One day, in an increasingly large and crowded metropolis, there was a tiny store, which was specialized in selling books. It was owned by Clara who inherited the store from her parents. The bookstore was the one place that Clara adored with its climate-controlled structure, its old wooden floor, and dusty books all over the place. This place had once been her haven when she faced the worst in her life; thus, she managed it as her parents used to do. There is a story I heard and very much believe to be true: there was a girl named Mia and one day she visited the store. She was perhaps eight years old with big round eyes with the look of a child full of questions and Fabian was rather shy. She strolled around the shelves of the store rubbing the backs of the books with her hand but did not select one. Noticing this, Clara followed the girl and tried to talk to her though the girl seemed surprised and a bit reluctant. “Is there something I can help you find?” Clara asked gently. Mia looked up at her, then down at her shoes. “I'm looking for something… something special.” Clara knelt to the girl's level. “What kind of special thing are you looking for?” The girl paused for a brief moment then cleared her throat and softly said, “My brother is sick. Sick. ” She continued to breathe something ragged before adding, “He's in the hospital, and… I need something to help him feel better. ” Clara could feel a sharp squeeze in her breast at the girl's words. She recalled deep disappointment and hopelessness when a dear person was sick Surrey made a decision that a petty action in such a situation could help Mia to ease her burden She took her by the hand and led her to the corner of the shop where there was a solitary shelf with several sheets of origami paper and a couple of books on how to fold the paper crane. “Yes, it is about a child, a girl, who folded a thousand paper cranes with her own hands for her sick mother”, smiled Clara. Mia shook her head. Clara smiled. It is generally believed that when one has folded one thousand origami cranes, the gods will grant the person a wish; it is a Japanese belief often associated with good health. Mia stared with wide eyes and Clara succeeded in seeing hope in her eyes. “Would it do my brother any good?” Clara nodded. “Maybe it could somehow make him more comfortable and who knows, maybe even magical, don't you think we should try making them together?” Weeks passed and Mia came to the bookstore every day after classes. And she was with Clara in the corner where flannel blankets were wrapped around the books and the bright sheets of paper, making crane upon crane. It was when Clara in the simplicity of showing Mia how to fold a simple bird out of an A4-sized paper that one saw that Clara possessed impeccable dexterity. Days went by and people began to notice what Mia was doing to her co-workers. Gradually, it became customary in the bookstore that Mia and Clara receive paper cranes from those customers who had originally folded them at home, or from people who came into the store to fold paper cranes along with Mia and Clara. Thus, the little bookstore turned into a hopeful place and people of different backgrounds assisted Mia in achieving her dream. A month later, effort was made to fold the last crane, which was the thousandth crane. The two girls properly put the cranes in a big box and the following day, Mia took them to the hospital. When she got to her brother's room, he was confined to bed more weakened than before but the look of joy which was evident in his eyes said a lot when he saw the box of colorful cranes. ‘Here are yours,' Mia said gently. “Each one is a wish for you to get better,” Telling this sad story and looking at the cranes which were made with love and hope her brother cries. He rose and went towards his sister grabbing her hand firmly. For the next few weeks, something quite out of the ordinary started to happen. This time was promising for Mia's brother as he started to recover. The doctors were filled with delight after seeing him fully recover, one even stated that was a very rare occurrence. Mia however was convinced by the other view that there was magic in the cranes, the love that was embraced within each of the pieces. The cranes were suspended from the ceiling of his hospital as a constant reminder to Marge that no matter how bad things are there will always be a tomorrow. And although life is fragile and many times tough, still kindness and love no matter how small can make a world of difference. Years later, Mia and her brother would often come to the bookstore and it has become their source of with full memories of hope and healing. Every time they looked at it, they would regard the strength of a wish, the sister's love, and the mystery of the existence of magic in this world.

