https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CVRNRZVL Soulful Rhapsody: Step into a world where each note is a heartfelt expression, and every melody weaves a tale of love and longing. "Soulful Rhapsody" is not just a collection of poems; it is a symphony of emotions, an ode to the enduring power of love. Read one of the poems below: I hope you enjoy it. Innamorare The Italian prudent in a small town in Italy Tells us his story A tale about his lost love So callously Slipped through His fingers. He's caught in a tirade Of wishful thoughts Innamorare he declares Is both a curse and a bane A malevolent affection One he foresees As a misfortune. Would he perhaps be right? Not even the picturesque setting Before where he rests His weary feet From his long fatigued travails In search of his Wandering thoughts Gone astray just as his lost mind Has reduced him to madness For a woman's sweet love. Ah, he sees her now among the clouds A tiny pearl at first And then a wondrous sight Of a beautiful outline Of a sensuous woman. Then she was gone. His heart clutched at his bosom Would he find among the throes That walk upon this mighty Earth One as beautiful as her? He had seen her once before Only Once And it was enough To set his heart on fire For a lifetime. -end- Get a copy as a tribute to Valentine's Day A book for lovers to gift, or a keepsake to relive the magic of love. And, if you do, please leave a review. I'd love to hear from you.
Thank you very much for participating in the Biopage Storytelling Writing Contest! The results are now available on the contest webpage: https://www.biopage.com/contest It was a very difficult decision to make! We received many high-quality essays from around the world, it was so difficult to pick the winners. We have “Children of war” from Shobana and “Peace is priceless” from David to reflect the ongoing wars in the world. We have “Where there is will, there is a way” from Shreya, “The warmth of the garden” from Brandon, and “Is it me?” from Emilia to describe their experience with mental disorders. We have “Gifts of December” from Lily about the lighter note of life. And we have “Seed of greatness” from Stephene about hope and growth in poetry! The winners will receive separate emails regarding award certificates and prizes. We are sorry that most of you will be disappointed; but remember you are all winners! Many participants appreciated the contest as an opportunity to stay away from the noisy social media, to really start writing again to express themselves and to tell stories. Please keep in mind that this is a recurrent contest; you are welcome to write another story and submit again! Please continue to stay in the community of Biopage, using the website or more conveniently the iOS app or Android app to continue to write, and to stay in touch with your friends and other writers. If you use the iOS app or Android app, please rate and write a review at the App Store or Google Play. We are giving out an Amazon gift card to each user who wrote a review about Biopage at the App Store. Please email email@example.com with your App Store or Google Play ID name and a screenshot of the review, and the gift card may arrive in 2 weeks. A certificate of participation of the writing contest will be available upon request by email. Thank you and happy writing! The Biopage Writing Contest Committee
When you are the sun, I am the moon. The space is our stage, Our audience is the Earth. Where you are the heroine, And I am the hero. You are the source that illuminates me, Without you, I am nothing more than a normal rock. I may be closer to our audience, But without you, they cannot exist. As we dance around the earth, It gets emotional and cries like a child, creating the oceans. The oceans also have their highs and lows because of us. Sometimes the Earth gets jealous of us, And comes between us, Which makes me angry and makes me turn red. Our audience will see my different phases As I revolve around them and While they revolve around you.
