Quick Tip 11

Cliché is a noun.

Clichéd is an adjective.

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The World Above.

There was the sun, and stretched out before it was a sea of fire. Taan and Yulius sat on the edge of an island drifting through the sky. It was one cloud, constantly shifting and drifting from one point in the universe to another. They watched the sun slip around to the other side of the world knowing that, once it was gone, they could swim in the inky black, sometimes blue, ocean, and float with the stars. They had to wait until the sun set though or else they would burn and fall to the world below, where people called their falling bodies shooting stars. Taan recalled how people below would make wishes on the shooting stars and take pictures of them. From their perspective, he guessed it was beautiful; although, this was a hard concept to convey to Yulius.

 “One day, I want to go down there,” Yulius said. He leaned back on his hands.

 “You wouldn’t like it. Everything is muted down there,” said Taan. “Besides, after this, I promised to take to you to the forest.” 

 “What do the people down there think about the forest?”

 “They call it lightening, and they call the sound thunder. You wouldn’t understand them, Yulius. Trust me. You wouldn’t like it.” 

 The sun disappeared. Taan stood up and without further waiting, he stepped off the cloud and dropped down among the stars. Yulius followed shortly after, dropping the subject of the world called Earth.

Loving Her is Like a Random Simile

I cringe so much just thinking about this. For one of my classes, I had to write a bad poem. Naturally, bad poems should never be shared with the world, nonetheless, here is mine for all too see. WARNING: your eyes will hurt after reading this.

Looking at her was like looking at the sun.

The stars were hung in her eyes.

She was stuck to my shoe like gum.

Tasting her was like tasting my mother’s cherry pies.

I swear this girl had my heart on the run.

I should have seen her lies.

 

She was my bane.

I was hardly sane.

I should never have gone back.

It was like a never ending heart attack.

Now she has me trapped.

I’m practically kidnapped,

And I don’t want to leave.

Bullet Journaling

I mentioned this in a previous post, but now I want to breifly expand on it. Bullet Journaling is keeping an organized planner with various spreads of your own design. It does require a little creativity, but you don’t need to be good at drawing or anything at all. I find it fun because it keeps me being creative, and since I’ve writing everything down and designing it all by myself, I tend to remember things a lot better.

These are some of my spreads:

The one you saw on Monday would be the one I have for keeping track of my blog posts.

                                                                                                                   
I do different different designs for each of my weekly spreads.


I have a spread for keeping track of my Bible reading, and I have a mood board to see how each day went. 


Finally (certainly not my last spread, but the last one I am going to show you) is my sheet for keeping track of all of my homework and my sheet for keeping track of my money.


These are fun for me to work on and create on Saturdays and then I just fill them in with whatever needed information I retain through the week. I get to make them colorful and do whtever I want with them. Each spread is unique. I really enjoy making them. For me, this has really helped me keep things organized and clean. I find that if I can get things organized on paper, it helps keep things organized in my head. I don’t stress out nearly as much now that I have this.

How did I get into bullet journaling? … Buzzfeed Nifty? It was one of hundreds of videos I came across on Facebook. After that I just watched a lot of youtube videos. I encourage you to do the same: watch youtube videos or ask questions! 

I’m Not Cinderella

Vaulted ceilings.

Orchestral music.

Ballgowns and dancers.

Blue and silver sequins.

Glass slippers.

The clock strikes twelve.

It’s a dream with a time limit.

 

I’m tired and I’m scared.

All good things can be tainted.

I think I’ll keep my distance.

I don’t dance.

I’m not five

Playing dress up

In my mothers shoes.

Cinderella was a fairytale:

A dream I could never afford.

 

Wishing wells.

Golden coins.

Kissed frogs.

Lullabies.

Pink tutus.

And they lived

Happily Ever After.

A childhood that I somehow missed,

Because I couldn’t decide what to dress my barbie in.

 

Damn.

I’m not five,

But I want to be,

If only I can dance with the prince.

 

Finding lost imagination is never easy.

(Neither is learning to dance.)