write about the sky— any aspect of it. color, feeling, temperature, shape (?), etc. write about a sky that inspires you or that exhausts you, or anything else you’d like
I've walked this path over a thousand times. Outside the train station, crossing the road, passing the shops and turning left. For some reason however, for the first time in a while, I looked up.
Oh... There's less sky than there used to be.
What happened to the open blue? To the soft grey or the harsh thunder and the heavy rain?
There's a crane where the sun should be, concrete where the clouds used to be. The vast expanse, now violated by rigid structures, half built and empty grey. On the ground there was green, where the children played and the adults watched. Soon there will be beige, with brown lining, a glass door with a sans serif sign, and a concierge with a bored face. Piece by piece, the green is disappearing, and the blue is hidden away
Up top, where the birds used to roam, will be rooms filled with people working jobs that don't exist. Where once the winds blew freely, a man smokes on the balcony with a slight breeze, looking down from a sky that used to be ours. Slowly slipping away out of sight. The sky must be so beautiful up there.
September 9th
write about something monstrous. what does it mean for something to be a monster? is it a judgment of character, something inherited at birth/creation, or something else? -
A cold chill has swept this Earth, freezing and destroying everything in its path. The warmth of humanity is barely enough to keep you alive, and for many others, it cannot do even that.
It is indiscriminate in its machinations, but discrimination is embedded deep into its blood. It spawned in a time of waning divinity. When the kings started to feel mere mortal, through wealth we shall become gods.
In the animal kingdom, where resources are low, some individuals of the same species will eat one another. In humanity, where resources are abundant, it has restricted access, and laid waste to love.
Green in the eyes and yet equally blind. You do not see the boot that kicks you or stomps you, you think nothing of it but a reality of life. Yet hatred comes easy, envy is its middle name, it has distilled into many people a great contempt for their fellow man, cannibalistic in nature. To see humans fight and consume one another is its dogma.
It corrupts and distorts minds akin to an ideological case of rabies. Tell me, when did compassion die in your soul? When did the toil of man become such an insignificance? That even a woman, hospitalised and barely back to work, what inspires you to withhold her payments? When you've known her for years, when she has worked tirelessly for you? What inspires you to such coldness, and from when did the warmth of humanity leave your body? It may have kept you alive, but you have not left unharmed.
August 19th
reflect on a ritual, whether it's a personal habit, cultural tradition, or invented routine. what does your ritual signify? what happens when a ritual is interrupted or transformed? how does it evolve over time?
Three shrines, three bows, three sticks of burnt incense.
Nestled in the corner of the living room, a tall lamp emanates a faint orange glow from one of its bulbs, dimly lighting a small but solemn shrine in the form of a wooden cabinet. Atop its head lies a plate of fresh fruit on the left, to the right, a vase of flowers and in the middle holds a ceramic incense burner filled with ashes and old sticks of incense. Behind it all stand two portraits, leaned slightly against the wall. When I was young, there was only one portrait. As I got older, one became two.
These shrines existed far before me, when we moved, so did they.
There have been times where I forget, times where my bows were short and uncoordinated, my words muttered or silent. There have been times where I remember deeply, times where I get on my hands and knees, head upon the ground and my muscles tensed, times where I say every word clear to the world and soundly in my heart.
None of the times I prayed or bowed did anything change. Whether strong or weak, no amount of incense lighted, no amount of fruits gave me the grades I wanted, changed my luck or made me more successful. Despite that I still light that incense and I still put down that bowl of fruit.
As time passes, those three shrines will be four, when I leave the house four will become zero, and when those dreaded days come that zero will become one, one becomes two, two becomes three and on it goes, the cycle of death and worship.
August 12th
think & write about a place you love and how it appears in your heart & life.
The rooster's call sounds off in the distance, the early morning symphony of insects and animals harmonize, bringing me to my feet. In my room, three beds lay pressed against each other, covering the entire width. My brothers still lie sleeping on their beds next to mine. Their mouths agape and softly snoring, I stifle the urge to annoy and wake them, and walk out, bare feet touching the cold slab floor.
My eyes, still reeling from the light and my mind, still glazed from sleep, sloppily command my hands to fish around my pockets for my phone. On the screen it displays 06:30 am, about 5 hours removed from when I usually wake up, an impossibly early morning, despite that, I am the most rested I have ever been.
The room next to mine laid freshly vacant, usually inhabiting my parents, I hear their voices coming faintly from the kitchen and dining room. I walk through the living room and over the sprawl of blankets and toys that my younger cousins laid out in the middle. Here there are no doors, the smell of burning grass and cow dung fill the open air, the combination, rather than insulting, evoke a warming familiarity.
Ambling into the kitchen area, still half asleep, my parents motion towards me, telling me to brush my teeth, I was already going to, but parents will be as they are. My grandmother, sweet and kind, tells me the breakfast will be ordered shortly. Here everybody knows everyone, why make breakfast when the family in the neighbourhood makes amazing food? A short ways down the road from my grandparent's house is a small little house seemingly halfway from a residential household and an open-seating restaurant as is common around these parts. The aromatic spices emanating from the broth and cooked meats spill over into the air, on those plastic chairs, those small tables, that red dirt and those blades of grass.
Walking to the bathroom I pass my grandfather. He sees I'm awake and gives a small acknowledgement before walking away. My grandfather, to me, a man of mystery and weathered and dark sun-tanned skin with a history, like many men in a time turmoil, chaos and war. I don't notice the sunken cheeks, or the wrinkled flesh that barely wraps around his bones. As if time weren't real, my grandpa is still healthy, senescence never reaches its full conclusion and death is non-existent. Living perfectly, in nostalgia.
Outside I hear them. The pigs. They haven't been here since I was seven, but I remember them, I remember them dearly. I remember their stench, I remember the mud, I remember the innocence and I remember the joy. A snapshot of happiness, frozen in time, but never quite sure when to freeze.