"Gooooaaaalllllllll!", Screams filled the air, with many fists pumping in joy. I jumped up and down a few times, the happiness threatening to burst out of me. Ademola Lookman, the number 18 forward just sealed Nigeria's place in the quarter-finals in the AFCON tournament, handing us a 2-0 win against longtime rivals, Cameroon. One particular Nigerian player stood out during the game. He commanded the ball like it was an extension of himself in fluid, graceful movements, cut through the opponent's defense like a hot knife through butter. His reputation as the "king of goals" precedes him. The most expensive African player of all time with a club-record fee of $92million, according to a reputable Nigerian news outlet. He has achieved international fame and recognition, awarded the 2023 African player of the year award after various exploits at club level. He is none other than Victor Osimhen, bearer of number 9 jersey, Nigeria's golden boy. His success has eclipsed his traumatic upbringing, marred by poverty and gruelling laborious work. He used to live in a makeshift house near a dumpsite and lost his mother at an early age. His father, saddled with the responsibility of raising and providing for 7 young children lost his job all of a sudden. Throwing the entire family into an unending cycle of hunger, uncertainty, and extreme poverty. He and his siblings had to take on menial jobs and hawking, surviving on daily wages, unsure of when their next meal would be. He risked his life severally while selling sachet water in traffic, often chasing after moving vehicles. In spite of the bleak situation, he didn't give up on his passion, football. The day he was selected for the 2015 U-17 FIFA world cup marked a turning point for him. He showcased raw talent and led the team to victory, winning the golden boot and silver ball awards for his exemplary performance. He would later win the CAF young player of the year for 2015. It was not all rosy as he experienced some challenges along the way that threatened to bring his budding career to an abrupt halt. He sustained injuries and had to undergo multiple surgeries with a subsequent decline in his performances. Rejected by clubs that had at first showed keen interest, he refused to be weighed down and continued training. By a stroke of luck and hardwork, he was signed by Sporting Charleroi where his career effectively took off. Currently, he plays for Napoli and earns £10.9million annually. Everytime I come across him on the news, internet or watch him perform magic on the pitch, I am reminded of someone who vehemently refused to let his background impact his life. I am inspired by his goal-getter attitude and cheerful outlook on life generally , in spite of obvious limitations. I think the saying, "you can achieve anything you put your mind to", is cliche but he embodies it in every sense.
It was the first of October. Some would say its just a new paper to flip through a calendar. Was it? My lips curved before I could stop myself. For the first time, I didn't regret waking up to see another day. *** 5 years ago I picked up a smooth, flat pebble from the edge of the greenish lake and studied its weight in my hand before launching it into the water. The surface broke beneath its impact, sending ripples out in all directions. As I watched, the ripples grew weaker and eventually disappeared. Suddenly, I wanted that pebble back. But I knew even if I got it back, I would still toss my favorite pebble into the lake again, just to see how far it could go compared to the others. As I sighed, I couldn't help but think about how small and insignificant one thing could seem in comparison to everything else in life. "Why are you always so reckless?" my mama would say. I silently laughed over the irony; Mama never used to be independent, but made it look like I was the one who made her lose everything. Did I? I looked down at the distorted blurry reflection of me on the surface of the frozen water. Ah, I wonder what it would feel like to be frozen in time like this lake... I closed my eyes, momentarily reveling in the winter air, yearning for a well-deserved nap. And then, the silence shattered. A distant sobbing reached my ears, cutting through the tranquillity like a blade. Panicked, my eyes snapped open. The source eluded my vision, but the cries continued with —aching bones and…and need for help…. There was blood on my hands. Everywhere. Was it mine? A bird called. Bird sounds? I looked down, there was no blood on my hands. Was I hallucinating again? I am going crazy. The sound of tears falling onto the lake water made me realise this was reality again. The girl was crying at the lake? I hadn't even bothered to check the banks. Then there she was. Her eyes were filled with tears and red and puffy, but oh god. Perhaps she was both the moon, the sun and the stars. Because it seems my eyes were lying to me. A few watery hiccups broke my trance, or disturbing astonishment at her beauty. Should I really approach her..? Will I seem like a prat for ruining her crying session? Will she get angry and throw a rock at me for being nosy? I went behind her quietly and lightly tapped her shoulder. “Hey,” I paused awkwardly. Suddenly I got alarmed as she became still, like a statue that has been caught moving. This is why I should not be in the place of comforting a person, no matter how bad I feel for her. The uncertainty faded as determination settled in. If I risked a rock to the face, so be it. "uh…" I gestured toward her tears, avoiding direct eye contact. "Are you crying?" Never mind. I should get thrown in the lake instead of a rock thrown at my face. She didn't say anything but wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, so I gave her a few minutes. Eventually, she cleared her throat and mumbled, “No, I am sorry. You must have been resting here and I...." She hiccuped. "..definitely ruined your time.” I looked at her in disbelief. She was worried about me being annoyed rather than being mad at me for being nosy? "I'm really sorry," her voice broke on the last word. "Why are you sorry?" The words escaped my lips abruptly. She blinked once, bemused. "For ruining your time." Shaking my head, I dismissed her apology. "You didn't, so stop saying sorry." She was so nice, that I was considering every one of my moments on earth, that it was even justified. "That's good then." A vague response, but given the circumstances, it sufficed. "Did something happen, though? Rant to me if you want. Actually you know, you should. You will find a boy like me once in a hundred years just like a comet, who will want to listen to someone's rant beside a lake like this. " I offered a half-smile and a thumbs-up. It had been 60 seconds, and she just stared at me. At this point, I can hear crows cawing in the background and the sound of water dripping awkwardly. I…didn't say anything wrong did I? “uhm, I meant that I am just really busy that's all…” To my astonishment, she burst out laughing. The sight of her laughing made me laugh too. “You're really…” She gasped between her violent laughs, “funny. Yeah, really funny. Please be my friend, a random boy who comes once in a hundred years.” It was the first of October when I met her.
