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The hospital smelled of sterilized death. The lobby made no effort to try and comfort or welcome. Perhaps the feeling of a temporary stay was intended. Still, it was all too unfamiliar, and I could imagine her being wheeled into the cold, stone-floored lobby, wanting to etreat. The nurse squinted at my father, brother and me, skeptical of our relations to my mother. My red hair and strikingly similar facial features should have given it away, and my anxiety was building to the point where my balled-up fists were...
The flashes of light that usually prevented total darkness behind my eyelids formed into figures, and I was sure I was dreaming. Familiar faces began to spring from the purples and reds as my breathing slowed and my mind tried to let go of consciousness. Memories long since touched came shouting at me, wagging a finger in my direction, scolding me for running away from them. “You’ll never forget us,” they seemed to say as conversations wrought with intensity, betrayal, and heartbreak filled my mind’s ear. The fan...
I watch you on the other side as the kerosene begins to seep into the deeply carved seams and cracksin the wood of our footbridge.Laughter echoes through the canyon,off of the stone embracing the warm fog,and through the vivid humidity streams a myriad of memories,in rainbows produced by rememberance light.I weep quietly, and you do not see,you are just a still-life after a year.Your wavy hair, untouched, lay stillwhile winds whip around me, dragging me from connection.God knows I miss you,but I do not know God.He...
This is a subject that has come up many times throughout this past year. In his autobiographical essay, “The Crack-Up,” F. Scott Fitzgerald discusses his slow slip into reality the more and more he ages. The things he has seen and experienced have caused him to change his views of the world, and perhaps for the better. He seems a bit more cynical, which is also found in The Great Gatsby quite a lot, in my opinion. In the second to last paragraph of his stream of opinions and mindful retellings, Fitzgerald comes...
Those who run are not justly named human; we are more akin to creatures of flight, as the slight bound of toe to the churned rubber or solid pavement or comfortably loose cinder lasts far less than...
There is the first time you fall in love. Risky, painful, but all around beautiful. It comes with making promises, making love, and ultimately letting someone into your very essence. You let them see...
(source) not an inch of blackness can enrapture His eyes the way i see them in the foreground of deathin hindsight i see a white pageflowers and winter teenslife has gone on and is laced beneath Your royal blues and violets.