Goodbye, Akira Toriyama.
You remember it like it was yesterday.
A small, dingy apartment complex, with wooden floors that creaked and moaned with every step, and lifeless, beige walls bereft of animation.
It's 2 in the morning.
'You should be sleeping, shouldn't you?' You can already hear your mother's stern voice scolding you as you smother the sheets over yourself in consolation.
But, as you glance at the clock, that ceases to matter.
Everything, ceases to matter.
Several minutes go by in apprehensive thought: 'It'll only be for an hour or so.'
Maybe, just maybe, she's finally sound asleep.
You carefully rise from your bed, tip-toeing to the television. Sheer bliss floods your senses, excitement stored for what's to come.
You know what time it is.
You know what's on right now.
Pressing the button, it gives a mechanical click, concomitant to its vintage design, before displaying the familiar, white, jagged lines, like radio static visualized, soon blotted away by a black void.
Then, the sound plays. The channel displays on the bottom of the screen in white text & a gray undertone:
https://youtu.be/XRRlZOWcwUc?si=PR28ljaZRrhymHLk
We all at some point in time felt that joy of innocence. We all believed in our hearts that joy would last forever. That the works we idolize would continue to be produced, continue to change our lives in their own, consecrated ways.
Akira Toriyama taught me one man's vision can bring people together, hand in hand. It fascinates me how for just even a second, people can settle their differences for a common interest. It's even more fascinating how one man can create something so monumental it reshapes our childhoods, blossoms our imagination, & lets them run wild. Akira Toriyama forged gems out of memories, and gold, out of the beauty of creativity.
Dragon Ball Z is a key memory of my childhood. I was a sucker for the high octane battles, the dramatic expressions & scenes, the power-ups. The lessons it's characters have taught me have remained timeless artifacts I carry with me in everyday life.
Goku taught me how to be resilient to the challenge, to reach for the stars even if you fall back to the moon. To prevail against the odds, even when the odds were never particularly in your favor. To adapt, and come to find that love & appreciate towards that thing you are adapting to, no matter how wicked. But to also know you must beat it in the end.
Vegeta taught me the equally important value of honor and downfall of hubris. That absolute power can corrupt absolutely, and a lack of self-realization & self-awareness will only lead you down a road of pain & misery. That we all have our own story: meaning we all have our happy ending, even if it comes unexpectedly, at the cost of your honor. Pride and dignity are a duality that only works when paired together: true, unanimous respect is only obtainable by those who show dignity and are not engulfed by their pride. It is only when he realizes that Goku has reached a pinnacle he couldn’t during the Majin Buu fight, that he takes a true 180 as a character, and we see how even someone as immoral and barbaric as Vegeta can have a heart, too.
Gohan taught me that not everyone with the instincts to fight wants to be placed in that situation. Sometimes, blessings can be a terminal curse, and heightened expectations can often override personal desire. Success is subjective; and just as one’s man trash is another man’s treasure, one man’s nightmare can be another man’s dream. True bliss is often overlooked by potential-seeking — you can build the ideal life that makes you happy, even if it makes the vast majority question your decision-making.
Piccolo taught me that everyone group of people need an anchor, a person who will take on the gritty, difficult, rigorous, and challenging tasks. Someone has to get their hands dirty to dig up the burrow and plant seeds of growth in the group. This was piccolo to the Z Fighters. His value is overlooked by the herculean tasks given to him: but he often times surpasses expectations set and prevails in some aspect. May it be saving Gohan from a blast that could’ve disintegrated him right then & there, or arriving as a main support against a monstrosity like Frieza, or saving 17 from the clutches of Cell. I can go on and on when it comes to piccolo’s value as a supporting cast member.
Tien taught me a similar lesson of the extent to which altruism can help a team as Piccolo. How tenacity and heart can completely turn the tables of a fight to your favor, even if for just a second.
Likewise, Krillin taught me that not everyone is cut for the insurmountable, and that the trials one is put against can be so outlandish from your original perspective you weren’t destined to win in the end. But you keep going. He also brought a sense of comedic relief, often times appearing just to allieve the tension present and bring us back to the reality of the situation.
Dende taught me you can find a place in the hearts of those willing to take you in as one of their own. You will find those special people that bring out the most in you. You will meet those people that see your potential and elevate you to a stature as radiant & acclaimed as them. It’s only just a matter of time & acceptance.
Trunks, Chiaotzu, Bulma, Master Roshi, 17, 18, 16’s Death, Chi Chi, Videl, Hercule, Kid Trunks, Goten. I can rant for hours about these characters and their individual significance in my life.
