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What was yours was not just a name For it teases at the opening of my ears Faintly riding on the melancholy of the silence The cruelty of fate or so it was named as such My palms were as empty as the sky The feel of your face like clouds drifting I would hold them upward And they shall wait for a storm of you forever The seas await a departure that a heart cannot bear to witness The sound of a voice, the feel of a face, the sight of you It grows ever so vague and silent Like phantoms as the dawn breaks What was mine was not just a name For it sails distant lands but never drops its anchor Like a poem unspoken by your lips Parts of you that I could never touch again Shadows of you linger and stroll about Forever without the presence of a master They sit and lean by the rocks you once touched Your outline on the walls of a humble home Time was an enemy But for that moment it was my friend Like gasping for air, I traced your figure, your lips, your fingertips The final plead before the goodbye I am but an empty abode And on my walls are traces of you It yearns, it calls, it haunts How long shall it yearn How long shall it call How long shall it haunt For the sound of your voice, the feel of your face, the sight of you.
Rae stood on the threshold, peering down into the eyes of her beloved dog, the dog she had adopted one year ago and promised to love forever. His eyes broke her heart. He knew she was hurting. He knew she was leaving - and that almost tempted her to stay - again. She wished she could make him understand why. “Why does this feel like you're leaving for good?” her fiancé asked her. Because it is, she didn't answer out loud. She offered a weak smile through her tears and kissed him one last time. “I'll see you in a week,” she lied, and closed the door behind her. With her head held high and fists clenched, she silently got in her car and backed out of the driveway. It wasn't until she was around the corner that she let the sobs escape. Once released, they came forth in violent waves – months and months of heartache, frustration, anger, despair, anxiety, depression, confusion, fear, grief. She cried so hard she gasped for breath and her tears blurred her vision, but she couldn't stop - not this time. She had to keep going. She had turned around so many times before. It had to be for real this time. Episodes from their 14 years together replayed in her mind – scenes she'd replayed over and over again, analyzing every harsh word exchanged, wondering for the millionth time if she had over-reacted. But even if she had, did his words and actions have to make her feel so horrible? She'd let it slide for 14 years. She'd made up excuses for him – he'd been neglected by his father and bullied by peers, so it made sense that he always had to be right, that he was constantly trying to prove himself. She could forgive that. She could forgive his bossiness, his need to be in control, his double standards. She could forgive that he sucked at romance and thoughtful gifts. She could forgive a lot of things, and she had, for a long, long time. But then they bought a house, and got a dog, and they both had careers they loved, and she'd asked him (again) if they could get married…and he said no. That's when she finally started to realize that there would always be excuses, because he was a controlling, emotionally abusive, narcissistic asshole. That's when Rae had come to the incredibly painful realization that she had to leave. She had to somehow let go of the last 14 years of her life and find a way to move forward on her own, no matter how terrifying it might be. An hour later she arrived at her cousin's, who greeted her with a kind hug and showed her to the spare bedroom. A twin air mattress and small table had been set up in between the closet and the rabbit cage. This was going to be her living space for the next several months. Deciding to embrace it, Rae set down her luggage and drove across the street to the Walmart to pick out some bedding. Standing there in the aisle, viewing all the options, she couldn't help but smile. Is this what freedom felt like? She couldn't remember the last time she'd gone to the store by herself, let alone picked out something she wanted, without his opinions and insults of her tastes, and his disgusting misuse of the word “compromise". There had never been any compromising with him – it had just been him convincing her why his idea was better. Nothing had ever been good enough for him if he wasn't the one to make the decision. Selecting a blue and purple sheet set and a small lamp, Rae made her way to the check out with a little skip in her step. Back at her cousin's apartment, she reflected on how amazing it felt to actually have a space to call her own - just hers. She realized that this feeling she was experiencing - this feeling of inner peace and safety, of self-expression - was what she had been missing for so long. Was it the absence of this feeling that had driven her to therapy and antidepressants? Was it really as simple as just having your own space? Rae didn't sleep that night. She was too anxious; excited for the new sense of freedom and positive experiences that lay before her, but also dreading the grief and despair she knew she would have to endure in order to heal and move on. A few days later, she drove two hours to the airport. She parked her car in the long-term parking lot and boarded a shuttle. She checked in for her flight, received her ticket, and found her way to her gate. All by herself. After boarding the plane and finding her window seat, she sent a selfie to a friend. They responded, “You look happy.” Gazing out the window, Rae realized that she was, in fact, happy. Deeply, authentically happy. More than that, she knew that this was the first of many amazing adventures she was going to take herself on. She was a strong, amazing, independent woman, and she was going to be okay.