A mother's love is a quiet strength, a constant presence that nurtures, protects, and guides. In every family, mothers play an irreplaceable role, balancing countless responsibilities with grace and courage. Being a mother isn't just a job; it's a journey filled with love, sacrifice, and the everyday heroism of caring for others. Being a mother is one of the most challenging and rewarding roles imaginable. Mothers are the ultimate givers, often putting their children's needs above their own without a second thought. They are willing to bear any burden and would gladly take on all the pain to shield their children from hurt. This incredible love and selflessness are truly unmatched. From the moment we are born, our mothers become our first caregivers and protectors. They are there for every milestone, whether it's a scraped knee or a big life decision, offering comfort and guidance. They dress us, feed us, and create a safe space where we can grow and flourish. No one else in our lives thinks and cares for us quite like our mothers do. This is why our mothers deserve our deepest love and respect. They are the silent heroes who work tirelessly, often without recognition, to ensure our happiness and success. Their love is a constant, unwavering force, and their sacrifices are the foundation of everything we are and everything we aspire to be. In the quiet moments and the loud, in the joys and the struggles, mothers stand as pillars of strength and love. They are the unsung heroes whose every day is filled with acts of kindness, sacrifice, and courage. A mother's job is never done; it is a lifelong journey that shapes the lives of their children in profound ways.

A sudden crash jolted me awake. Yells of surprise followed, the sound seemed to have come from the kitchen, perhaps someone broke a plate. I could smell something tempting—fish frying. My belly rumbled in response, I couldn't ignore the lure of that delicious aroma. I slipped out of my makeshift house—the old, dusty store near the family's home. My stealthy steps were silent as I navigated past the garden, careful not to alert the dogs. The clattering of plates being set for dinner can be heard from outside. I settled in front of the kitchen door, a sliver of light slipping through the gap beneath it. The sun had set, and darkness covered everything, except for the comforting glow from the kitchen. As the family enjoyed their meal, I waited, hoping for a crumb or two. Though I wasn't adopted by them, I reside in this family's abandoned store. I'm just a stray—one of the many cats wandering the neighborhood in search of food. My days were spent hunting rats and scavenging garbage bins. When hunting failed, I'd sneak into houses and swipe whatever scraps I could find. Humans almost never greeted me warmly. They can be cruel. All I wanted was to fill my belly but they'd chased me away with brooms and slippers. I learned that leftovers from the kitchen sink would get me in less trouble than the more tempting food on the dining table. Yet, occasionally, the allure of the table's offerings was too strong, and I would risk a snatch. Once, a human caught me stealing a chicken leg. It was smaller than most adults but bigger than the little ones who screamed and chased me. Expecting a slipper to fly my way, I darted out of the house. But when I returned later that evening, I was met with an unexpected kindness. Instead of scolding, it offered me food from a bowl. It was the same food they gave to the dogs. It had a meaty aroma with faint traces of chicken. The dogs in this household lived in luxury, with humans going through the trouble of drying mashed chicken and shaping it into small circles for them. The family had finished eating, and I heard them preparing food for the dogs. The clinking of metal bowls and the sound of kibble being poured made me drool a bit. The kitchen door creaked open, a normal-sized human appeared—it was the mother. It wore its outdoor slippers and its gaze fell on me. Our eyes met briefly before it said sharply, “Why are you here, filthy parasite? Go away!” Its words stung. It's true my actions are considered parasitic as I, a stranger, welcomed myself in this household and live off a family who isn't mine. Yet, being likened to the ticks biting my fur made me pity and disgust myself. I scurried away, hiding behind the old outdoor restroom close enough to the kitchen for its light to reach. After the mother fed the dogs, it glared at me and warned me not to eat the dogs' food. I'm not foolish to try—those dogs were eight times my size. They'd rip me apart if I attempted to steal their food. Rain began to fall, the gentle drizzle prompted the mother to return inside. As the doors closed, I was left in the darkness. I slipped inside the restroom for shelter. The rain quickly picked up, and in the silence, I could only hear the dogs' loud munching and the increasing pitter-patter of rain on the stones. If the rain continued, it would be a cold night. I needed to get back to the shack or risk staying in the restroom till it stops. As I was about to leave, the kitchen door swung open again. A bright light spilled out, and I saw a silhouette, smaller than that of the mother—it was the little human. It had a bowl in its hand. “Oh good, you're still here!” it said with a hint of concern. It crouched down and dumped a small pile of fish bones near me. “Luckily, Mother didn't give these to the dogs,” it said, “I left a bit of meat on mine for you.” Some of the bones had bits of meat, not much, but enough. "Better eat that before the rain pours down," it said, then closed the door. The fish bones lacked the aroma of the cooked fish I had smelled earlier, not even close to the faint scent of the dogs' food. They barely had any meat and weren't very appetizing. But food is food; one must eat whatever they can to avoid starving. With the rain pouring down harder, I quickly gathered the fish bones and dashed back to the shack, each step hurried by the increasing intensity of the storm. Once I had transferred all the fish bones to the shack, I called to wake my young ones. They responded with their tiny voices. I checked on them, licking their fur as they nibbled on their meal. Afterward, I cleaned myself, my fur wet from the rain. The storm grew louder, a heavy downpour that seemed endless. After my little ones had finished their meal, I curled up with them, seeking warmth amidst the pile of old fabrics. The rain continued to rage outside, but we were safe for now. We survived another night, with bellies barely full, huddled together in our small refuge.