I always believed it was easier to be a villain than a hero. “Everything is simple, you fight only for yourself, not for others like a hero”. But it was not as simple as I thought. When I was in school many years ago, everyone in my class was “villain”, including me. We all studied to get better grades ourselves. We didn't help each other, we didn't even explain if one of us didn't understand, except one girl. There was the most intelligent girl in our class. She was shy, quiet and a bit mysterious. Everyone used her to raise their grades. They pretended to be her friends. However, they were fake friends like birds which flies when winter comes. One day I also decided to use her. Not to raise my grade, but to lower other classmates' grades through the essays we wrote and gave to the teacher for checking. Teacher believed her and gave this essays her for checking instead. I pretened to help her like others did. At that time, I talked with her alone for the first time. To be honest, she was different than I knew. Cheerful, kind and most importantly, sincere. She talked about her interest in drawing and what kind of pictures she drew. At this time, I wanted to distract her and achieve my goal. I hesitated, though. I felt fear and distemper inside. In order to be evil, one should not be a coward, but on the contrary, one should be brave, cold and strong. But at the same time, it took courage and strength not to be evil. These were different things that were similar to each other. And I became stronger, not to be villain. On my opinion, being the villain in someone's life isn't as cool as we watched movies. When someone becomes evil, he or she does evil to himself or herself first.
On Sunday I got on a bus. It was a day off, everyone was crowding and pushing. The fare costs five pesos, and in front of me a woman was fiddling with a ten-peso coin. Either they couldn't give her change, or she herself wanted to find exactly five pesos, God knows. I told her, "Excuse me, let me give you my five-peso coin, and you pay ten for the two of us." She looked at me with wide eyes, " What do you mean I should pay for the two of us?! Pay for yourself!" I said, "Well, I'll give you five pesos." She frowned, "I don't need anything, I'll only pay for myself. You young people have become completely insolent." Those who heard this twirled their fingers at their temples, someone muttered under his breath about “stupid women”, but in the end everyone sat down, and the lady somehow sorted out the fare herself. The bus was on the way, I was looking out the window and listening to music. Suddenly someone touched me on the shoulder. I turned around - the same ten-peso woman was standing in front of me. I expected anything, but not what she said. “Excuse me, miss. I only now realized what you were suggesting. It was a hard week, I didn't rest at the weekend, so I became dull. Sorry. I wish that hadn't happened.” This is how a funny story about a “stupid woman” ended up as a story about a tired woman who does not forget to take responsibility for her behavior. Mistakes don't matter. What matters is that you deal with their consequences.
Little teacher Station. My all exams finished and I was waiting for bus. At that time sudden, I saw little, so pretty, sympathetic, clean and stylishly dressed a boy. He is about 4 or 5 years old. He used to collect garbage around the sidewalk so take it to special conteniars. I was watching the clever boy during a few time. This Street crowded, in this case lot of people look at the boy and shying for casting own garbage to walkway. They watched the boy a fewer time and blush from own behavior. I also watched the position so thought about doing goodness for enviroment. The goodness absolutely return to our life, even will influence to future. Definitely, being decent isn't depend on to age or format of humans. Those only depend on a person's soul and behavior. I figure out, the boy teach me that lesson, besides stayed at my mind as little teacher.