What Toriyama created wasn’t just art. It wasn't just a cartoon; it was a masterpiece of storytelling that continues to captivate audiences to this day. It was a monument of creativity centered around the simple, general premise of fighting for the fate of the world, even when the odds are stacked against you. It’s simplicity is what made it Dragon Ball, and Goku’s ability to admire & appreciate the qualms of combat even with the galactic weight resting on his shoulders inspires me to this day.
Fly high, Akira Toriyama.
And when I have kids.
And my kids wind up having kids.
Your work will remain as tradition.
As a nostalgic reminder that at some point in their lives, everyone needs a hero.
Going Out
The last two years have been the happiest of my life. After finally settling down with Derek, I’ve finally realized what life’s about. We’re not rich; we haven’t accomplished much; we don’t travel, and we don’t have a lively social life, but we have our simple life together, and that’s more than I ever could have asked for.
Which is why I’ve been ignoring Derek’s behavior recently. He’s been different. I wrote it off as him having a bad day at work, but then it continued into the next day, and then the next. I don’t want to mess things up with him, but the longer this goes on, the more I feel like I have to confront him.
He’s awake at strange hours of the night. He doesn’t talk to me anymore. He doesn’t seem to be hiding anything; he just never seems to have anything to say, which isn’t like him at all.
And he regularly walks out of the house for no apparent reason. He’s never been one to enjoy walks, or being outside in general, for that matter, but in the past week or two, he will just randomly get up and walk out the front door without saying a word to me. There’s no pattern to it. Sometimes, he does it first thing in the morning; sometimes just after dark. Once, he went out in the pouring rain without grabbing a jacket or umbrella or anything. When he came back, he was soaked to the bone and couldn’t tell me what was so important that he had to leave without a jacket.
If he would just tell me that he needed to stretch his legs or get out of the house or even get away from me for a bit, I wouldn’t think anything of it. But he won’t talk to me about it at all. When I ask him, he just gets this blank look and then changes topics or goes back to what he was doing, like he doesn’t even realize that I’ve asked him a question. It’s starting to give me the creeps.
Something inside of me has decided that I’ve had enough. I don’t want to ruin what I have with Derek, but I can’t keep acting like nothing is wrong. Something’s going on, and I intend to find out what.
So when Derek stands up and walks right out the front door while we’re watching TV after dinner one evening, I decide to follow him. I let him get out the door and onto the sidewalk before I before I get up and follow him out.
I feel guilty for following him, and I’m a little scared about what I might find, but not knowing is killing me.
I follow him down the sidewalk as quietly as I can, but he doesn’t seem to notice my presence at all. The remnants of the sunset hang in the sky, and I realize that the air is a little too cool to be comfortable. I didn’t think to grab a jacket, and my bare arms are covered in goosebumps. But I’m not about to turn back.
Before long, we reach the alley at the end of our block. The little road is much narrower than the other roads in our little town, and it ends in a dead end. Now that I think about it, it’s an odd set up. There really isn’t a reason for an alley to be there at all. But I’ve never given it much thought before.
I watch as Derek turns at the alley and . . . disappears!
I run down the sidewalk and stop in front of the alley.
The empty alley.
There’s no one there. No sign of Derek. Or anyone else for that matter.
I stare into the empty alley in disbelief. There was nowhere for him to go! How could he disappear so quickly?
I don’t step out into the alley immediately. Instead, I reach out with my hand. But as my hand crosses the threshold of the alley, it disappears. Startled, I pull it back and clutch it to my chest. My hand feels cold and sweaty, and as I look down, I realize that it looks exactly as it should.
Am I going crazy? Tentatively, I reach out again. Once again, as my hand passes the place where the roads meet, it disappears. I push forward until I can’t see anything past my elbow. I wiggle my fingers and even wave my arm around a bit, but my hand feels normal. It just isn’t there anymore.
I look around me, hoping to see something that will tell me what the hell is happening, but there is nothing. Just me staring into a seemingly empty alley with an invisible hand.
I hesitate for just a minute, but I know I’m going in there. Whatever this is, whatever’s on the other side of this invisible wall, it doesn’t matter. I have to go through. I have to find Derek. I have to find out what’s going on.
Taking a deep breath, I take one step forward, and immediately everything changes.
The first thing I notice is the cold. It’s gone from a slight chill in the air to below freezing. I gasp and cross my arms.
I’m surrounded by black walls, but there is a single, cold, white light shining straight ahead. With nothing else to do, I step into the light.
And I find Derek.
He’s staring blankly into the light, unblinking. He doesn’t even notice me standing next to him.
“Derek?” I whisper. Nothing. I put my hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t move. “Derek, can you hear me?”
