i have a week and a half, maybe two, before school starts. tenth grade, which means more homework. i did my back-to-school shopping today. i still haven't done my precourse work or the essay that i need to write for the experiment in international living by september first. i know i nee to do them both, but it's too easy to put it off and blame my parents for forgetting to remind me. and now i'm back in that august frame of mind where i'm bored of all this doing-nothing, ready for something to start up, ready to see my friends again, almost even ready to eat lunch at the same time each day but i don't want this to ever end, i don't want to go back. not to my reportedly-insane geometry teacher, not to the institution to more stress. and-- ugh-- to homework. back to scalding tea in a to-go cup
Regenerative Design for Change Makers (RDCM) is coming to Burlington! Learn all about social permaculture and mindfulness with Abrah Dresdale and Jasmine Fuego on Aug. 22 at ArtsRiot, 400 Pine Street, and at a RDCM training at the Center for Whole Communities, 209 Battery St., Aug. 25 and 26. More info and to register: www.regeneratechange.com
A summer came and passed by fast. Leaving nothing but empty mass. In colors of orange and red and gold, will mark colors of death as summer foretold. Gone away are fire lit nights, The sweet sent of midday rain, the pretty sights of morning twilights.
The sweetest flowers once bloomed in your wake, Lilac, Daisy, and Sunflowers, now leave not an earthly trace. Summer's beauty, you may take, but you can't sow a field with yellow lace.
They say all stars burn out eventually, so is true of summer stars. They bloom and flourish right in your hand, then disappear to a far off land. Demands are made and promises kept, will you soon sing again?
Shall spring never compare to thy lighter brest? Will the deers still prance and birds still sing, under winter's turbulent test? Or must they wait again for you?
Parkinson’s disease can be caused by a variety of genetic mutations. One damages PINK1, a protein that sticks to the tops of damaged mitochondria, tagging them to be broken down. Spring of my sophomore year bio class I had the opportunity to dig into the genetic and biochemical mechanisms behind Parkinson’s disease. My learning came from breaking down scientific papers, speaking with people with a connection to the disorder, and modeling connected pathways. That summer, I worked in a lab and throughout the experience found myself drawing on the skills and knowledge I gained from my independent project. I began to realize the breadth of what I accomplished and the transformative power of personalized learning.
I thought I was good at this. The whole "Say goodbye and move on" ordeal. I told myself it was routine and it was exhilarating every time. I used to hail change as my savior, because it felt like despite my stable home I was still wrapped in a blanket of turmoil.
I love adventuring. I love the unfamiliarity. I crave chaos like it craves me. There was nothing I loved more than my muscles twitching with anticipation just waiting for my next move, the spontaneity and the unexpected that was vast enough to swallow me whole. I loved that.
Or so I thought.
I was raised in this world to move like a sprint, to pounce as if it was my vice. I was fine with that, I accepted that and believed it.
Why am I hesitating? Why are there clothes scattered on my floor, littered like the bodies of old versions of myself?
I'm a beginner guitarist having a try at songwriting... I'm not sure how it sounds, hopefully it's decent...
Lyrics: Well you're so great and I can't get over the modest things you've said You're so very amazed with yourself, you're a star in your own head Who did you think would be lining up to be your backup crew? Open your eyes, to your surprise there's no one there but you When will it be enough? What would it all be for? You had everything But you wanted more Here you come, the one and only Not at the top but you're still lonely Who will you turn to for help Now that you've lost all to yourself? When will it be enough? What would it all be for? You had everything But you wanted more
I believe that heaven is the place you go when you die, but it’s also much more, like a thing that is constantly on a mind, and tucked right above or below the surface of a heart. Heaven heals to clear the conscious of love and intimacy, and to cloud the mind away with that thought of an end. Trapped and searching is that of a lost soul, answers lye beneath their meek, while free is that of those whom weep and have been cried for. Heaven is a creation where people are never supposed to judge, but how does one never judge while they are asleep? A part of being a believer is that there will always be skeptics, but heaven knows, there will always be apologies.
The door creaks on its own, a breath to push it closed. A whisper through the phone, much like yours I suppose, tells me of horrors far beyond, the world we want to see, and those horrors reside deep, inside of the mind,