I sit on the soft grass, the Oak tree behind me providing shelter from the raging sun. My fingers trace the bark behind me, my toes burying into the dirt. I can't help but wonder, Oak trees live for hundreds of years. This one has probably seen just as many humans sit under its boughs. This is when I wrote my first letter. Dear Ms.Forgotton, It's the 1840's. You've got curls pinned to the back of your head that keep getting caught in the bark. Chesnut hair, tired eyes, and a threadbare dress. You look like something out of a Christmas Carol. But more than that, you look human. I want to know what your favourite perfumes are. I want to see the hairstyles you dream of wearing, but were too lazy to pin up. Did your hands get sore from setting hair rollers, like mine do? Even though we're years apart, how different can we be? I'd give anything to speak to you, girl to girl. In another life, maybe we could have been friends. I feel a certain twang in my chest as I watch tears come to your eyes. They're fiery, defiant. The look of someone who has something to prove, but nobody gives you the chance, right? For what it's worth, I'm sorry. It's hard to be a woman, no matter what time you're in. I hope you were happy in the end though. I burn it that night. I don't know why, but I feel like it might find it's way back to her. In some way. The next letter I write on a secluded beach. Dear Sir Forgotton, It's the middle of the night, 1775. I'm watching you pace the sands, running your hands through your haggard hair. Little do you know, I'd be here one day, sitting against the very rocks that you now plop onto. You're stressed right now about your store and taxes. There is a book in your satchel, Thomas Paine. I bet you'd be surprised to know it's in a museum now. Our historians obsessed over your signature on the inside cover. I think you and I would have gotten along well. I own a small business too, just like yours. And let me tell you Sir, it doesn't get any easier in the future. You seem like a friendly man. I want to offer you some tea and chocolate, sit on the sand and lament about life with you. We may be decades apart, but how different can we be? We're both human, after all. After writing to him, I burnt his letter too. I couldn't stop thinking about whether he'd went home and heated coffee, or milk. Whether he'd stayed awake all night, or slept fitfully. I wondered what he did for his birthday, since mine was later that week. Then, I wrote my most recent letter. Dear Mrs.Forgotton, I'm your great-great-granddaughter. I don't know much about who you are. Only that you came from India. And you never went home. I think of you as I pull on my deep blue sari. It's my favourite one. As I wait for my mother to finish getting ready for your other great-great-grandaughter's wedding, I pick up a book to read. Then I remember you couldn't do that. I remember you couldn't read or write. That you spoke a different language entirely. My name is still Indian, Grandma. But our family only speaks English now. I wonder what you'd make of it. The world was wicked to you. I can't dream up your happy ending. I don't know where you died, or what your name was. I don't even know where you're buried. I wonder if you had pin straight hair like my father. Or wavy locks like my sister. Did you pin it up in braids like me? Was your favourite fruit mango? What songs did you hum under your breath while you worked? Did you like stories? It's strange to think that the same moon you looked up at, I did too. I don't think we're that different, though the centuries divide us so. I can't explain what it is to be human. That's something I'll leave to the scientists. But in my opinion, to be human is to want to be remembered. From the beginning of time, humans have dug their fingernails into everything since stone scribbles. Dresses in museums were tried on by girls who wanted to look pretty in it. Books were read and marked to say ‘This was mine. When you read it, remember the hands that held it before you.' We have walls with scratches, engraved jewelry boxes, embroidered jackets. All from humans who made their mark on something. Even if it was small, it was something. We idolise these things, put them in glass cases. Because we know that we want that, too. The sand and the grass may not remember us, but we remember eachother. Immortalization in the form of history. And even those, like my grandmother, who didn't leave anything tangible, gave us something anyway.