Where did she come from? I hear a voice, but not with my ears. The room is silent.
“Hello?” I ask.
How did she get in? The voice that isn’t a voice continues. The portal should have locked as soon as he entered.
She could have followed him in, another responds. If she was fast enough. She seems to know him.
“He’s my boyfriend,” I confirm, compelled for some reason to answer, even though the voice wasn’t talking to me.
She’s not a subject, the first not-voice says, ignoring me. I have no record of her brain.
“M-my brain?” What the hell is going on? “Who are you? What is this place?”
She’s beginning to panic. Use the acetylcholine suppressor.
I can’t even begin to guess what an aceta-whatever suppressor is, but it doesn’t sound good. I take a few steps back and glance behind me. There’s nothing there but a black wall, but I know it’s the way I came, and I hope I can get back the same way.
But I can’t leave Derek. He’s still staring at that light, unaware of me or the not-voices.
I still can’t see anyone other than Derek. But there has to be someone here.
Look at the scan! the second not-voice says in a huff. There’s a reason she wasn’t made a test subject. The suppressor won’t work on her. Not as intended.
“Alright, whoever you are!” I shout. “I am tired of you talking about what you want to do to my brain. I’m not your test subject! And neither is Derek!”
It’s well worth the risk. The first not-voice responds to the second as if I hadn’t spoken. We can’t have her running off and telling others about us. It’ll ruin the whole experiment!
Who would believe her? You’ve seen how small their minds are! They can’t comprehend something so outside their perception of reality. They would claim insanity rather than accept her experience as truth. There’s no need to take the risk.
But their population varies to such a large degree! the first not-voice insists. There are those who believe in what they call ‘aliens.’ Do you honestly think not a single one of them would come looking for us? It took us decades to set up an experiment on this planet! I won’t see my research destroyed because you’re feeling squeamish about one little test subject.
“There’s nothing wrong with empathy!” I call out, hoping to sway at least one of the two beings who were apparently arguing about my brain.
Fine. I suppose, if nothing else, it will at least tell us how the suppressor works on a subject with a higher acetylcholine level. But if the subject dies, you’re the one filing the paperwork.
“Dies?” I shriek. “This could kill me?”
A noise from above startles me, and I look up to see a giant metal arm extending towards me. I stumble backwards, but I’ve barely taken two steps before my back hits a wall. I push left, and then right, but I hit walls in both directions. Did the room shrink? Or was it never as big as I thought it was?
Derek is still staring at the light with his eyes glazed over, oblivious to me, the metal arm, and the voices. He won’t help me.
“Stop!” I scream. “Please! Just let us go. I won’t tell anyone about you; I promise! Please!”
But the arm doesn't stop. It keels coming towards me until I am pinned in a corner. I scream and beg for it to stop, but –
I walk in the front door with Derek close behind. My brain is so foggy, I can barely remember if we're coming or going. I reach for the light switch out of habit but immediately turn it off again, suddenly feeling safer in the dark.
“I’m going to bed,” Derek announces, starting up the stairs.
“Oh, okay,” I say. “What time is it?”
He glances at his watch. “10:30.”
I nod and then wince as I suddenly realize that I have a splitting headache. Guess I should head to bed too.
As I climb up the stairs behind Derek, leaning heavily on the handrail, I try to figure out where my headache came from. The harder I try to remember, the emptier my brain feels.
“Hey, babe?” I call as Derek steps into the bedroom. “Where did we go tonight?”
Derek shrugs his shoulders, a blank expression on his face. “Out,” he says simply.
His expressionless face feels right, and I decide to adopt it. Pointless to worry. Pointless to care. My head still hurt, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
“Oh, yeah,” I reply. “Out.”
Sneha.
The hefty odor of coconut with subtle hints of tea tree floated through the room as I sat dutifully on the living room floor. My mom sat on the sofa behind me, holding a faded yellow comb with one too many bristles missing in one hand, and balancing an aromatic elixir of oils in the other, the scent of which permeated the room. Without much warning, her cold hand pulled against my forehead, painfully craning my neck back.
My mom’s fingers, intentional and trained by preceding generations, massaged my scalp, the warm coconut oil seeping into my hair, washing away the burdens of the week. Even the slight tugging of the comb on my scalp felt like a release, a cathartic experience. When I saw the metallic cup of oil depleted, I knew every strand of my hair was meticulously drenched. She concluded by carefully folding her work into two braids on either side of my head.
Every day until the end of fifth grade, my scalp was well-cared for, my braids bore an uncanny resemblance to Wednesday Addams, and coconut became my signature scent as I pranced through the halls of my elementary school. Little did I know at the time that I carried my culture with the oil in my hair and the braids resting on my shoulders.
