Úlenda, i hísië,

Mana i nómë u-hímya i halyë;

Milya ilca i fásë

Imbi olórimmar ar i mirilyë.

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This is in (amateur, probably butchered) Quenya—a.k.a. the Latin of the elvish dialects Tolkien made. The title ‘Silmarillion’ directly translates to ‘radiance of pure light’, according to the Quettaparma.

The translation:

“It does not linger, the mist,

Where no curtain clings;

Gentle gleams the gap

Between our dreams and the glittering.”

I have met a goddess.

Can you claim the same?

She danced, once, in rivers and swayed to a rhythm that

Only she could name.

I have met a goddess

Who, with her heav’nly sight,

Could beckon the raging of stormfronts to cease, that the

Sun might share its light.

I have met a goddess.

Distant was her gaze,

And so far removed from the vices of man that she

Could not run away.

I have met a goddess

Once only, long ago;

Then deities learned not to venture so near, and she…

Well.

She was the last to know.

my social life took the keys one day

my creative life took the back seat

my future called shotgun

my motivation revved up

and lucky me hasn't seen it since

maybe it’s just in notre dame

maybe it’s hanging with alexandria

maybe it's homebound

maybe it's in space

and maybe the turtle ate it

I am scraped across the Earth by the inexorable press of time.

What will remain, I wonder, when comes my day to die?

What wonderful, colorful trails are left by greater souls than I—

I am scraped across the Earth by the inexorable press of time.

To run from the inevitable, one must prolong one’s every moment—

With vampiric lust latch onto every second that came and went,

Until one’s life is filled with time lamenting how time was spent.

To run from the inevitable, one must prolong one’s every moment.

“Why wait and think when you could live?” they ask, but I don’t know

How to want to advance when only behind I see that glow—

They run to something I cannot glimpse, and I am left alone.

“Why wait and think when you could live?” they ask, but I don’t know.

You're so small. You're screaming, creating quite the ruckus for something so tiny and pink, and I'm exhausted and everything hurts but your little lungs are working the hardest they've ever worked in your life—

Your life. You're alive, you're screaming, and by God you're the most beautiful thing these hands have ever held. From the moment they put you in my arms, I was lost to you.

Oh, forgive me, my little lamb, if I laugh through your tears. I love you, you know. You don't understand any of these nonsensical noises I keep murmuring into the downy hair of your precious head, but I hope you know that I love you, I hope that the heartbeat in my chest is enough of a message for your tiny ears.

You’re so upset for such a little thing, and I know it’s because, right now, this is the worst thing that has ever happened to you. You don't know of the awful things happening just outside—hush, now, don't fuss sweetpea. It’s alright, you’re alright. Just rest with me.

Here. Now. Forever.

I can't even picture what your lovely little life has in store for you. I can't imagine you ever leaving my arms, you're so small and so good and it would be the greatest sin imaginable to ever let something so wonderful go.

Right now, there are no years ahead of us. There are no moments other than this one. Here we are, and here we will be. Just you and me. I love you I love you I love you and even if there were days beyond today I wouldn’t stop saying that because it wouldn’t ever stop being true.

Oh, my lamb, your eyes… you don't know what to look at yet, you didn't know what ‘looking’ even was until a few seconds ago. But there they are, those little diamonds peeking up at me from your beautiful little face.

Hi there, little one. I’m so happy to meet you.

And now we come near to the edge

Where once the princes sailed...

Ahoy! A ripple in the blue,

Where dragons’ wings have trailed!

With waves below and stars above,

We hang between the deeps—

Charybdis ever hungers here,

And Scylla never sleeps.

Yet as we gaze with hoping eyes

Upon that mirror blank,

Those hoping eyes stare lonesome back,

Their fires slowly banked.

The only heroes to be seen

Are by the starlight made—

’Til morning comes without remorse

To bid the heroes fade.

Now this we ask: where have they gone?

For surely there must be

A ship that sails straight out of myth

Upon so vast a sea!

But we could sail for all our days

And ne’er a siren see—

While once upon a time there were,

No dragons here there be.

Such is akin to declaring that, if an author is white, they should only write white characters. And here I thought that was the problem!

To say that any culture beyond one's own should be off-limits to portray is just plain counterintuitive. Ignorance and prejudice are the enemies here, and the only way to counter them is to explore the world beyond one's original horizon. Literature has ever been a vital means of exploration. Uncle Tom's Cabin is an important example of this: it is a book written by a white woman from the perspective of a slave, and it is easily one of the most culturally influential books America has ever seen. It exposed white Americans to the true wicked brutality of slavery, and is named by some to even have been a factor leading up to the American Civil War.

That being said, Uncle Tom's Cabin and other books like it do not, of course, make up the full population of books written from outside perspectives. Prejudice and stereotypes in literature still run rampant. But umbrella-ideology is a dangerous thing, and one cannot justifiably judge a tool for the one who wields it. Since perspective is one of the most important tools to be found in a writer's arsenal, ideas like this one, that it is immoral to approach another culture at a deeper level, will only end up hurting literature, and our society by proxy, in the long run.

So, yes. Writers should most definitely be able to write characters of other races and nationalities. Let a work of art be judged for itself: if a writer portrays a culture crudely or in a disrespectful manner, condemn them for it. But do not, by any means, keep yourself or others from reaching out to research other perspectives and ways of life. Get to know the intricacies of marginalized mentalities. Get to know the many delicate ways of the world. Don't be afraid of getting it wrong, for as long as you come from a place of honest curiosity and a desire to grow from your mistakes, you will be fine.

Through conversation and literature both, let the mending begin.

time is a road that never ends

it has been my privilege to pretend

that i’ll walk with you forever and a day

i cherish these unspoken thoughts

for unheard will never mean forgotten—

my soul unwinds, slow and gentle, in your wake

i would ask the wheeling sphere of stars

to unfurl itself, so that worlds afar

might comfort you and lie beneath your head

for there would i lie beside you, breathing,

listening beneath the skin, where beating

is a silent mark of all we’ve done and said

the greatest of which was in defiance

of that ending so distant, so pale and silent

which neither of us could comprehend, anyway…

so until that silence comes to pass

i will wait with you here in the long, green grass

where the space between our words has more to say