I wonder when people say that, time is uncontrollable, and they even can not manage the time that they are given, c'mon it's not impossible, i would like to open some secrets of time and try to take you to the world of time! Last year I experienced a lack of time as an student, because i always had a hectic schedule. I worked as a teacher, studied two subjects, did my household chores, and sometimes cooked. When i realised that it's too much for me i decided to take a break. Unfortunately to my utter surprise my break was pointless. It didn't matter how long i took a break: 1 month,2 monthes i always get tired of everything without doing anything. It continuesly lead me to the deepest bottom of depression. No matter what i tried I've always been in the same mood, always tired, and alwas with my so-called friends “eye bags”. I thought that it will end by the time goes, but i didn't even realised how badly i was wrong. Time didn't cure our wounds it didn't find a solution to our problems, you know what it does actually? It just make us to lose our passion for our wounds and problems if we didn't take any action.You can think it's positive, but no it could turn us to the hopeless human. Only dead people have no problems, only them. Remember we are, and you are alive! And you have millions of chances, choices, desires and everything you what. To achieve this you should just clean your mind! So easy right? We should end the war inside us. So this is my story how i managed to control the time. As i said before i was in depression, i don't know how was it, what it was like but i can describe it in one word “hopeless”. Suddenly i relised that nothing is forever! I made up my mind, i indoctrinated that i should move on. My first subject was math. I hated it really. But it helped me to calculate my chance. In one day i had 1440 minutes. I managed it, i controlled it, i manipulated my time. You know, that every single thing depends on our mind. I said that it would take only 1 hour(60 minutes) to do mathematics, and it worked, then allocated 3 hours(180 minutes) for the new theme, it worked! My second subject was English, 2 hours (120 minutes)for homework, and 2 hours(120 minutes) for new theme. I spend 8 hours(480 minutes) to study in a one day. I worked as a second teacher, and it took only 1 hour(60 minutes) of my day. To be precise i woke up at 7 a.m did my 8 hours- longed(480 minutes) study, ended at 3p.m then i had extra 3 hours(180 minutes) for doing other things, from 6p.m till 7 p.m i went to my job, i had 3 hours (180 minutes)to relax, and at 10 p.m i slept. Can you image i did everything! Everything that seemed to be impossible for me, even with this hectic schedule i found extra 6 hours(360 minutes) to do the other non-important things. You can say that you have a busier schedule, but you can control it! Everything has a simple solution. Just made up your mind! Come on you can do it! It's your demons that are telling you to stop! Don't listen them, do the thing that you desire! I used to listen that time is ruthless. No it's not! Time is in your hands, no one can steal it from you, only you are the real owner of it, you can manage it, manipulate it and you can steal it from yourself. So forgive time forgive yourself for no acting, and start doing what you want, just find a single minute for it, to escape a regret! With respect: Dilorom
Writing about trauma isn't complete without the process of healing. The two go hand in hand together.-- That was the first thing my professor told us when we entered class that day. He sat us down with drinks and pizza. Explaining our midterms paper was writing about trauma. He told us to think about what tone we would like to write in, what message we would like to convey and reminded us that writing trauma should be a healing process. Not something that would agitate the wound and drive you into further misery. When I started writing my piece, I didn't know how to start. I started talking about every grievance I had with my teachers in high school that I remembered. The memories started flooding in and before I realized it, I had five instances where I was let down by my previous teachers. But what exactly was I writing about? What message did I want to tell my audience? Why did these memories resurface so easily? So, I kept writing. I kept writing and let the words dance through my fingertips as I found my way out of the forest of trauma. I didn't vent, but recalled the moments and explored my feelings about the matter. I ask myself, why do I write, and what would I like to say? The more I write, the more I can see patterns of what those memories were trying to say. They all had a common theme of being underestimated and given up by my teachers and that I started feeling the need to prove myself to others. That led to my other conditions such as feelings of constant anxiety, and rumination. It made me realize that I was feeling ashamed of myself because I was conditioned to be ashamed by my former educators. Because of that one simple exam, I started to untangle myself from the negative thoughts that constantly pervaded my mind. My soul cried for my younger self as I typed each word, screaming for justice for the undeserved self-hate I placed on myself. But what was more magical is beyond the trauma I have started to untangle within myself, I was able to understand the perspective of my former educators too. And it gave me the heart to forgive them. I grew up hating and treating myself harshly without knowing the reason why. What more when I have to put my own feet in another person's shoes? How can I understand them when I don't even understand myself? I thank my professor for showing me the healing process of writing. He's a wonderful professor I was blessed to have. Through his activities, I realized that there are many things that we do not understand. Simple things that we know by theory but not by heart. It takes a while to explore our ideas and fully integrate lessons, empathy, and compassion into our perspectives. Writing is a way for me to connect to the parts of myself that I didn't know deep inside. To the tiny voices in my head that are dying to speak of the injustice they felt and the kindness and empathy waiting when you finally acknowledge. It is a beautiful inner art within people that often goes unnoticed.