But as I entered middle school, these parts of me began to wash away. I grew distant from my culture in an attempt to satisfy the norms I saw around me. A circular oil stain and a bottle of heat protectant replaced the shelf space that once had been filled with a Tupperware container of oil. The sharp scent of coconut no longer trailed me; instead, I conformed with straightened strands. I spent Monday and Thursday nights alone in the bathroom, burning my hair into society’s mold.
Until one day in tenth grade, my mom arrived home carrying a mammoth-sized white jar. Unscrewing its lid, the soft scent of coconut slid through me. A sense of euphoria seeped into my body in unison with the memories of those weekday nights with my mom.
“You know, I’m not just pulling strands, Riya,” she said, and explained that in Sanskrit, the word “sneha” translated to “to oil” as well as “to love.” What I had once simplified to be a method to improve my hair health, was truly a labor of love that had been handed down, generation to generation.
I came to realize that abandoning this tradition had led me to rinse my culture away. And so, I began to gradually re-oil these gaps I had created. That night, I asked my mom to oil my hair once again. I sat in the same spot I had those many years ago, with her steady presence behind me. Her slow process felt soothing and tender, linking our generations. My mom’s hands on my scalp restored my appreciation for the tradition she was continuing through it. Through her, I’ve learned the significance of treasuring tradition and I’ve found compassion in even the most mundane rituals in my life- at school and at home.
Mondays and Thursdays, once demoted to ordinary days, are now treasured occasions for introspection and connection. On the days following, I proudly wear my hair, coconut-infused and all, with the braids cascading over my shoulders as symbols of my identity. They remind me of the ties that bind me to generations past. Through hair oiling, I honor and embrace my authentic self, weaving my story into the traditions that shape it. These days have a special place in my heart, reminding me that, despite the tangles along the way, I am capable of appreciating the profound beauty of the people and traditions that complete me.
Dinner Guest
Kashi grunted as she helped her uncle unload the last of the groceries from the pickup. “Why would you buy this much flour? Are you planning on feeding the whole town?” She lugged yet another sack of the flour up the three stairs, down the hall and into the kitchen. She was probably being dramatic, but the flour grew heavier with every step.
“Ask your Aunt C.” He shrugged, carrying three bags to her one. “Though, as far as food for the town, she is selling her famous pies at a booth at the summer fest in a couple weeks.” Her uncle sighed. “Well, get going. I don’t want to make you late for dinner with your dad. Tell him I say hey.”
“Will do!” She was already halfway out the door, snagging her keys off a new hook screwed to the wall just for her.
Her dad was more perceptive than her uncle. She’d have to be more careful with bringing the photos and newspaper up. Felix, annoying as he was, would be the key to getting her dad to talk. If he was interested in something, he didn’t know how to drop the subject. Besides, her dad was always trying to tell them about the adventures of his youth. Hopefully Kashi could get some insight into this.
She parked her truck into its old spot, hopping down to the gravel. There was another, much older, pickup there as well. Its green paint was tinged with rust. The passenger side door was massively dented.
The screen door swung open. Her dad smiled at her. “I missed you, kiddo.”
Despite herself she smiled, meeting her dad in a hug. “Missed you too, dad.” He squeezed her a little tighter than she remembered.
“How’s life as a ranch hand?” He pulled on one of her signature braids with a smirk.
Scowling and swatting his hand she recounted a few backbreaking tasks that had become her least favorite chores. “But it’s kind of, well, fulfilling.” Kashi shrugged as she walked inside with her dad.
Someone else was on the sofa. “Carr?”
“Hey Kashi.” He waved, seated next to Felix in the living room. They were playing cards.
“I invited company, hope you don’t mind.” Her dad chuckled. “Though it sounds like you two have already met each other.”
Kashi nodded. “I bumped into him in the library a week or two ago.” She left out the party and her midnight jaunt to the barn. “I was getting another one of my novels.” She looked pointedly at Carr as if daring him to contradict her.
But he didn’t say a word about it. He just offered her a sly grin. “Yeah, she and… Sierra, right?” Carr looked at Kashi who nodded. “They were in the library with some cake from a diner I just had to try.”
Her dad’s entire demeanor lit up at the mention of Belle’s diner. “Oh, that woman knows how to bake a mean butter cake. She’ll give the recipe to anyone who asks, but it never turns out as good. I think it’s some advanced marketing technique of hers. She’ll draw you back in for that one-of-a-kind dessert.”
“Dad and I went yesterday.” Felix piped up, an unusually pleasant smile on his face. “Belle gave us a whole cake to take home for free!”