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Cans of blueberry preserves, boutique, small-batch handmade bon-bons, organic wildflower honey with comb and Icelandic yogurt --- what do all these items have in common? I found all these items and more in the trash. It's no secret that I love trash. No, I don't mean the smelly, stinky and meant-to-be-actually-dumped kind of trash. The trash that comes from the pursuit of perfect capitalism (which, as it turns out, is anything but). My love of everything dumpster started a month before COVID19 did, just in time too. What's a better way to spend time than rescuing food, outside; a totally harmless and productive activity during a worldwide pandemic? The word "rescue" doesn't really sum up the breadth of what I would find and donate to one of many "community fridges" in my neighborhood. Still, it gives you an idea: I plunge my (usually) gloved hands into the womb of a typical black polyethylene 10 gallon bag, sometimes immaculately and serendipitously free of actual trash and full of boxes, cans or containers of various types of bougie foods, other times, not-so-immaculate. Here's an exhaustive list of items I can remember finding: -Jacques Torres 40-piece bonbon boxes -free-range, organic eggs by the dozen, in bulk boxes of around 10 cases per box -Siggi's, Chobani, Skyr, Fage yogurts (all types and flavors) -egg white omelets, ready-to-eat -all kinds of canned food (including organic beans, coconut milk, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie filling, even dog food) -olive, coconut, macadamia, canola, sunflower oils -multivitamins, elderberry supplements, manuka honey cough syrup -vegan cheeses, tofu, tempeh, beyond meat, hot dogs, yogurt, tofurky (I remember this specifically since I eat all these as a vegan!) -pantry items: cases of all purpose King Arthur flour, Bob's Red Mill flours (teff, coconut, rice, risotto, oatmeal), crackers, snacks, chips, baking mixes, yeast) -prepared foods like pizzas, breads, sandwiches, wraps, Mediterranean meals (grape leaves, falafel, tabbouleh etc) The list goes on, but I won't since I think you kind of get an idea already. Everyone always asks me why I started dumpstering (sic) and I can pinpoint it to one moment: my craving for overpriced (read: bougie) French bread. I had to have it, I didn't want to pay for it. That's when I remembered: as a high schooler working at a bagel shop, I used to have to dump out all the end-of-the-day bagels and pizzas into the trash. Back then, I would cringe whenever I had to do this and actually enlisted my mother to come by for the bagels and pizzas to give out to our friends and family. When that became too much, I would sell them for $1 each in band class. I turned a pretty good profit, too: students are always hungry, which was great for business! So, I applied the same reasoning to the French bread. They must dump their breads out at the end of the day, right? Lo and behold, I visited their dumpster and found a bevy of boulangerie by the bag: baguettes, pastries, cookies, even cake, which I sadly couldn't eat as a vegan, but which I posted to my local Buy Nothing group to the delight of ecstatic carb lovers in my group! After that, I became galvanized to rescue not just bread, but anything and everything edible I could salvage. The waste was not only depressing, it angered me since the media was broadcasting about how there were food and supply shortages, specifically on flour, sanitizer and toilet paper. I was able to find all three in the trash on separate occasions (especially flour, which I found bags and bags of several times). When I was younger, my mother espoused the virtue of never wasting food, no matter the amount. The fact that companies were indiscriminately disposing of perfectly edible and overpriced (funnily enough, the more expensive something was, the more likely it was to be dumped since it was less likely to be purchased, gotta love capitalism) food spurred me to spring into action, on an obsessive-level of passion. After a while, I began to crave assistance and felt that there must be others who would have the same objective as I did. I created an encrypted chat group, which grew to over 50 members. Only a few people show sometimes, but it's still a salve to know I am not alone. Many times, while diving, unhoused or needy persons would come up to me and I always offered them anything I had found and directed them to the nearest community fridge. Time for a round of statistics: in the USA, a whopping 30-40% of the food readily produced is wasted. This doesn't account for food that hasn't yet entered the supply stream (think culled produce and animals deemed unfit for consumption due to appearance or perceived quality), rather, it's food that was already collected, packaged and manufactured. That's about $161 billion dollars of food waste in monetary value (from the year 2010). I hope I've made a dent in that number. I will keep dumpstering, long past COVID19, as long as I can.