Life is a canvas waiting for a unique brushstroke, a journey filled with twists, turns, and moments that define your resilience. Life is interesting. The person who was jumping in front of you and playing with you yesterday may not be around tomorrow. I didn't think about such things before, because I didn't want to, but life forces us to realize these concepts. On the ceaseless snowy day of December 18. 2023 our bustling preparation for my mother's birthday added an extra layer of anticipation to the atmosphere. We were all happy and having fun celebrating my mother's birthday with my family. Only my brother had not yet come and we were all eagerly waiting for my brother. Suddenly, the distressing news we received on that fateful day plunged us into a collective state of shock, transforming what was meant to be a joyous celebration into an unexpected period of mourning. I got a call from my brother's phone saying that my brother was brought to the hospital in a serious condition and there was a strong possibility of death. For me, that day was a massive blow and no comfort could ease it. Once a week before, this incident happened, my brother and I had a big fight. And even without knowing it, I looked at him and said:" It would be better if you were not in our lives, you were created only to harm us. I wish you would die sooner." Each utterance I directed towards him in a tone of reproach reverberated so loudly within the confines of my mind that I found myself grappling with the challenge of justifying and consoling my troubled conscience. Around 2 a.m. in the morning, my brother was taken to a major surgery. My parents and I begged God at night not to take my brother's life and return him to us. At that time, my mother's struggles weighed heavily on my heart. . All my mother's prayers to God were very touching, even my heart was broken. At that time, I truly came to believe in the profound difficulty of being a mother. Around 5a.m my brother left this world. Darkness enveloped my vision, leaving me uncertain about what steps to take or what the future holds. My mother's cry resounded so painfully throughout the hospital that no one didn't cry. My parents, even I couldn't say a word that day. I couldn't wish such intense pain, such profound loss, even upon my enemy. In the following days, I realized that simple tasks became arduous, and the weight of loss pressed heavily on my shoulders. Amid these dark times, I sought solace in memories of happy times spent with my brother. One day, I stumbled upon a box filled with mementos from our happiest days. Photographs are frozen in time, capturing smiles, silliness, and the essence of our unbreakable bond. Each picture told a story, a testament to the love and joy we shared. In solitude, I began to discover myself through these memories. I found strength in the love we had for each other and gradually the pain started to subside. While the ache of loss never completely faded, I learned to navigate the world without my brother physically by my side. I carried his spirit with me, finding comfort in the knowledge that the happy times we shared would forever be a part of me. After this incident, I made a conscious effort to treat everyone in my life with equal kindness, learning from my mistake with my brother. Recognizing the fragility of life, I began to invest more time in my family and express my love and appreciation more frequently. Discussing this matter and recalling the circumstances from that time is a challenging task for me. However, such is life. It presents us with numerous highs and lows and we should brace ourselves for each. In sharing this story, my sincere intention is for you to value your dear ones and express your love to them regularly, because, in the end, they might not be with you tomorrow.