What drives a person crazy? What differentiates a crazy person from a sane one? I can't define it, but I see a thin line between insanity & consciousness, making it hard to distinguish at times. Even the "crazy" claim they're sane. Psychiatry labels psychiatric patients as sane but flawed due to brain function issues. Yet, I feel like a spectacle for those around me. I'm not crazy I'm just sick. I looked up from my notes to see whispers & glances directed at me. Dirk loves to philosophize, & while his ideas annoy me, I oddly agree with some. "How do they let this psycho exist in the university?!” I overheard. They view me as the odd one, Leo or as my father called me, the mental hospital's owner. I fled to engineering to escape the chaos. Ironically, I have dissociative identity disorder (DID), with seven personalities. Each has its voice & story, explaining their stares. My father keeps me out of the hospital, dosing me with sedatives to manage my personality. I hear them all, yet I don't know who the real me is. I mostly stay in control, except when Dirk's philosophy sneaks in or Jack shows up during bullying. As I approached my locker, I found a letter. I hesitated to open it until I saw the sender: Jana, my twin sister, in an asylum. Is insanity hereditary? I ponder our mother's dementia & my disorder. I finally opened the letter, only to find a piece of wood shaped like an X .tell me again how she sent it from the mental asylum. Then I heard the café news about a patient escaping: Jana Oris! This might explain her message. I'd never seen her as crazy; she was brilliant—until she became uncontrollably agitated & vanished for days. My father had tested her for mental issues, & that news hit hard. If she's crazy, can I trust anyone? At home, I examined the letter: “Cd Zkved Mrebm, Wsxrd, Nyxd doky Ieb Wonsmkdsyx.” The “X” was the key, representing ten. William, my analytical side, easily recognized it as Caesar's cipher. “The key tells how many letters to shift.” He explained the process, & I impatiently awaited the results. Soon, the message formed“St. Paul's Church, midnight, do not take your medication.” Why not take my meds? "idiot, there's another card!” William pointed out. I pulled it from the envelope, finding an old newspaper with headlines about hidden experiments & madness drugs. The date? 2004 I grabbed the letter again, trying to connect this newspaper with the encrypted message. Something felt off. Did Jana discover something dangerous, & Dad accused her of being crazy? Would he send her to an asylum for that reason? What about my medications? Is there something wrong with it? This is Illogical! Thoughts crashed in my mind. I placed the paper on the desk & noticed large writing on the back of the newspaper, which I initially thought was scribbles. My eyes widened at the sentence, “You were not sick.” I stepped away, breathing heavily. Is she honest? Not crazy? What if the medications caused my illness? Am I real, or just a personality created by the disease? Am I really sick? I sighed violently, feeling like crying for the first time since crying had left me. Everything will become clear tonight! When midnight arrived, I was in church until I heard her around from the corner. “I know you have questions,” she began. I shot back without sitting down, "What's the truth? You & my dad? Am I sick?! "Not your dad!" she sighed. I stared as she revealed a piece of paper. “We were adopted after our mother died in his hospital.” My features froze staring at the paper & my dad's signature. Your illness is not normal. It's from medications our father gave you for experiments.” Anger & shock surged inside me. “Do you have proof? That newspaper says there will be an investigation! How do I know this isn't another delusion?” Jana pulled out a stack of papers. “It's all here! I've searched for the truth.”The more I read, the more shocked I became. Details on the experiments & drugs made, the world collapse around me. Different personalities fought for control, all of them. Their voices clashed in my head, laughter mixed with screams, while I squatted, hugging my shoulders., begging to calm down, but Jana watched anxiously. As I trembled, she held me tight despite Jack's resistance. “Leo, I'm here. I won't leave you, everything will be ok! Don't be afraid!”I began to cry while she whispered reassurances. For the first time, I felt safe, knowing I wasn't alone. “I'm here for you, brother. We'll heal together. You're stronger than you think” Her words reignited hope within me. I felt the weight of my suffering lighten, replaced with determination to reclaim my life. With Jana by my side, we'll face what's coming. The road won't be easy, my dad, confronting him, informing the police. But together, piece by piece. As dawn broke, light crept through the church windows, illuminating our path. Embracing each other, we stepped out of the shadows, ready to face a hopeful but dangerous future.

