#myownstyle

📌 hesistantly pointing out to Tom "uhh...you have something on your cheek"

p.s: my Janna doesn't look like Janna -.-

Sailor Mars🔥✨

Recently among the various different activities that we have participated in the ELA classes at the summer school, we were assigned a unique project. The first stage was to listen to the small group of instrumental music students play 4 various pieces, record them, and save it for later. There was a brass quartet, woodwind quartet, piano trio, and a jazz ensemble. After listening to the music, we were given a variety of art pieces made by the visual art students. Each piece displayed zero correlation among one another. Given the music and art pieces, we as English students were assigned to gain inspiration from at least one of each of the art and music pieces in order to write an essay, short story, or poem. After completing the writing portion, we then gave the written pieces to the students in the theatre department. They were divided into groups about 4-6 in size, and they had to choose one of the pieces and interpret it them self. Then, as a result of the interpretive collaboration we watched the theatre students perform the written work. As a result, we revealed the line of interpretation and how different it can become in the end. 

Knowingly, my piece did not get chosen so I have decided to upload it here to gain feedback from anyone willing to do so!

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There will be multiple meta-strophic events in your lifetime. For once, words will flow out of you that sound alienated, ridiculous, and their origin is completely unknown. However, you let them invade your thoughts, feelings, ideas. You embrace them as soon as they are greeted at the door of your consciousness because for once something new has become of you.

We had never heard of the word “color” before. There was no definition for it in Mirriam-Websters’ dictionary. It was non-existent. 

We were monotone, body, and soul. There was nothing that could illuminate our conscience because we did not believe it was possible. All we knew was ourselves- one shade of ebony with ivory shadows. Nothing more. 

I was not completely sure about anything we had done thus far. He and I came to exist one day, with no memory of anything before us...

Where I was placed on the discomforting ground, breathing heavily with a deafening heartbeat sporadically forcing itself against my chest, as if it were trying to escape. What was it trying to escape from? I glanced around my surroundings, trying to ingest everything I was feeling. There were towering woods with piercing branches randomly protruding from its center, each leaf having a mind of its own and choosing whether or not to take a leap of faith. The distinct scars that envelope each trunk provide me with a story of its origin. I dropped my head from its tense state and let my eyes gaze upon myself, trying to find the scars of my own, but all I can see is an area of solid obsidian with a few sharp contrasts of pearl; because, where was my origin? Do the trees know that they have proof of existence? Beauty was a feeling to me, not something that I could see. It comes and goes, like the breath of wind that sweeps across my face and neck. I cannot describe it in words nor can I imagine what its’ appearance maybe, if it has one.

After dwelling upon the frightening light of my shadows that entangle me, I look vacantly around me. Besides the welcoming trees that line the ground for eternity, I realize that they are the same as me- or at least they appear so. Their shadows are the same as mine; but, why is it uncomfortable to notice the shadows? The purity of the areas they plague contrast what exists; they are followers, imitators. The trees cannot escape them, the plants cannot, and neither can I. They unforgivably slice into my whole anatomy leaving dastardly porcelain scars on me forever. Do I feel from this? Yes of course. It horrifies me. Why would there be something that tries to imitate who I am? The thief of who I am is myself. Breathing this air is difficult.

I notice how stable I am standing here. Even though the wind is softly blowing to where the grass begins to waltz with it, I feel secure. Each blade of grass gracefully embraces the vacancy between each of my toes, like a spilled inkwell on a reassuring, playful blanket. The feeling is an overwhelming sense of joy. The corner of my lips slowly starts to turn up as I feel the excitement of this feeling all around me; I do not want it to end. Each juniper touch blesses my thoughts with the joy of existing and being alive even though I do not know how I cam to be. My toes dig deeper and wiggle through each unique piece until I eventually reach the origin of their growth. The area is coarse as each toe hits consecutively onto this ostracizing powder-like substance. There is no inclusion of this umber form because of the isolation it brings upon itself; perhaps, it might be dreaded isolation because each speck of Earth unites to form one, yet becomes entirely disconnected. I can sense the disconnection between the hickory layers between me and the reassuring moss growth above me. Each layer contradicts one another in pure, distinct bliss that can only be felt. It felt as if I was the catalyst for these two to meet; unfortunately, I will never know since I am unaware of my midnight self that stains each step I take with the daunting alabaster carefully following behind me. 