Kashi whipped around to her dad who had turned red. She raised an eyebrow, a bemused smile rising on her face. “Really?” she asked, drawing out the vowels, turning to Felix, her eyebrows darting up and down. Felix choked on his water, laughing and coughing at the same time.
“Kashi that’s enough.” her dad chided half-heartedly. His face was still red.
Carr threw a card at Felix, resuming their game. “You’re awfully good at this for your age.” he frowned at his cards. “Is it too late to take back that five dollars that I bet you?”
“Hey, it’s your fault for underestimating a fourteen-year-old.” Felix said, laying down his cards smugly.
“I forgot you were coming today, Kashi. I wouldn’t have invited him over. Sorry about that,” Her dad said sheepishly when she joined him in the kitchen. He was stirring something that smelled divine on the stove.
“Nah it’s all good.” Kashi grabbed the bowls from an upper cupboard, smiling at the familiar design. “I’m just stopping by to ask how you’re doing. Believe it or not, I missed you. And don’t tell him, but I almost missed Felix too.”
As if he’d heard his name he started yelling. Kashi laughed. It appeared that he had won the five-dollar bill from Carr.
“Look, Kashi, I didn’t mean to drive you away, or be so hard on you.” Her father said, somewhat awkwardly leaning on the counter.
“No, I got that dad.” She kissed him on the cheek, setting the dishes down. “Besides, I kind of like what I’m doing. And well, no offense, Auntie C. makes way better pies.”
She chuckled, dodging the towel her dad tossed her way. “You’re the one that taught me not to lie!”
“Alright, alright.” He laughed, setting the spoon in its rest. “Let’s eat.”
They were quiet for the first few minutes during supper. Kashi was almost upset. He’d never made food this good while she still lived here. Felix, who had definitely grown since she’d seen him last, was spooning himself a third helping.
“Chill out there with the food little man, you’ll grow a second head.” Carr said, conveniently forgetting to mention that he too was on his third bowl.
“True. It would be one more head to kick your ass with.”
“Felix, watch the language!” Her dad chided. Kashi was trying to hide her grin.
“I’m just copying you dad.” He shrugged. “The other day when you were talking to Whit, I overheard you tell him that he was being a—”
“Alright! Alright I shouldn’t have. But you shouldn’t either.” Their dad chuckled. “How come you never copy any of the good stuff I do?”
“Hey dad,” Kashi said after the laughter died down. “I’m curious, why didn’t you ever do any expansion or make some deals with other companies and such to industrialize your land or get shareholders? You could make a lot of profit.” She met Carr’s eyes before taking a sip of the broth as nonchalantly as possible.
“Oh, I did. Your uncle and I tried to when we were younger, much younger. We met this guy from what, Chicago, I think? But it didn’t work out. Your uncle got spooked and didn’t pull through.” Her dad shook his head. “Why? Did your uncle tell you something?” his tone immediately revealed his suspicion.
“I mean, he mentioned something about a business deal that didn’t work out, but nothing else besides that.” Kashi shrugged.
Carr nodded, “I was reading some of the old newspapers the other day just for fun. Catching up on the town’s history. My great grandma lived here from birth to death. I came across a picture of you and your brother, sir. It looked like a deal actually did happen.”
James Thomson paused for a moment. “Well, it did happen. But there were more things going on than just that first agreement. My brother jumped ship and cost us both a lot of money. He buried the other man in debt as well.”
Felix’s brows shot up, his spoon clanking loudly. “Is that why you’re so mad at Uncle Hudson? Because he cheated you out of that deal?” Kashi nodded to herself. This was exactly what she was hoping Felix would do. “Why did he leave if you were going to be rich? What happened to make him leave? Is that why—”
“Felix! Yes, your uncle grabbed his portion then backed out and Hughes and I were left to pick up the slack, alright? Now, go put your dishes in the sink if you're done. It’s your turn to clean up after supper.” He stood abruptly, grabbing his dishes.
Kashi’s brain was flying. Hughes. Hughes. She knew that name, where did she know that name? Her eyes met Carr’s for a second. He could tell that she found something the moment she remembered.
Jeremy Hughes! She met him again with her uncle one of the first days she was working on his ranch! What were they doing together? She looked over to her dad who had seemed to relax a little. How much did he know about what was happening now?
Brushing Sand
Answer number one: it was beautiful, and then it was dust, and then it was both.
I remember seeing the rover for the first time. I almost didn’t want to touch it, like it was holy, a bone from a saint. Then I stepped back and saw my bootprint next to it, and I knew, fully, where we were.