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Thinking about your childhood days, how many dream jobs have you had? When I was in grade school, I wanted to be a scientist simply because I love science. In high school, I had several options: I wanted to be a businessman only because I wanted to see myself in a suit and tie. I wanted to be a chef because I thought cooking with a pan in flames was cool. I wanted to be a doctor because I watched medical-themed K-drama, which inspired me. When I entered college, my passion shifted again. I took a BS in Psychology course because I thought I could read people like a book. Consequently, I wanted to become a psychologist when I graduate. As an enthusiastic student full of hopes and dreams, I saw myself finishing my Master's and Ph.D. Back then, I was sure that I would become successful in the field of Psychology. But as fate seems to like to interfere with my life that bad, I suddenly wanted to become a doctor again. A medical doctor, to be exact. I then took the National Medical Admission Test (NMAT). I put all my effort into my review, and I was glad to get a percentile rank of 93. I was all set to enroll in my dream school, but I couldn't take all the required course units due to the pandemic. I was also short on my budget, and even getting a scholarship wouldn't save me from my bills on due. I knew I had to give up this opportunity to have a more stable source of income for myself and my family. I had to rethink all the skills I can use to find a job that suits me. I knew that I needed money, but I never wanted to settle for less just because I think I'm on a dead end. I know how to draw, but I don't see myself as an artist. I love photography, but I couldn't go out and take pictures because of the pandemic. I can sing, but only with a choir. So what's left in there for me? After days of thinking, I found an answer. Finally, a 'eureka' moment! Since high school, I've always had this passion for writing. But never did I imagine that writing would eventually become my source of income. I never thought that I had a future in writing. But since I was caught in a dead-end, I had to make a new path. There's no way that I would accept defeat unless I tried everything. Here's when I decided to pursue copywriting. Copywriting is one of the highest-paying writing jobs out there. Perfect for my empty wallet and my late-bloomed passion. Guess what? I was hired by a Digital Marketing Agency even I have barely any experience! I don't know what words to describe how I felt, but I know that I was glad that they saw potential through my writing skills, and now I'm working with them for their company's success. Looking back, it's crazy how I shifted my focus from health to the marketing industry. Never would I have imagined that taking a step back and starting again will bring me to a better place where I am today. Although I still consider becoming a health professional, I'd like to take this opportunity to explore my talent and grab every opportunity that comes along the way. Can you relate to this roller coaster journey? Going back to my question: which one controls your life - free will or fate? At this point, I feel like fate has been pushing me to this path. But I do believe that my success still lies within my hands. Whether you believe that free will or fate controls your life, don't be afraid to make new paths whenever you reach a dead end. Life never stops until you stop trying. Good luck! :)
The story I, Hermann Anders, intend unthreading consists in a spiritual walk, in which figures of similar but opposing forms came into struggle one with the other. Symbols manifested through the blood and bones unveiling the iridescent nature of human beings. Don't misinterpret. There was a concrete path, but this doesn't undermine the reality of the invisible one. What I want to bring into relief is exactly that which is latent and hidden. Those secret and enigmatic movements that can be perceived only by reading directly into the essence rather than by a mere recollection of facts. “Path of the Gods,” that's the name of the walk we've done. Quite ironic since its name is pagan when in facts, it was full of catholic