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When I wake up, I bet I heard my mom yelling at me for sleeping in. But then the reality takes over my dreams. Mom's not here. The reality hits like a stab in the stomach. All I can do is take it in.
My roommate greets me with a grin in the kitchen. Some Spanish show is blaring on the TV. My dishes are still in the sink. Those have been there for so long because no one has told me to do the dishes. I sigh turning on the faucet. Growing up is all about responsibilities.
It's not doing your dishes because you'll lose your access to wifi for an entire day otherwise. It's doing it because you won't have anything to eat from otherwise.
Waking up early is not about pleasing your mother and giving her a reason to let you go out. It's about running errands that your life literally depends on.
Curfews are not for your parents to stop worrying about your safety, but you worrying about yours.
Having a job is not about saving money, it's about spending it.
I curse myself for choosing to grow up so fast all the while doing my grown up responsibilities.
"Oh, I'm going out to the party tonight. You coming?" My roommate shouts to make herself audible over the noise from the TV.
"Heck, yeah," I say.
Did I mention growing up is having fun and being free?
An abstract sculpture of bones, donned with brown skin. He was inferior, he was deemed under. He was but a drizzle of the wrong paint, which ruined the vast canvas of the world, transforming pastel and bright dyes into a cool grey.
His father was young and broken, mended with the cheapest quality of cellotape, left half-stuck by the ever-coming, ever-leaving women, women whose eyes glowered , stashing their secrets in the hook of their garter belts. His father, though, would look upon him with a shadow of a faint smile, and a flame in his eyes, like sunlight shining through Dom's whiskey.
His sister, pretty and wholesome, cracking like a porcelain doll, would purchase cassettes and bury them in the deep creases of her mother's dress. Her hair, splayed with black, mirrored his forlorn face as he looked upon it. Her, as she twirled daintily to the fortes of rock and mimicked the sax at the zenith of a blues tune. She described herself to be rain,frequent and limited, vital and ignored. She would be like raindrops on the dry verandah, crackling like an old radio coming to life.
He would hold her honeyed hand, and walk through the lanes of the favela, and the asphalt streets of Providence, to protect her. He would tower over the lust of weathered men, who've done their time, the cry of the desperate, the acts of the criminals.
Nonetheless, she would return to her father, holding his dark hand, promising a tomorrow. He would watch from behind drapes and sigh.He would play tunes on a kitchen knife, a true actor in melancholic comedy. He was made of forged steel, but steel, after all, attracts. He was a mere magnet, he enticed all, he was enticed by all. He was ruined by all.
I love you with my aura, placing it about you like the deepest star-filled sky. Space and time have no meaning for my love, for it is boundless, eternal. It is a love that self-sustains through even the meanest of winters, its own heat and light being the warmth, the hope. Even if you were cold to the core, my love, I would wake you like the spring wakes a flower and watch you grow, watch you bloom. Everything that I am is yours... all I ask is that you take care of yourself in the same way you would care for a person you love completely, in the same way I love you.
The South Pacific at daybreak was indeed a sight for sore eyes. The sun peeked above the horizon, causing red streaks to cut into the awakening sky. The sea was clothed in a million shimmering stars that twinkled whenever the next wave came. Blue; blue was everywhere, it covered the ocean’s surface and, skipping the sunrise, traveled up into the sky for as far as the eye could see. In the middle of the ocean sat a little boat, out of place in the endless blue, like a black blotch on an artist’s blue canvas. It had three small sails and a little cabin in the center of its wooden deck; a steel rail ran around the edge of the deck. A girl stood at the rail, gripping it with both hands while she closed her eyes and tilted her head back to catch the sun’s emerging warmth. Her auburn hair flowed free around her face, and a slight smile curved her lips. She had the appearance of someone completely at peace, without a care in the world.
An economy without money. Just think about it.
No one is forced to work; people do their jobs out of the kindness of their heart, just for the wellbeing of themselves and others. Need some food? Just go to the shop, pick it up, and walk out. You're not stealing. It was made for you, and everyone else.