Ever since I was a little brat with pigtails, art has always fascinated me. My mother said I would draw on every surface I could find—from the cupboards to the dressers, to the TV screen. If it could be scribbled on, my tiny baby hands, barely able to hold a crayon, were all over it. When I finally moved on to actual paper, I would get lost in the worlds I created, inventing stories for the characters I drew. By middle school, I was the kid in the back of the class, sketching away to my heart's content. I remember one time, a classmate asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. Having no interests besides drawing, I told them I had no idea. They suggested, “What about those people who draw cartoons? You draw a lot, and you're good at it!” That comment stuck with me. When I got home, I went straight to our old Dell computer and looked up "people who draw cartoons," and according to Google, they were called "animators." Maybe it was the satisfaction of someone besides my mom acknowledging my work, or perhaps it was the realization that this could be an actual career, but I became fixated. I imagined myself working at a big animation company, sipping on my drink while doing what I loved most. Little me made it her mission to become an animator one day. I spent countless hours researching and watching tutorials on how to improve my art. My sketch pad was always with me, constantly trying to get better. But there was something missing. Every animation tutorial I watched featured a “drawing tablet.” Seeing this, little me wanted one desperately, but I knew I couldn't ask my mom for it. She was already working two jobs to support me and my three other siblings. I didn't want to burden her any further. So, I found ways to earn the money myself. I offered my drawing services to my classmates in exchange for cash, knocked on neighbors' doors to walk their dogs, and did chores for other people—I did everything I could to raise the money. Every peso I saved felt like a step closer to my dream. I remember the thrill of holding a crisp bill in my hand after walking Mrs. Garcia's dog for a week straight. It felt like victory, and I was convinced that nothing could stop me. My mom noticed my extra energy. She never asked why, but I could see the pride in her eyes every time I showed her the little money I had saved, telling her it was for my future. A couple of weeks went by, and my piggy bank grew heavier. I could barely contain my excitement when I finally had enough to buy the drawing tablet. I remember running to my mom, showing her the money I had saved. Just when I thought I was about to hold the tablet in my hands, life took an unexpected turn. My grandma fell seriously ill, and suddenly, every bit of money we had became crucial. Without hesitation, I offered my savings to help with her medical expenses. My mom was reluctant to accept it, knowing how much I had worked for it, but I insisted. My dream could wait; my grandma's health couldn't. The months that followed were tough. We watched over grandma, praying for her recovery. By some miracle, she got better, and we were all so relieved. Though my dream of owning a drawing tablet seemed further away, my heart was full knowing my Nana was okay and I had helped in a small way. When Christmas rolled around, I didn't expect much. We had spent so much on the hospital bills, I knew there wasn't much left for presents. But on Christmas morning, as we gathered around the tree, my mom handed me a box wrapped in bright red paper. I slowly unwrapped the gift, my hands trembling. I couldn't believe it—inside was the drawing tablet! With tears in my eyes, I looked up at my mom. She smiled and told me she had taken on extra shifts at work to buy it. That moment was pure magic. I hugged my mom tightly, overwhelmed with gratitude. She had always been my biggest supporter, and this was the greatest gift she could have given me. I plugged in the tablet immediately; the feel of the stylus in my hand just felt so right. My imagination had found a new playground. I was practically glued to my tablet, practicing my technique every day. As my art improved, so did my confidence. So, I decided to start sharing my work online, making connections with other artists and like-minded people. High school came and went, and I had my sights set on animation school. Although the road wasn't easy, I was determined. Today, as I sit in my college dorm room, going to my dream school, I often think back to those early days. The determination, the hard work, and the belief that I could make it all seemed like a distant dream. But it was real, and it was mine. I dedicate everything I have achieved and will achieve to my mom. My journey from a little brat with pigtails drawing on cupboards to a budding animator has been filled with challenges and triumphs, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.