mysteries, sanctuaries and mother mary icons. No circles, rather crosses on top of mountains. Perfect for crucifying those pieces of flesh of my two companions: Günther, the coward and Benjamin, the hen. Laying eggs surrounded by cowards who would exchange them for gold – the perfect image which denotes the two. Arrived at Madonna dei Fornelli, the two pieces of flesh went to rest in cages as two chickens that like to fuck with each other. They simply went to a B&B and wasted their money for some chicken prison. I, without expecting it, found this little green garden – Eden – full of blonde, tall and blue eyed angelic nymphs. One approached me and asked if I was starving. I was supposed to catch up with the two others and eat like an old sac of shrivelled skin. Instead, I stayed with the nymphs, ate their improvised spaghetti with tomatoes and vegetables and listened their melodic harmonies. Then at a certain point they started praying for the Lord of the slaves. I was surrounded by a group of eleven hot blonde Belgian catholic scouts alternating between a hallelujah and a “I love you mother mary, protect me from evil. Amen.” How would it be to have my dove in the middle of those hands joined together instead of their erotic fantasies on their Almighty Lord of the Love – even on their knees they would go! And I had to be careful in concealing my nature otherwise they would have kicked my ass out of their circle. Meanwhile, as the fire was increasing and the sky fading, I noticed the demonic eyes of a nymph gazing at me. She would talk and laugh sweetly with her friends as she'd wave quick glimpses towards me. Then, with a sensual circular movement she started passing chopstick delicately on her lips, a tilt of her head leaning towards me as waiting to pick up her call. I made her understand that I was in love with her intentions. But guess what? What could she do? Go against the spirit of all her group of catholic devoted nuns? No! That would dissociate and isolate her. She had to maintain her customs and repress her desires. As the fire was at its last sparks, and most went inside their own tents, me and my prey stayed. I learned that she studies ancient Greek, philosophy and literature, unlike her friends which were all into medicine or engineering. As her words were moving, I was focused on her tall thick legs, wide hips and pastel pink lips. Her green eyes looked like a lake with inside the reflection of the flames of fire. It's not casual I spoke about this anecdote of symbolic forces that supersede over the instinctual underlying ones. These as well are invisible. Forcing someone under clear light or with chains is no fun, I believe. I prefer people to make their own choices, free from the vertical threads of God. And what did my two companions do during our walk? They instituted an erotic form of love of master and slave. The kind of Hegelian dialectic, but where the outcome of the dialectic flip was quite ambiguous. If it did occur, then I'd be surprized of Günther's intelligence. The Hen, wouldn't stop professing and boasting of his premature knowledge on general facts, that once gently enquired to go deeper his trivial constructions would collapse along with him. It's funny how the slave, when in search for a master, attempts entering in the way of thinking of his prospected master. Just for the sake of a custom. Even when the master is full of bullshit, which the slave isn't able to discern for his base intellect. I asked Günther what he'd prefer: a complex truth, that involves some thinking or a simple persuasive lie that explains everything. I'll let you, reader, guess his answer. Then, because of the slave's greatest virtue, he can empathize the most with the master's sentiments and desires. Whatever the master desires, turns into the desire of the slave. Whatever judgment the master would make, coincides with that of the slave. The apparent difference is that the one is legislator of himself, the other is a mere slave. When in truth both are miserable slaves of each other. The legislation of the master wouldn't hold without the existence of his slave, because the master craves the attentions of his dog. God, what a miserable thing you are.