The four of us had studied Mars exhaustively for years and viewed every image, still or moving, dozens or hundreds of times. We had felt the sand that first sample-return drone recovered: a box of precious nothingness, 10 centimeters square, every grain analyzed and formulated by celebrated scientists. They learned so little from it. But what we felt, we chosen four who immersed tentative fingers within it, let it rest in the grooves of our fingerprints...
Full story newly published by NewMyths here: https://sites.google.com/newmyths.com/newmyths-com-issue-66/issue-66-stories/brushing-sand
Years ago, the early draft of this story appeared for a brief time on Prose. The response was favorable, and also included some criticism that helped me realize the story could be better. After a great deal of reworking, I am very proud to share the final, published version with my Prose friends. Thanks to all who commented on that early draft, but especially to TheWolfeDen, whose challenge inspired the story, and JD4, whose criticism was sharpest and therefore the most helpful.
what is stoicism?
I didn't know much about Stoicism before taking on this challenge. I'll admit, I had a heavy bias against it because a person who used to be close to me, (who I now despise) used to be obsessed with Marcus Aurelius (specifically the Meditations).
After reading about the philosophy of Stoicism, I have mixed feelings about it. For the most part, I don't like it because it seems too dispassionate and individualistic to me. I do have a few things that I like about it and would agree with though, so I'll start with the positives.
On a small scale, I like the idea of worrying only about what you can control. When I was in the mental hospital, we talked about "radical acceptance" which is the idea that what has happened in the past has already happened and there is nothing you can do to change it, so you will have to accept it one way or another. Therefore, it's better for you and others to not allow yourself to get overwhelmed with anxiety or anger. An example they used was road rage - if you're in traffic and you're going to be late, you can't choose to leave earlier or force the cars to get off the road. There's no sense in getting angry about it.
I also like the anti-materialist/anti-consumerist attitude. I can talk about how much I hate consumerism all day, but I won't. I think this is a point that especially applies to today's world because, especially with advertisements, we are constantly bombarded with the idea that we need more "stuff" to make us happy, when I wholeheartedly believe that it's completely the opposite. I believe that most people want to create, to do, to invent, to interact, rather than to simply consume and purchase. And we would be so much better off if we could break out of the mindset that we are meant to buy, buy, buy.
On the other hand, I find that stoicism encourages an “it is what it is” mindset, which is my second least favorite phrase behind “life’s not fair”. To the second one, I would say: "but it should be". And to the first I would say: "shouldn't we strive for a better future?" Stoicism seems to be very individualistic, and doesn't just put the responsibility on the individual but robs the individual of the idea of collective power. The mindset of only being upset about what is within your control is resigning yourself to “what it is”. We do have some control over our external environment and we can convince others to join us in creating change. We are not passive or reactive actors in our own lives.
Moreover, I think that we should be angry sometimes. I think that the only way to fighting against injustice is to be fed up with systems and the actions of others. The only way that we can create change is by getting upset and banding together to change things. Again, there is power in numbers.
Caveat: I think that the modern conception of Stoicism is kind of different from the ancient one, and so some of what I'm speaking about isn't completely rooted in ancient philosophy but rather the teachings "self-help gurus". A lot of them seem to preach about self-discipline which I hate. For one thing, some people in this group, have an attitude that your lack of discipline is the reason that your life is subpar. If you woke up at 5 AM everyday, did 10 pushups, put money into your 401k, and were more grateful for everything around you, then you would be happy. One, this neglects to consider the socio-economic conditions that a lot of people live under, as well as disabilities and mental illnesses. In all of these cases, people can't do certain things that "self-discipline" requires due to lack of resources or lack of energy, etc. It's also unproductive at best and obnoxious at worst to tell people to be grateful for what they have (it often implies "because someone else has it worse" or "because it could be ripped away from you"). That just makes people feel guilty and anxious.
Additionally, the happiest I've ever been was when I was completely carefree but completely undisciplined. I skipped school, went out to parties and drank underage, I slacked off, I spent all the money I made instead of saving it and I'm happy that I had fun despite being sad and poor (and still undisciplined) now.
Most of all, I'd rather be passionate than content. I want to have security and peace of mind, but I want to grieve when people die, I want to feel longing for someone I have a crush on, I want to feel pissed off when I see injustices, I want to feel passion, despite how “irrational” it is. I hate stories with happy endings, I love tragic and bittersweet books, I love sad songs, and I write best when I am upset. I'd rather feel something so intense that it makes me scream and cry than feel something so subtle that it makes me feel numb.
My Muse
His captivating eyes the color of a pristine blue were a watercolor masterpiece. The highs and lows of his warm waterfall voice. The enchanting ways he said my name rushed butterflies off my stomach. His beauty exceeds the moon. Everything about my muse felt like an hour of bewitching. My muse wasn’t only my, yet I have accepted that as I know my muse cannot only be mine.