Aisha sat silently in her wheelchair, observing the new garden that the hospital had put in place a few days ago. She normally wasn't the type to be outside. Her medical condition limited her in ways she didn't want to be reminded of. She was barely allowed to leave her hospital room. Never saw the need to. She was inured to this constant loneliness. But for some reason, ever since her grandmother visited her an hour ago, she couldn't stop thinking of what she said. "The nurses have been talking about it all day. There'll be a light rain shower this afternoon.” “Oh,” Aisha said unenthusiastically, picking at her eggs and toast, wondering what was so special about a minute of rain. Sure, the city they were in rarely saw rainfall, but what excitement would that bring her? She'd be stuck inside, anyway. “Do you remember what I said before about summer rain? The most unexpected things happen during it. I know it's not something you'd normally be interested in, but I think you might regret not going out to see it today." She wasn't interested at all. But she nodded slowly, fixing her crooked hijab, promising to go later that afternoon. And so she sat there in the garden, bored out of her mind, counting the petals on each flower she held. She waved goodbye to her favorite nurse, Fatuma, who accepted her offering of a white tulip, assuring her that she'd come to see her again tomorrow morning. Aisha shook her hand, said goodbye again, and turned her attention back to the garden. She was on her fifth flower (yellow daisies, her favorite) when she felt the presence of someone near her. She looked up to see a little Somali girl in a yellow hijab staring at her. Wearing a white dress with little dots and the most adorable flower crown on her head (obviously made by herself as it was almost close to unraveling), Aisha couldn't help but feel a wave of nostalgia hit her. It was like going back in time to her younger, carefree self. A time when she didn't have routine doctor visits. When she wasn't restricted to staying inside most of the day. At first, Aisha thought that she was the daughter of another patient, maybe a lost visitor. But seeing the hospital band on her wrist, she could tell without asking that this little girl also was like her; young and confined to the rules of this hospital. "Hello," Aisha said to the little girl, jumping back in surprise when the girl quickly walked up to her. The little girl clumsily placed the flower crown that she had on her head onto Aisha's. "My mom said that this flower crown is magical," the girl whispered, taking Aisha's hand and trying to get her out of her wheelchair. Aisha said softly to the little girl, “I can't get out of this wheelchair or I'll fall. But your flowers are magical, aren't they? Maybe they'll help me in the future.” The little girl's face, which at first was sad, turned joyful hearing those last words, and she took Aisha's hand again and rambled on about flowers with no breaks. She switched the conversation to comparing their hijabs, calling Aisha a 'princess' as her hijab was more flowy and pink. Though she was just a little girl, she was very expressive, imaginative, and whimsical. A strange feeling settled in Aisha's throat as she kept speaking to the little girl. Again she felt reminiscent of her childhood self who never let her illness affect her, no matter how bad the day was. As Aisha was busy fixing the flower crown, adding extra flowers to make it fuller, the phenomenon that her grandmother told her about in the morning arrived. Splat! The sun was still out, the clouds full and the sky a bright blue. The first drop of summer rain hit the ground near Aisha and the little girl. Dropping her flowers in excitement, the girl clapped her hands happily, shouting, “It's raining! It's raining!” Was there ever a person that looked happier than her today? In such a sad environment, not even knowing what brought the girl to this hospital, Aisha felt her cheeks getting wet. But the rain had stopped? The ground was already clearing up. So where was this water coming from? She touched her eyes and felt shocked that she had been crying. She didn't know why. She hadn't cried since her 13th birthday when she was told that she would be remaining in this hospital for an unknown amount of time. Maybe it was because this little girl gave her a short feeling of happiness and hope. Maybe it was because her grandmother was right? Had she not gone outside to see the quick afternoon rainfall, she'd never have met this little girl who, unlike herself, kept on despite the many obstacles that she likely was facing. Aisha knew for sure that this beautiful girl with the bright yellow hijab and flower crown was the true summer rain. A serendipitous appearance in her darkening, closed-up world. Sudden, short, and unexpected. But incredibly beautiful.