There would be little to no thefts. Why steal something when it's free? Besides, if something's been stolen from you, you can simply go and pick up another one from the shop. Sure, the shop might be far, or maybe you won't have any of the things you've stored in your device, if any, but it's not the end of the world. And stealing from a shop is impossible; everything's free anyway.
What about spoilt brats? You can't really be a spoilt brat if everyone else is equal, and can get exactly what you have.
But who will build our roads? Fly our planes? Plant and harvest our food?
Anyone could. If only there were enough good in this world. If only we weren't at risk of people simply being evil or greedy. Because how can you be greedy if there's no money?
If only we lived in an economy without money.
"When world leaders talk to one another like members of a functional family, truly serving the needs of the people they represent, humanity wins a chance to become a 'brotherhood of man.' After that we can focus on health, on wellbeing, on reducing harm to our Mother Earth year on year."
I can name all the colors of rainbow before you can finish counting to seven. I can name all thirty-two colors of Nate's striped dirty blanket. I know the names of all shades of orange, each faded differently from washing.
I can tell what the color of the slide was when Nate and I played there the last time as normal elementary school kids. I remember what color I was wearing when I was first stripped down, or when Nate first showed up covered in blood. I can even name all the shades of red there was on my pants, on his shirt.
When I shoot up a firecracker, colors become just a conception, not a real thing. Even the sky looses the name for its color. I wish I knew what those colors were called. The only thing I know is it will not fade away, but it will spread into infinity, each tiny bit taking a part of me, flying me through different galaxies.
But then, those little firecrackers don't go far before falling back to the ground.
Alexander looked upon his withered father, and King. Benedict grew more wrinkled with each day; looking as though he had too much skin to cover his wilting frame. His face had lost is healthy brown colour fading to an ashy grey, looking as though dust had begun to gather on his rotting body. Alexander remembered when his father looked a powerful man, when he had hair and a beard so long that he could not tell where one ended and the next began. Now though, the king had lost his youthful and handsome looks. He was clean shaven and his hair was trimmed short, revealing a decrepit mask where every wrinkled, blemish and imperfection could be seen.
Alexander hurt when he looked at Benedict like this. He wished to remember the mountainous man he had been; the strong willed and merciful King, the gentle and caring father, the adoring and passionate husband. Yet when he looked upon him now all he could see was a wizened and frightened old man. As he looked upon him, Alexander wondered if his father was more scared of living or of dying.
The flood tore down everything that stood in its way, leaving millions of shards, as if broken hope had become visible. How the deprived village had longed for a few droplets of precious water to bless their fields of wheat. However, even the smallest child could tell that they were not on grounds to neither celebrate such fortune nor let loose a smile - the fear darkened like the low clouds. It was not long before it struck again. Their homes, their work of many years, was washed away as if it were nothing. And so their grief flowed with the brown water, rising, twisting, raw power without conscience; the 4th of January was the last anyone heard of the Breknian people. Not every cloud - has a silver lining.
Words might just be blots of ink on a page, but they have power. They might be simple sounds carelessly uttered from a mouth, but they can crush confidence and provoke anger. Words might be soft and emotional, cried in the midst of war, but they have the power to arise courage in the hearts of men. Words might be sung from the bottom of a hurting heart with no one listening, but they have the power to reach the ear of a great God who can turn sorrow into dancing. Words might be little things written on a little square piece of paper, but they have the power to bind hearts or separate them. They have the power to start wars or end them.
"I can tell you how this is gonna go, but I'm begging you to prove me wrong. First we'll flirt and get close, then the closeness will trigger a panic in me I can't control and I'll go cold, like ice. I will retreat. I'll be careful not to cause damage because I have at least learnt that much. Then, when the fear of being hurt all over again has passed I'll come back to you, warm and affectionate, feeling guilty, feeling worried that I've lost you. It will look like 'fire and ice,' or 'push and pull,' but in truth it is an emotional wave that is painful and internal to me. I will know you are being kind, steady, perhaps confused. In the end, very few stick with me; but for those that do it is an eternal friendship and I would walk through fire and ice for those I love. So, throw a penny in a well, my love, and make a wish; I already did the same."