Funny how fragile life is. How fast it remends, how cracked and broken it may be, and how overwhelmingly gorgeous. Such a great family we are, amidst our will to hurt each other. I simply want to hold hands. No, really, I do. Like literally, with the person next to me. Ok, maybe I'm a lunatic. But I just want to open their eyes. Moments pass by, too fast to catch. We might as well smile. And silently, hold the hand of our friend, a stranger, the love of our life, our brother. We are one, we are frozen, we are broken, and life is a beautiful thing. It makes me smile, to see the salty tears run over my rosy cheeks.
The world had never heard her name, but to the girl she meant the world. Every second of her time spent searching, negotiating, reporting to the police, as the rest of the world stood oblivious. Of coarse, her school friends knew, of her little sister who went missing. So much so, that too many people, she was just 'that girl who lost her sister,' 'poor thing, how sad.' But to the girl, it didn't matter. Her universe revolved around one thing, and the mere sound of her sister's name pulled her stronger than the sun. Yet, her orbit was always slightly off, and as she spiraled closer and closer, it seemed that she would just miss her sister by mere seconds. But what could she do?
I heard a nice song on the radio today
a catchy song that got stuck in my head
strings of words put together in a beautiful way
It made my heart hurt just to hear it
What kind of inspiration did the song have to give
I looked up song meanings just to see
Big arguments going on as always and everyday
As if a song can't have
contradiccting meanings at once
But today it said this song should be heard and not thought too much about
So why are you hear to interpret sir?
As soon as we learned to ask
We invented a way to respond
an answer a beautiful thing
that destroys us
limits us chains us
Today in school we discussed a book
"You're creating meanings
that just aren't there"
so what, it's a meaning,
just the same.
So maybe we give life
meanings that don't exist
but who determines
how life should be lived
is it worthless to question too much?
Or not to question at all?
A questionless life, whats the point
How can you appreciate
But over questioned just the same
So I heard
She was such an emotional person, wasnt she?
She laughed of joy, and cried at night. And of coarse she cried, because that’s what made her emotional, correct? So I presume that happiness is not considerable enough to define a person? A person is defined by their hardest moments (there responses) and their tears? Is that fair? Yet that seems where we most change. Its where we are out of control, where the deepest residing parts of us collide with the real world we had hidden. Or another way around. Seven other ways around. The opposite way around. In a circle made of branching lines that continue straight forever until they once again meet up. Permanence in a tear, its who we are. One tear that rolls down our face, and not the smile we hold all day. A red weeping eye, or red rosy cheeks? All I see now when I think of emotion are little smiles used in texting, 2D feelingless circles with dots for eyes and a crescent mouth. It's odd in a way. That we let them define us, and let loose of our connection. that personalness where we can no longer think straight. What about the problem with the run away train? You could sacrifice one person to save a dozen, by swiping a switch, yet you seem unable when it requires pushing the person to his death. Because off that connection, that now we have ignored. We have lost touch with the world, where connections and social media claim to bring us together. We grow apart. I want to fight through the pain, fight for my life, with a person there beside me, no longer a computer. Someone with warm hands, who just maybe thinks slowly. I think slowly. I write better than I speak, so I have time to think. But it draws me apart I want to liv
My mother said never to post my best work on a website such as this. "Don't post your art on instagram, and always write your name." "Don't share stories and poems on a site where they could be stolen." "Wait until you can publish them." I'm not quite sure if I want to self publish. I just want to casually write. Why write my name on a piece of art, when that only decreases its beauty? I didn't write it for fame, did I? Well, I'd like a little compliment, recognition. But that's not what its about. I draw art to share my view of the world with others. I look at art and I see through their eyes. Everyone has a dirrerent view of the world, too unique to need a name. So, I drew a wolf. Look, so did they! They are totally different. I told my art teachers this, and said I would not sign my artwork. After a few strange looks, they agreed. On sculptures, they glued the name tag on with less permanence, and they wrote my name on the back of my paintings.
I wanted people to see my art. I begged silently for people to notice me. Every happy story starts off sad, doesn't it? Every sad story starts off happy. I don't know what my story was, but I hope to tell it, and I hope you'll listen. Please don't looks down upon it- for one of the criteria of a short story is one overwhelming emotion. I sometimes doubt I even feel emotion. I've only learned how to respond to the situations in which I should. Leaves blow from trees, and the years go by. I'm not sure what I'm doing with my life. It's not over yet. When I was younger, I wanted to be great- not necessarily that I wanted to be great anytime soon, but someday. I feel I've passed soon and I'm nearing someday. And I've only gotten worse. So what do you dream of? Is your story sad, or will you make it happy?
The crows cawed out with harsh, sorrowful cries as we drove up. I fumbled to pull my phone out of my pocket, and asked my mom to pull over. She gave me an odd look, but did so all the same. It was a true murder of crows, like none you have ever seen in your life. Black on the gray sky, they swooped, each feather a silhouette against the shades. They sat on street wires, balanced on wobbly tree branches, and pecked at the ground. Fifty? A hundred? Two hundred? Three hundred? Too many to count. I walked around the sidewalk in awe, as in waves they would lift from the ground, soar as one, before lighting back down, as if nothing had happened. The busy cars whirred by on all sides of the small, road-boardered area. What a great welcome to your new home. Would you have taken it as a bad sign? Something of that majesty?