August. There are only a few days left until the announcement of the entrance exam results. A thousand different thoughts filled Lola's mind. This is the second time she is applying to the university. Because of this, her heart was restless, and her anxiety gave her no peace. The thought "I must have passed..." kept running through her mind. If a well-educated girl graduates from school, suitors will immediately line up at her door. Nafisa, by nature a difficult person like her sister, could not openly tell her parents about her wishes and plans. The suitors who came to ask for her hand were not turned away. Last week, a close friend of her father came to ask for her hand on behalf of his son. This time, Holmat's decision was firm: "Daughter, I liked the guests who came for dinner. If you are not accepted, if you fail again, you will be married..." After seeing the results of the exam, it was as if ice water had been poured over the girl's head. In the middle of autumn, the sound of the Bridal Chorus was heard from Nafisa's house...

While the girl was preparing a lesson in her room, suddenly there were shouts in the living room. Then her mother came to her, whose face was as pale as gauze, and she was exhausted. "Nilu, come out to the park with your brother," she said trembling. Nilufar quickly took the umbrella and went out, waking up his brother who was sleeping in the other room. For the first time, poor girl walked around the children's park carelessly and quietly. Because she did not want to be separated from her parents or her adopted brother.

Planting seeds of greatness, one by one, Some for nourishment, others for fun, The journey of growth has now begun. Watch and mirror the pro, she knows the way, Grasping the secrets of greatness each day. With a heart sincere and desire strong, Vow in the plow where dreams belong. In trusting and allowing, find peace profound, Navigate the path where hope is found. Expect greatness, nurture seeds with care, But know, before the breakthrough, adversity will be there. What choice will you make, what will you do? When challenges arise and skies aren't blue. Yet, because you've stood firm, your harvest draws near, Don't halt, press onward, your moment is here. Keep going, keep striving, don't dare to despair, For in perseverance, triumph is near. Press forward, prevail, your efforts are clear, In the soil of persistence, your greatness appears. © 2024, Stephene Klein Originally Pandemic Inspired © 2020, Stephene Klein

In my head, only I can see myself. The whole set of me can be seen only with the inner eye, turned to the Source. Words can describe, but never fully conjure them up. Going through them multiple times, I can spin in a circle, but never get out. Find an infinite Source that represents something more than the physical possibility of understanding everything. Through everything it is possible to find the essence from where everything starts. The very basis of everything is love or fear. From these two, different types of emotions branch out that I believe everyone experiences differently. For me, love moves, fear paralyzes. It is a daily choice to choose one because they are mutually exclusive. By entering deeper my inner space, I can remain paralyzed by experiences. By going through things I have already experienced, I revived old feelings or get rid of the fear. Freud's teachings were based on research that if people returned to the moment when they felt the first symptoms of hysteria, they could be completely cured. Fear can accumulate in us to a great extent and cause the traumas we carry with us throughout our lives. Being aware of this and constantly jumping into the murky interior is challenging but also courageous. The outside world may seem like an escape from less desired feelings,but I am always in my head. Escape from the Source is impossible as much as it seems feasible. It is easy to create an illusion,but also even easier to believe in it. The expectations imposed on me create the pressure I am taught to live with. There is a need that I have to do something because people have convinced me that it is right. The inner voice is impossible to hear because it is so loud outside that cannot be avoided.I just hurry and adapt to everything so when being alone in space, I remain paralyzed. Programmed to execute and just go, becomes an obsession. If I left without an action that occupies my attention and diverts my thoughts from everything, I experience a panic button that is activated. Staying alone in four walls and being tempted to face me becomes a danger. Doing something for me is delayed because it is more important to meet all expectations. The Critic stands behind me and watches. It feels like it's always there and never sleeps. Unfinished obligations haunt me that I am not even able to rest. Fatigue occurs again,caused by a lack of sleep.I think it's a disadvantage in fact fed up with being part of a system that works flawlessly at times. Everyone knows that revolution is about to happen, but I am here again ,in the system, running on the track and grabbing.I am drawn by the feeling of essence. The motivation suddenly seems real but again I avoid facing fears that are unfolding inside. The Will to change passes quickly as if it never existed. The system works just fine because it is temporary. Of course, everything will change.I am ready for that but not now. The right time will come that knocks differently from everything else. With humorous comments, I will create an invisible shield that will protect me a little more and make the Critic behind me laughs. It created a wonderful atmosphere. The colors create a beautiful harmony and transition from one to another. Purple, navy blue, and orange-yellow. Harmony of dark colors through which the presence of lighter colors can be felt, but they cannot be expressed in any way. They exist but as if do not exist. The