|I am a person. That's all you need to know.|
Clothes, Or Why We Should All Be NudistsClothes, Or Why We Should All Be Nudists by shadowsmokeandfire
If you looked through my closet, you would notice that my wardrobe consists almost entirely of black running pants, black athletic shorts, and black T-shirts. You may find the occasional white button-up hidden among my paint-splattered shirts from middle school and graphic tees, but the few nice shirts I own have problems of their own, often being too large or stained. I realize my closet is abysmal, especially for a teenage girl. My closet should overflow with denim shorts and vintage T-shirts, not the dreary athletic wear that inhabits most of it. I have tried to even out the ratio of dresses to sweatpants in my wardrobe, or at least introduce a color other than black, but my utilitarianism usually wins at the checkout counter. Black matches with everything and works for most occasions. Besides, I never leave the house unless I am going to school or Church, exercising, or buying groceries, so I see no purpose for a flowery crop-top or ripped jeans. There is no reason for me to buy cl
Livin' Young and Wild and FreeLivin' Young and Wild and Free by shadowsmokeandfire
There is nothing particularly remarkable about my backpack. It is a black, inconspicuous hiking backpack, sturdy and stout. I bought it on sale, and in it, I carry my phone, petroleum jelly, my school ID, a three-hole punch, my reusable water bottle, the keys to my house, and the entire contents of my locker. The only personality my backpack has comes from a hand-made lanyard hanging off of one of the zippers, and even that serves a practical purpose, standing in for the zipper pull I lost sophomore year. Thankfully, I only have to endure one more year with my falling-apart book bag before I head off to college and no longer have to lug my books from class to class.
Getting rid of my backpack will be a cathartic experience for me. Most of the memories I have made with it were unpleasant (crying about my inability to understand physics, crying while everyone else goes to Homecoming, crying for the sake of it), so I look forward to the day when I can pitch those memories and my backpack
On Turning 18On Turning 18 by shadowsmokeandfire
I would not be scared of adulthood
If I were ready,
And not the melancholic kid
Who refuses to acknowledge her inchoate dreams,
In order to march to the rhythm
Of taxes and death
I suppose any future will be better
Than looking through the looking glass,
Of sitting alone,
Because others neglected the shadow
Who refused to be seen
I want to believe that I have changed,
But every time I press my back against the wall,
I become nothing more than a pair of eyes,
While I fade
Maybe I’ll change in the future,
And stop living inside my dreams.
Or at least put an end
To this state I’ve concocted
Between dreaming and reality
I used to argue that life is pain,
But how could I have known pain,
When I never knew life?
A Look at Babbitt by Sinclair LewisA Look at Babbitt by Sinclair Lewis by shadowsmokeandfire
I have read a couple of books about salesmen struggling against conformity in my time, but the only one which I did not hate was Babbitt by Sinclair Lewis. It is the first and arguably the best book that deals with the salesman archetype, and I, D.E.L.A., am going to discuss it with you today.
Summary: Babbitt tells the story of George F. Babbitt, a realtor who lives in the made-up town of Zenith during Prohibition. Babbitt is dissatisfied with his middle-class life and feels oppressed by the social norms of this Midwestern town. Babbitt brushes these feelings aside, choosing to focus on climbing up the social ladder instead. When his good friend, Paul Riesling, shoots his wife and goes to jail, Babbitt begins to question his ways. Without his wife to reign him in, Babbitt spirals out of control, rebelling against social norms by drinking, smoking, and engaging in an extramarital affair. Babbitt’s new lifestyle leads to social isolation, and though he does no
|I am a person. That's all you need to know.|
A Conundrum of EggsMara sat on the edge of reality, dangling her feet over the border and watching them fade out and return to existence. "Hello, feet," she said as she swung her leg back toward her. She thought for a moment about what grand adventures they may have had without her, but ultimately decided she couldn't have missed out on much if they stayed connected to her knees.
The grassy knoll Mara sat on separated the city of Locana from Fordham Forest. It stood in the shadow of a tall, obelisk structure. Part of the knoll jutted into the woods, forming a little cliff that overlooked a dip. When she first peered over the edge, she saw nothing but a dark abyss. This must be the edge of the world, she thought. Nothing exists beyond this point. It is a blank canvas on which anything can be created.
Mara closed her eyes and listened to the gentle trickling below. The world is rushing out, like a waterfall.
Earlier in the day, Mara came up with the idea of fishing from the void. She s
Pool PartyTom was giddy. Here was his chance to prove himself capable to his friends! As a new homeowner, he had not only a place to host parties, but also an above ground pool and deck. Rather than be late to everything, he could take credit for organizing everything. His best friends, Jack and Stephen, were somewhat skeptical.
"You haven't even unpacked, and already you want to host a party?" Stephen scoffed.
"You've heard of a housewarming party!" Tom insisted.
"Tom," Jack interjected, "you don't throw those for yourself. That's telling people to get you gifts."
"Fine," Tom said. "We'll call it a cookout, backyard barbecue, whatever. Pool party."
"Do you even know how to operate a pool?" quizzed Stephen.
"How hard can it be?" laughed Tom. "Fill it up with water, and all the pool stuff's in the garage."
"Give him a break," Jack told Stephen. "He's got a point. How hard can it be?"
Stephen avoided eye contact but relented.
Saturday, Tom was almost ready. He had ribs to barbecue, napkins, the go
What is Love?The way I see it, love is a fear.
It's mistrust and trust all in one, an escape in which to fling yourself upon the one who was trying to catch you in a daring attempt to be free.
Love is heartfelt devotion, yet a quiet distance. The staring from afar at the one you admire can often be considered love, though the love I see is passionate and wild and contained and meaningful all at once. It's empty and thoughtless, careful and just, and never passes a moment in which it is forgotten.
The love that I wish to feel I have never felt, only in my daydreams. The love that I wish to feel is a love that the written word could never fully describe, one that is so romantic and casual, tamed and adoring, all in a perfect balance that lifts you upward into the sky like a feather where it could otherwise hold you chained to the stone if weighed incorrectly.
The way I see it, love is a fear.
It is a fear of the unknown, of the things that have not yet been experienced, and the thin
Aftermath - Entry One"I'm still lost out here. Lost and alone in the aftermath..."
Jan. 8th 2045
Today was no different to any other. I've still seen no sign of hope in anyone who passed by. That's all they do now; they don't even check the hospitals now. It's all been looted. You can tell by the bodies lining the doorways and broken windows from where they broke in and grabbed what they could to take away the pain, to take away the reality of all this. Needles still stick out of their infested, maggot riddled arms, their veins almost entirely eaten away and their eyeballs plucked out by the crows.
The crows are no different to them, the 'people'. You know what they call a group of crows? A murder. A murder of crows.
That's what they all are; murders. Packs that work their ways through city after city with no aim other than to pillage goods and slaughter the remaining survivors. You'd think we'd be few in numbers, humans, but there'd supposedly been 10 billion before this had happened... It shows