I decide to take a few steps forward to cautiously explore more. There seems to be an edge to this gracious pasture, so I cautiously approach the unknown space surrounding it. As I reach the end I notice something: something massive. A pool of insight rested upon the euphoria field stained in an olive manner. I climb down the daunting slope, where polluted pebbles try to push me into isolation, throwing themselves at me as if I was a traitor of a friend. I manage to escape the torment and I stumble into the shore of the oasis. Lines of rocks surround the edge of the shore and even are sporadically placed throughout the pool and the rest of the area. I pick up one beside me, heaviness overcomes the strength of my hand and I suddenly let go. But I pick it up again and again, craving to balance this piece of nature so I can become satisfied. After holding it long enough, I toss it into the area before me; the splash resonates in my mind, as well as the seclusion around me, and I notice ripples panning out from its’ origin of landing. This rock, a rather heavy one I attempted to balance at first, left an everlasting effect throughout this pond. As it knowingly sinks to the bottom, I cannot help but imagine how life would be if everything were as effective as what I just witnessed, how answers are in our hands. Gentleness trickles throughout each small wave of percipience. My thoughts become centered as I gaze upon each sparkle from each small movement, and I begin to comprehend my ideas and feelings in a sophisticated way; in fact, the waves of the azure stream through each crevice as if they were the actual synapses transmitting everything I knew from one end to the other. This feeling of enlightenment consumes all I see and believe. I let my hand drag through the sudden chill of this glimmering intellect, allowing the hairs on my arm to raise aimlessly. The liquid that appears as a succulent berry slowly engulfs my entire hand, slowly gifting me with an entirely different understanding of what my hand was before. As I sat there, hand gliding around, I become accustomed to this feeling and becomes welcoming. The sudden biting of initial impact makes me question it, but then I persist through and suddenly everything becomes warm as if the illumination was becoming the internal me.

I quietly stand and look above me. The sky looks quite similar to this small pond before me. There are slight indents as if one took a piece of pure lace and shredded it into a multitude of pieces, all unique shapes, and sizes. When I gaze upon each piece too long, my sight becomes slowly blurry. I cannot escape this evil! It follows me, lives in me, and exists in everything around me! I drastically throw my head from this viewpoint of light and peer into the ebony curtain as I close my eyes, reminding myself of the fact that I am the reason I can feel, experience, endure. My self is the base for the existence of these ideas that appear before me. My reassurance appears in the form of the objects all these imitators cease to leave behind. I cannot escape it but must accept it. 

I notice a sudden pain in my right hand as the air embraces the inner area of my skin. A mysterious drop of scarlet appears against the onyx form of the palm of my hand. I wonder if this happened because of the rock I attempted to balance. The flow of drops continues to occur and the feeling burns my hand; however, I cannot stop watching. Where did this come from? Why is it doing this? The cut itself was enveloped in this sangria ombre of a bright antithesis of me. I figured this, whatever it was, made me but why was it so different from who I was on the outside? The mystery was taking a toll on my thoughts, but I kept revolving around the same idea after I cleaned the wound.

I hear a rustle behind me. Slowly, I turn around and notice another person that is the same as me- well, his appearance was the same except his hair was shorter, but I also assumed that the inside of him looked the same as me. As I look into his twilight eyes, I realize him and I are the only ones. I ask, “Do you know what this means?”, looking down at my ink-stained hand, then at the oasis behind me, the random pieces of harsh light in the sky, then at the crimson infliction on my hand. He steadily brings his eyes to meet mine. “Color.”

Dream Journal Entry 255. March 22, 3182