change is about to breakthrough, but it is gone. Purple then takes on a blue color. Frustration is felt, feeling like a swollen bruise. It hurts but hope to live with it. Finding a friend in a Critic, I rely on my fears and doubts. Illusion governs my life because every time I am making choices, it is not the real me. Finding my madness with which I was born and killing the illusion that accompanies me everywhere is perhaps the right path. Maybe that's another expectation. Suddenly I live in a world where it is normal to be crazy. I have created so much of an imbalance that it is only possible to go back to a stable seesaw to become insane. When I think about a little better, it doesn't matter to go that way. Putting on myself a label that is the opposite of something already wrong at the start. Listening to myself and living in harmony with me is something that should be the essence of every human being. I should know to apply that in life. I come to the point that everything is upside down. I hope that the wider masses will be cut to pieces by reading one more book in the house. Madness is always there, a part of me, maybe watching, but I can also wonder who is not watched today. The list is long and not external. It is internal because every trauma, event, the experience is watched and imprinted in my behavior. I don't notice it because has been already a part of me. In everything around me, I see parts of myself. Everything I do, become part of my Source. I am everywhere and think I can manage to escape.

We didn't get to say goodbye. For the entire duration of my quarantine till date, that is what I contemplated upon most. We didn't get to say goodbye. It was midway through my fourth semester in college that we were informed we had to immediately evacuate and go back home. There was no time for us to bid farewell or cry our goodbyes. We just held the inner hope that everyone would stay safe and that one day, we'll all be reunited. The 14-hour bus ride back home, just a journey on road, felt more like a series of flashbacks of everything that I've witnessed and experienced with college. Everything around me was taking place too quickly, none of us had the time to process nor figure out what we were going to do. All we knew is as a consequence of COVID'19 and this global pandemic, we had to avoid going outside and maintain ultimate cleanliness. It is after this bus ride that my quarantine began. For a while, the lockdown seemed like a very much awaited vacation, an escape from all the exams planned and the busy hectic life we were all accustomed to within college. Soon, as expected, the craving to go outside grew with each day. It was a circumstance where I would do anything to feel the warmth of the sunlight splayed across my face. College is the wonderful years of your life that you'll never get back, and being blessed to go to college, I was determined to make the most of it and being stuck in a pandemic wasn't in my plan. Saying a tiny prayer every night, in hopes that lockdown may end any time soon, I used to go to bed peacefully, drowned in privilege, not realising I'm far more blessed than I accounted for. It was after that where this pandemic turned out to be more of a life lesson for me. I learned the true importance of three factors with which one can comment, is the secret to life. First, Gratitude. I learned to be grateful for the little things in life. This pandemic has made me realize that these little things are deserving of the most appreciation. From my mother's hot tea every sunday morning to my father's warm smile every night, these tiny memories that are stuck in my head, an image imprinted on my brain, these are the moments I'm going to remember. Maybe it's because being enclosed by these four walls have taught me that I didn't appreciate the time I got to spend outside. Maybe it's cause seeing the world in black and white makes you wish you appreciated the colors a little more. I am blessed with a family who loves me, with friends who take care of me, blessed with the stories I've lived till today that I relive every time I close my eyes. It's these stories that keep one alive, the stories that you think of half past midnight, the stories that you're eternally grateful for. Second, Family. One can reach places with family. Through ups and downs, and all the curves life throws at us, Family endures the journey with laughter and tears, and always more love to go around. If you are blessed with the comfort of family, then you are one of the lucky ones. Some of us are fighting to experience such a love. I have fought with my parents, much more than I would like to admit, and if I had the opportunity to go back in time, and take back a few words that I have screamed across my living room, I would, without a second thought. What you don't realize initially when you are a bit too self-consumed, is that they are there for you, for anything, even when you don't ask for it, and they do all this selflessly, even if sometimes, they can't expect it in return. When your mindset starts to apprehend life in such a perspective, you tend to realize that no matter what sacrifices you take, no matter all the gifts, there is nothing that can even compare to the love of a family, and for that, I'm eternally grateful. Third, Time. Life goes on. It gives you enough time to catch your breath or sit and relax, but life goes on and you get to go along with it, whether you wanted it or not. You go through the ups and downs, the good times and the bad times equally. Time brings forward the concept of change. Circumstances change with time. Life goes on. That's what time teaches you. What you make of life is what you do with what life teaches you. We didn't say goodbye, but we learned how much it meant. We didn't say goodbye, but now we don't have to. Just remember, if you're lost along the way, being happy is a great place to start.