A Pretty Face
With a beautiful face and pristine eyes like yours, it isn’t hard to say
I think I was only physically attracted to you.
Except, a pretty face can only
Take you so far.
Pretty Boy
I could go on and on about how pretty he is.
Thing is that’s all I think I like about him; his beauty. I don't care how shallow it is because it was never anything serious to begin with, so why make it something serious now?
I put him as “pretty Boy”. I was going to do “My pretty Boy” thing is the usage of “my” in this case means I own the pretty Boy or he belongs to me. He doesn't. I doubt he's remotely even interested in me.
I just boost his ego. I call him pretty, beautiful, stunning. All those flattery words as they are the truth. He isn't my. And I'm not his. I could careless if I did date him because I would probably only date him because of his stupidly beautiful face.
Shallow, right? I don't care. I care as much as he cares if I were to disappear off the face of the earth.
Confusing Feelings
I can't think of the last time I felt this stupid; for falling for a guy who will never reciprocate my feelings. For now, I have to learn to swim against the furious waves of these feelings.
All my brain can say in response to admitting I have a crush is shit.
It's all so stupid. Why am I waiting for him to respond? I don't like him. I like his face. I like the idea of him, but at the same time I can't help and be curious about the person behind that beautiful face.
This all so stupid, these words are stupid, my feelings are stupid, I can't form a coherent sentence to describe the annoyance and pain I feel for falling a little too hard for a guy who will never like me back. I feel so stupid. Despite what I saw, maybe, this isn't stupid; maybe it's just confusing.
Feelings
I hate this feeling. Most people call it unrequited love but I don't love him. No, I only like his face remotely more than the average human does. So what if it is a crush. It's stupid and pointless. I think these feelings should die. He's not even interested so what is the point of these feelings. I hate myself for these feelings. I refuse to cry and mourn over something so stupid. As much as I know where the ending of these will go, I can't help but want to dream of a different universe where maybe then—he’ll like me back. I can only dream. I want to be buried alive. I want my heart to be locked up. I want the world to burn. It's so—unfair. I know the truth. That's the worst part. I know he likes another girl. I know he doesn't see me. It's unfair. And at the same time, I can't change him. I can't change the person he is. I can't do anything about these feelings. I don't know what to do with this. My heart screams for him and my mind is preparing for the worst. I feel so stupid for feeling these unknown feelings.
It’s Not U, It’s E
I allow inspiration to find its path as I look at city sprawl. It crawls towards my brain, slinking around a particular button that my nails want to touch, but can’t.
It’s not that costly to fix, but still…do I walk an obvious path just to gain an ability to push a singular symbol? It mocks from its location; a crook and curl on top of my D. I cannot QWRTY with authors or philosophrs - in my worn brain I can’t find a swap for philosophrs and sanction my wrong word.
Blank journals bring joy post-work and that is uncommon in my days. Hand to button to bring about imagination is my goal. But without that solo glyph, my work grows bulky.
Guru, I think, finally, not philosophr. I should hav usd guru.
Jinxed jesting jejune junior jobber...
just jabbering gibberish (A - J)
Again, another awkward ambitious
arduous attempt at alphabetically
arranging atrociously ambiguously
absolutely asinine avoidable alliteration.
Because...? Basically bonafide belching,
bobbing, bumbling, bohemian beastie boy,
bereft bummer, bleeds blasé blues, begetting
bloviated boilerplate bildungsroman,
boasting bougainvillea background.
Civil, clever clover chomping, cheap
chipper cool cutthroat clueless clodhopper,
chafed centenary, codifies communication
cryptically, challenging capable, certifiably
cheerful college coed.
Divine dapper daredevil, deft, destitute,
doddering, dorky dude, dummkopf Dagwood
descendent, dagnabbit, demands daring
dedicated doodling, dubious, dynamite,
deaf dwarf, diehard doppelganger, Doctor
Demento double, declaring depraved
daffy dis(pense)able dufus Donald Duck
derailed democracy devastatingly defunct.
Eccentric, edified English exile,
effervescent, elementary, echinoderm
eating egghead, Earthling, excretes,
etches, ejaculates, effortless exceptional
emphatic effluvium enraging eminent,
eschatologically entranced, elongated
elasmobranchii, emerald eyed Ebenezer,
effectively experiments, emulates epochal
eczema epidemic, elevating, escalating,
exaggerating enmity, enduring exhausting
emphysema.
