If I were Alice today, I would rewrite Alice in Wonderland to start not by Alice falling down a rabbit’s hole to be one where Alice stumbles upon an overly filtered plastic human with zero verbal and moral filters.
Elissar’s thoughts were racing faster than her heart because she wanted to say her mind only she was hearing Beroe’s. Beroe herself was frozen in fear thinking she had let down her goddess. “Beroe give Elissar her seeds. Elissar give Beroe your crescent” ordered the goddess. Immediately, Beroe took Elissar’s Venus’ comb and combed out five ruby seeds that were as big as a plum, six blue sapphire seeds as big as an olive, and four amber seeds as big as a pea. Then Elissar broke off her ivory and crystal crescent from its golden cage in her tiara and gave it to Beroe as a tear dropped unto it making a dent.
In the end, we are all mirrors that come in different shapes but we are mirrors that let you look within not at to take in and reflect all that come by to compare and compose. Whatever you do, remember, connection is the heart of art and conversation is the dart of art to perfection on the road to creativity.
It was like a roller coaster swirling around through the speed of light. With the constant blurring sounds plus the never-ending drama anthologies of your existence. It was the moment, you want to take the knife and slash it into yourself, feel the weakening beat of your heart, and draw the last breath of your soul.
An unkindness in the lure
a conspiracy craving more
I cannot adapt, I’m sure!
in this insanity I adore
the murder of the flock
the hands of the ticking clock
I cannot tell if this is reality
or if it’s not
By the time the sun rose to its zenith, the nation had filled the box with all its tears, dreams, fears, and hurts. Then it smoothed its outer veneer with forgiveness' sandpaper removing differences' rough edges and grudges' sharp edges.
I like people watching. Not in a perverted way but in the creative sense that I could think of a thousand storylines for them. I would see a man on his phone talking about a girl and I know that this week would be special for him.
Writing has always been a reflection of one’s self. Writing ugly doesn’t necessarily mean one has poor writing skills or is uneducated or unlearned. Instead, writing ugly means that the writer ignores any semblance of form and reason, of aesthetics,…