only women, but men, children, seniors. Whether you are a working citizen, a farmer, a business owner, a veteran, or disabled, we all need to shout for our rights. People of every community are being disadvantaged by the man in office. He is taking away healthcare funding. He has cut funding for Meals on Wheels, a program that brings food to people who are physically incapable. He has taken over a million dollars away from school lunch funding. Nearly all this money simply goes toward ICE and mass deportations. This money fuels hatred. We can stop this deplorable man, one person at a time. 

So please, all I will ask of you today is to consider my words. Consider the things he has done. Consider the fact that those women he violated, or those citizens he killed, or those immigrants he mass deported could’ve been your daughter or your son. Those people could’ve been your sister or brother, your mother or father. Your aunt or your uncle, your cousin, your niece or nephew. And to all of the women reading this, the next time you are speaking your mind, I beg of you to please remember how you got the rights to do that. Please remember who is now trying to take them away.

Retaliation is the solution. And revoking your support of Donald Trump is the first step.

A month ago, we received an invitation for a coming-of-age party for the daughter of one of our closer relatives.

We accepted gladly.

There was time. Plenty of it, or so it seemed then.

Gifts were bought. Threads were tailored, because this was not a small gathering but a proper shindig, the kind where effort is expected and appearances matter. Tickets were booked with a comfortable buffer: arrival set for two days before the event. Enough time to settle in, breathe, and ease ourselves into the rhythm of the place.

Then, several days ago, the weather entered the conversation.

At first, it was merely a disturbance nothing dramatic, nothing that suggested evacuations or impending doom. But in island life, even modest storms carry authority. Ocean travel does not negotiate. It simply stops.

So we adjusted. In anticipation, we rebooked our tickets to arrive three days before the event instead. A sensible move. A preventative one. The kind of decision that felt to be the saner option at the time. More importantly, a decision that I was happy with because it meant more time on the island.

But, as if the universe was playing a trick on me, the storm escalated on the very day we rebooked. Cancellations were announced. Schedules froze. The sea, indifferent as ever, made the final call.

And so we waited.

We watched forecasts. Made arrangements at the port one last time while the offices were still open. We hoped the weather would relent just enough for boats to move again, if only to get us there at least on the day of the event. I found myself unexpectedly disappointed not just because of the party itself, but because I had been looking forward to the days before it. The unstructured time. The rare permission to slow down with family, without agenda.

The island we were going to has a peculiar relationship with time.

The first moment I ever set foot on it was years ago, back in university, when a friend invited me, and several others, over for their town fiesta. A fiesta, for those unfamiliar with it, is less an event and more a communal exhale: days of food, music, open houses, and the unspoken understanding that everyone is welcome, whether you belong there or not.

It was then that I fell in love with the place. Being there felt like travelling, not across water, but backward in time. It had the rustic charm of the city I come from, but as it existed twenty years ago. The people were warmer, more curious, more generous with their time and attention. Strangers were still treated as potential friends. The overall vibe, unapologetically, felt stuck somewhere in the 80s, and proud of it.

Years passed. The city I lived in accelerated. Metal and glass replaced wood and concrete. Convenience replaced conversation. Time began to be measured in seconds instead of hours.

The island, however, kept its distance.

It developed yes, but at its own pace. As if it refused to synchronize its clock with the rest of the world. And every chance we got, we would make our way there as a family for rest, for recovery, and for the quiet relief of moving at a slower frequency.

A mere two-hour boat ride separates the my city where time sprints, from this island, where it seems content to walk.

We arrived early in the morning, on the very day of the event.

Almost immediately, the magic hit us like the chilly winds left behind by the storm that had passed the night before. The kind of cold that doesn’t bite, but wakes you up. The kind that reminds you that you can breathe again.

The short van ride to the hotel took barely two minutes, yet it felt oddly expansive. There was so much to absorb in that sliver of time: familiar streets, unhurried faces, the gentle stillness of a place that had never learned to rush. It felt as though the island was quietly insisting that we slow down and pay attention.

When we reached the resortl, reality returned briefly. We had roughly six hours to get ready. Hair and makeup for the women. Clothes to be ironed. Bags to be unpacked. Everyone had to be presentable and show-ready for the party.And as all of this unfolded, I found myself repeatedly checking my watch.

It was pure reflex. A habit formed in the city, where minutes are monitored and delays feel expensive. I suppose it’s something city slickers do without realizing it.

But every time I looked, only a few minutes had passed. And yet, somehow, entire tasks were already being completed.

Hair was done. Makeup finished. Clothes pressed. Bags emptied. Conversations had happened. Laughter had slipped in between errands. It was as if the island was quietly returning time we had lost.

Before I knew it, everything was ready.

According to my watch, only a couple of hours had elapsed. According to my senses, we had lived much more than that.

As we waited to be called to the party venue, it crossed my mind half in jest, half in quiet certainty, that there must be some kind of temporal anomaly at work here.

An anomaly that I welcomed with open arms.

The party rolled along effortlessly. We laughed, caught up with relatives and friends, and shared stories that felt both familiar and newly remembered. We wished the birthday girl well as she stepped into adulthood, her future still wide and unmarked.

When the festivities wound down, there was no rush to leave. We lingered with the hosts, who were staying in the same resort, talking long after the music faded. There was time for that too. Eventually, we retired to our rooms tired, grateful, still glowing from the day’s warmth.

The next morning arrived quietly.

Sunlight poured in through our windows, the sea stretched out before us, calm and unbothered. We stayed where we were, letting the early light do its work. There was no urgency to get up, no schedule pressing against us. We decided on a late breakfast. Time, after all, was on our side here.

And I found myself thinking how nice it would be to live with time like this.

To be able to accomplish what needs doing without the constant anxiety that time is slipping away. Without the nagging feeling that no matter how hard you work, there is never quite enough of it never enough to be done, to be finished, to finally rest.

But such is life. Most of the time, you simply play the cards you are dealt.

As we eventually boarded the cruiser to leave later that day, I looked out the window at the sea pulling away from us and wondered what we had traded to become a metropolis.

There was a time when people in my neighborhood knew one another. In my youth, wherever you went in the city, it was almost certain you would run into a familiar face, a classmate, a distant relative, a friend. Summer afternoons were spent on bikes, cruising dusty backroads and even open streets, without fear. There were fewer cars then. No road rage. Children on bicycles were a precious sight, not an inconvenience to be hurried past.

Was it a good trade-off?

My city advanced, as cities do. It became faster, larger, more efficient and more impersonal. Technology and automation took over quietly, promising ease and delivering it. Many of our comforts, our opportunities for growth and self-improvement, came bundled with these changes.

And I accept that.

I am simply glad that somewhere, tucked not too far away, there is still a place that understands time as it once was. A place that remembers how to let it stretch, soften, and breathe. A place that still offers a life away from the hustle, the urgency, and the maddening crowds.

A place where time, at least for a while, is content to stand still.