I walked hurriedly to meet my friend at a local Cafe' to go over a presentation that I had put together for an event that had my nerves worked up. It was freezing outside as snow fell silently across the city. I held onto my backpack tightly with my gloved hands, my teeth chattering as I fantasized about the hot coffee I would soon be indulging in. Jones was standing outside waiting for me as I approached. "Oh, hey! So, I heard you're the new age immigration writer in town, its nice to meet you ma'am!” He said to me snidely with a slight eyebrow raise as he held the door to the cafe' open for me. I smiled kindly and tucked a strand of hair behind my ears to make a better connection, "Oh, is that what they're labeling me as now?" I side stepped him in a playful manner. He followed me inside the doorway to continue the conversation, "Well, what would you label yourself as?" He shrugged as if it were a simple question with an obvious answer. My smile never wavered as I held my head high and met his eyes, "Nothing. I am not a label, therefor, I don't have one." He chuckled lightly, "Sure you do. Everyone has a label. I mean, I'm the guy who likes to play rugby in freezing temps, which earned me the title of a fighter." Pausing to reflect on the statement made, I lowered my eyes only to find a resilience sleeping in me that I never knew was there. Slowly, I raised my eyes back to his, "See, that's what is wrong in our times today. Society has made us believe that we are all labeled in some way. That we fall into a certain category, and that leads us to be judged based on what category we happen to fall into. Don't you understand? We are not categories or labels. We are people with feelings, emotions, aspirations, and dreams. We don't deserve to fall into a specific category which creates a sense of mental instability for ourselves to believe. No, we deserve to believe in ourselves whole heartedly and know who we are without the world telling us who we are. Labels are outdated and categories are overrated. It's time for us to be true to ourselves and just be who we are. What is wrong with that? And quite frankly, I've never fallen into the “EVERYONE” category. Im not everyone. I am me.” Jones couldn't find the words to combat my thoughts, he only nodded with a smile as he slid his arm around me in a welcoming embrace that made his understanding clear.
The rave at the Pub was intoxicating and freaky mixed with the sweet fragrance of booze and whiffs of smoke high in the air. The room was dimly lit with only a swirling club light filling the room with multicolored spots as it rotated back and forth on the ceiling. I saw lots of bodies tangled together in closed spaces as the music blasted from the speakers placed right behind me at the back end of the booth. There was a twinkle of bright light as a young waitress lifted a bottle of an expensive drink, wearing the skimpiest shorts I had ever seen, heading towards my direction. The bottle was carefully placed on our table in front of a very thick man whose eyes were fixed on the full ample breast of the waitress that was nearly popping out of her skin tight top. The lights were removed from the bottle and I saw the fine Jack Daniels scotch sitting proudly on the table alongside Ice cubes and shot glasses. She turned to leave but was stalled by the man who stuck his hands out to stop her. He placed folded naira notes into her back pocket while he gently squeezed her backside. She giggled and left the booth while I turned away to avoid appearing like a newbie. My head snaps up when the sharp smell of cigarettes hits my nose with a force that made me nearly gag. I do not like cigarettes, so I was totally turned off when I saw a full pack of Benson on the table. I signed up for it by being here, so I will endure. Going out was never my strong suit, so when I finally shook off the girlish shyness for such places and brazenly decided to visit the nearest one closest to me, I knew it would be a hell of an experience because I saw firsthand what went down in such places and most importantly I had fun and let loose. Obviously, I did because I am writing about it. The sitting arrangement at the club was kind of weird because there were only large cushion chairs placed side by side around the room, so the center looked like an open dance floor while the spectators sat and watched. This made me uncomfortable because I sat close to a lot of people I did not know and frankly, no one cared, so I relaxed a bit. My bottle of Smirnoff Ice was opened and halfway empty when some group of girls suddenly got up and started dancing. The lady with the shimmering black halter neck, bare back short gown caught my attention. She was the definition of a seductress. The lights bounced off her dress adding to her allure and I couldn't help but stare at her. She was gently moving to the rhythm of the song blasting from the speakers, twirling and shaking her body and waist to the beat. The other guys were focused on her as well because she was simply captivating and she worked her magic on the whole room while we watched. The song changed and just like that she switched up her tempo and started twerking. As much I loved to watch people dance, I knew I could not dance to save my life if there was ever a situation like that. I was born with two left feet that couldn't interpret any moves I had lined up expertly in my head. So I watched others dance and subtly moved my body from left to right with my head bubbling up and down to the beat of the music. . . Full Read https://www.dropbox.com/s/i3o1rmf7jlwsqy8/A%20VISIT%20TO%20THE%20PUB.docx?dl=0