What comes into your mind when you heard or read the word “Maturity”? Do you possess this kind of characteristic? Are you mature enough? If yes, how mature are you? These are quite few of the many questions that we might ask in the matter of maturity. For this word could mean many things. One of which is that it covers one's overall development of different aspects of personality and capacity as an individual. Through the years, we commonly perceived that the older we get, the more mature we become or it's a must. Well, sometimes this is true but oftentimes this is a common misconception. In what way? Come to think of it. For instance, you meet a 40-year-old man who still acts like he's 16; an adult in age but young at heart. Conversely, you meet a teenager who acts more than his age; a teenager with an old soul. Pretty weird right? However, we can indicate that the maturity of the two different person you've met is more likely to be a delayed and an advanced one. This just appears that maturity may or may not hit a person regardless of his/her age and time can't tell either when. Distinguishing mature ones from a diverse group people is quite difficult. It's not an easy task because we can't judge a book by its cover as per say. But, I think we can all agree to the fact that those people whom we feel to have a high level of maturity seemed to possess a breadth of life experience in dealing things with responsibility and acceptance. “Experience is the best teacher”, right? Thus, no doubt that we all have the opportunity to become more mature with more life experiences that we can obtain along the way. Still, are these opportunities can really help us to become more mature? Yes! If we were to turn them into reality by obtaining each experience along with the reflection. As we may know, reflection occurs when we tend to pause for a while and do some realizations in life and put our thoughts into careful considerations pertaining to this and that. Simply because the experience alone doesn't produces maturity. As a matter of fact, some people are still relatively immature even though they have already obtained several years of life experience; gaining different levels of educational recognition, working many jobs, dating different people, traveling the world, trying new things, and many others. How come they are? It's because they may lack reflection in obtaining those life experiences, making it significantly useless without practicing reflection simultaneously. In line with that is the saying that says, “maturity is not when we start speaking big things. It is when we start understanding small things”. I do agree to that citation because being mature means you appreciate and understand both big and small things, and if you don't understand the latter how much more the former, right? Maturity comes when one has a wider perspective in life and sees things in a larger picture. It is optimistic that it finds opportunity in every difficulty and humble enough to admit that he/she commends fault and say, “I'm sorry”. Mature and grown-up people find pleasure in waiting and believers of delayed gratification. They don't rush things out and wait for the right moment instead. Another amazing thing about maturity is that if you possesses it, you hold the trait of calmness with strength. You concede defeat, face frustrations, and accept criticisms, unpleasantness without complaining. You are tranquil enough to control your emotions and wrath within yourself. Instead, you understand first the situation, put yourself in the shoes of others and be consistently grateful. Likewise, you know how to act childish and an adult when situation force you to. Mentioned above are just few of the many characteristics of people who possess the marks of maturity. How about you? If you are to assess yourself, are you one of those mature people? Or just like me and many others out there, are you the kind of person whose level of maturity changes depending on who you are with? I am immature, so are you. We are all immature in nature, until we learn how to neglect it and embrace change in our lives. However, along of searching it, we may not always forget the essence of knowing, understanding, appreciating, respecting and loving ourselves first better more than anybody else. Lastly, embracing maturity and living life in peace with the things that we cannot change, the courage to change the things that should be changed, win or lose, the wisdom to speak words with humility, the dare to make a difference and just being ourselves are definitely the best options that we could start with or continue to. For again, maturity does not matter in the age that we carry. It's indeed a choice, the sensitivity, the manners, how we react and accept things in life. As what Mr. Edwin Louis Cole says, “Maturity comes not with age but with the acceptance of responsibility. You are only young once but immaturity can last a lifetime”.