Freed fentanyl fueled, fickle figurative
flippant fiddler, fiendishly filmy, fishy,
fluke, flamboyantly frivolous, fictitious,
felonious, fallacious, fabulously fatalistic,
flabbergasted, fettered, flustered, facile,
faceless, feckless, financially forked,
foregone, forlorn futile fulsome, freckled
feverish, foo fighting, faulty, freezing,
fleeting famously failing forecaster, flubs
"FAKE" fundamental fibber fiat, fabricating
fiery fissile fractured fios faculties.
Gamesomeness goads gawky, gingerly,
goofily graceful, grandiloquent gent, gallant,
genteel, geico, guppy gecko, gabbling gaffes,
gagging, gamboling, gestating, gesticulating,
garlic, gnashing, gobbling, gyrating,
gruesomely grinning, grappling, gnomadic
giggly, grubby, gastrointestinally grumpy
gewgaw gazing gesticulating guy,
geographically generically germane,
gungho, grave gremlin, grumbling, guiding,
guaranteeing, guerilla gripped gatling guns
ginning gumpshun.
Hello! Herewith halfway harmless hazmat,
haphazard haggard, hectored, hastily,
hurriedly, harriedly hammered, handsomely
hackneyed, heathen, hellbent hillbilly, hirsute,
hidden hippie, huffy humanoid, hexed, heady,
Hellenistic, holistic, hermetic, hedonistic
heterosexual Homo sapiens historical heirloom,
homeless, hopeful, holy, hee haw heretical hobo.
Indefatigable, iconographic, iconic, idealistic,
idyllic, inimitable, idiosyncratic, ineffable,
irreverently issuing idiotic, indifferent, inert,
ineffectual, ingeniously iniquitous, immaterial,
insignificant, indubitable, inexplicable, ignoble
itches, ineffectually illustriously illuminating
immovable infused ichthyosaurus implanted
inside igneous intrusions immensely
imperturbable improbable.
Jovial jabbering jinxed January jokester
just jimmying jabberwocky
justifying jangling jarring juvenile jibberish
jubilantly jousting jittering
jazzy jawbreaking jumble
justifying, jostling, Jesus;
junior jowly janissary joyful Jekyll
joined jumbo Jewess jolly Jane;
jammed jello junket jiggled
jeopardized jingled jugs.
Novel 1st Draft Excerpt
On the morning of his 21st birthday, Erik Johnsen was awoken by a bad dream. He glanced over at his alarm clock, the digital 9 segment display cast a dim red light across the room, the time read 04:05. Erik tried to recall what happened in his nightmare, but as dreams are want to do, it had faded to nothingness. He lay his head back down on the pillow and was asleep again almost immediately. When he was awoken by the soft light from the sun filtering through his curtains, he had almost completely forgotten about the nightmare he had had a mere 4 hours ago.
As he shuffled through the house into his kitchen to make himself a coffee, a small envelope caught his eye on the cluttered table. Curiosity piqued, he picked it up and turned it over in his hands. It was made from a rough yellowed paper, and looked as though it was a hundred years old. With a shrug he tore open the envelope, expecting some junk mail, or a bill.
When he read the letter inside, he was left with more questions than answers. His eyes scanned the neatly scrawled writing on the page.
“Dearest Erik,
if you are reading this letter then things have become
most dire, we need you back. Meet me at Old Anders’
coffee shop today, if you want to know the truth of
who you are.
Show this letter to no one.
Best Wishes,
LC
P.S Happy Birthday”
His thoughts swirled as he read the letter, the truth of who he is, something he had yearned for his whole life. Erik had lost his Family around 5 years ago, and now he could scarcely remember them; what they looked like, sounded like, smelled like, it was all a distant and foggy memory. Despite his initial trepidation his curiosity won out and so at 3PM he found himself pushing open the heavy wooden door of the coffee shop. Erik had always loved this café, it had an ancient feeling to it, as though it were part of the earth itself. As he stepped through the threshold a wave of warm air hit him, along with the scent of freshly brewed coffee. The interior was bathed in a soft golden light emanating from the fireplace in the corner, it had a way of beautifying everyone who it touched, casting flickering shadows that seemed to dance across the tables. Smooth Jazz melodies, drifted through the air, a soothing rhythm helping you to forget the bustling life of the city outwith the doors. Erik made his way to an empty table near the window, as was always the case he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something different about this place, it almost felt like magic. He reminded himself that it was just an ordinary coffee shop and the feeling was just a result of the haze, the fire and the jazz. Little did he know though, that within the walls of Old Anders’ Coffee Shop, there was magic and destiny, and truth — a truth that would forever change the course of his life, and determine the fate of the universe itself."
A Short excerpt from my first draft. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated