Typing an essay is like playing a game. You (should probably remember to) save every five seconds, curse every time you breathe, and do everything humanely possible except what you’re supposed to be doing.
-another paragraph from last year-
Earth is a meager dot in the vastly infinite universe. Rich in history, the humans inhabiting this planet indulge in commemorating their past through monuments. Mostly, memorials reflect more significant people who attributed a positive good into the world affecting the lives of many others. Some depict mundane effort. As opinions are abundant, the memorial may not be wholly accepted. The location could be inappropriate for the memory; it might prove unappreciated in its surrounding environment. Proper physical representation of the symbol is pertinent. Consideration in past reverie requires careful action upon these decisions.
-an old essay from last year-
I despise photography. The monstrous idea is cringe-worthy. I could never confess this to my friends- some are avid photographers themselves. Perhaps my narrow mind towards odd art aroused this disdain. Either way, I had not previously grasped its abstract nature, the art of capturing a moment or displaying a unique perspective. I mused on my disinterest on slow summer Thursday. With a sudden thirst for adventure, I grabbed the Nikon camera on the bureau and spun the door shut. The clouds stole the sun behind layers of purplish pinks and soft tangerine hues. I fumbled with the intricate settings as I took to a snail’s pace on the lonely sidewalks. Sprinkled here and there were trinkets that caught my eye- a feather, mushrooms, a forlorn leaf, and petite flowers of weeds. Each snap, every shutter provided a fruitless harvest. Nature had won this round. Frustrated, I point to the sky. Light became a fuzzy glare that, once shot, focused slightly into twinkling octagons. I had heard of this before- the bokeh effect. A blurred photo that captures light’s lovely imperfections. It took a mistake in photography for me to realize its beauty, and my view on the hobby has gradually broadened. Nevertheless, I am still an awful photographer.
Clementine, now a teen, has survived by herself. She seeks refuge in a (seemingly) abandoned farm. She discovers a boy has been surviving alone on the farm house this entire apocalypse. Clem stays the night, but notices its eerily quiet. The ground shakes every so often. He assures her its just earthquakes. A single zomble breaks the silence, but boy is taking care of it. Silence again. Clem walks outside to check on boy. He’s burying the body. She stops walking as the realization hits her: he doesn’t know how to kill the zombies. The earth stops shaking for a while. Suddenly, all around the farm land, hundreds- no, thousands of zombie arms break through the soil.
Recorded for the first time, wow, props to Skyler of Less than Seven for an awesome recording room. :o Hm~ Shall I add a doobly doo link to future demos?
*internally screaming* I maybe just got a poem published soon???