Screech! The door of the school bus screeched open with hesitation. “Ain't be the time they get rid of this hunk of junk,” the driver muttered under his breath. I wasn't in the mood. With heavy steps, I trudged toward the bright red door of our apartment, which now seemed oh so far, lugging my backpack that now felt like steel. It felt like an eternity before I rested my finger on the doorbell, and I wiggled my feet free from my shoes which are now overly tight and experiencing a huge growth spurt. Ding dong! The footsteps could be heard in the distance, getting louder and louder by the second. “Welcome back, Isabelle! How was school today?” Bad was the only word I could mumble out, and plopped onto my bed lifelessly. “What's wrong sweetie? Want a snack? Noodles perhaps?” I nodded and started sobbing. “Today was horrible. My teacher talked about climate change, a problem happening in our world. It's so sad how animals, plants, and even people are suffering.” I couldn't help it. Tears rolled down my cheeks uncontrollably and stained the white mattress drop by drop. “I want to free all the animals caught from the ocean, I want to stop hunting, I want to stop people from polluting the sky and the sea and on land.” “That's a great goal to work on,” Mom replied, brushing my bangs aside with one hand. She left the room and came back with my favorite dish, carbonara. I remember slurping the noodles, savoring the scrumptious taste, all while sniffling at the thought of climate change --- a bittersweet moment. Mom must have thought I was a weird child. I mean, she would have wondered where I got the genes of being overly sensitive. Not her. Looking back, I was a funky, but passionate, person. Since I was young, I cared a lot about climate change. I cared about the innocent animals and plants that suffer from our problems, and the health of us humans. You'd think, how is a kid going to save a world crisis? And you're right, how would I? It's true, that maybe I won't succeed in solving climate change, but I can make a difference, and so can you. Just because I'm now a twelve-year-old kid in middle school, doesn't mean I don't have a voice to tell the world what I think. Greta Thumberg is someone who I look up to. As of now, she is a strong, 21-year-old woman who is an environmental activist striving against climate change. However, she, too started taking action at the young age of 11 through a growing passion discovered in elementary school. My message is that anybody and everybody can take part in solving global issues, and that's when impossible missions seem possible. I don't know when things will turn around, but I am sure that if we change our actions, work together, and develop healthy habits, we will have a better Earth. The next generations will live in harmony, and our planet will be clean and healthy. In conclusion, we are all capable of making a difference, no matter how small our actions might seem. In the future humans will grow as a whole, serving their duty to act for a better planet. A clean, safe, and stunning planet. No matter how we look, or how we act, we still must strive for a future for generations to come. You and I, we are friends, mates who will accompany us on this thrilling journey.
When I was a child, in Guadeloupe, December 1st marked the beginning of a time of guaranteed pleasures. All I had to do was sit comfortably on the backseat of Mama's car while she was driving through the countryside and my ears would receive a full feast. All over the island—as early as I can remember—people had been organizing Christmas parties (Chanté Nwèl) where they shared seasonal specialties and formed informal choirs to sing the local, traditional carols. Driving with the windows down would allow the wind to share with us the songs it had been carrying on its back, in a succession of fade-ins and fade-outs; building anticipation for the parties we too were to attend during the season. Walking around in any community meant that, as you passed a kitchen window, you would hear the clanking of spoons and ladles on big cast iron pots filled with white yams, stewed pigeon peas or the most flavorful fried pork ragout—with the subtle, rounding touch of a bay rum tree leaf. If you were lucky, you would catch the process of boudin making. If luckier, you would not miss the mixing of spices—women would chop Caribbean chives, parsley, garlic, fresh thyme and chili and fried it all very slowly, until all the aromas were released and danced in the air. I was particularly fond of Christmas decorations, especially the lights. People would hang garlands upon garlands on filaos wherever they could find them. Sometimes, we did wish for snow—It was all over television. Could you really blame us? However, the contrast of winter themed decorations on a lush, green background was always a win. The colorful and vibrant illuminations of December rivaled poetically with the plainly beautiful lights for our Dead, just the month before. It was a time of milder weather, when the aggression of the heat had retreated and allowed the trade winds to hug our skins like fluffy cotton shawls. Sure… all of that was wonderful. But my true source of happiness was to be found on Saturday afternoons when we went deep in the countryside to visit my grandparents. They lived in a small, very traditional, wooden Guadeloupean house surrounded by an entire community of people committed to life in togetherness. “Manman, can we go get them now?” Oh, my mother knew what I was referring to. I had not stopped blabbering about it on the entire trip to Nana and Grandpa. Of course, she said yes. Asking was just a formality anyway; it was merely so she would know where to look if we had to go. I would grab my little sister's hand and we would run down the tuft road to first say hello to our great-aunt, Nana's sister. In her home, the radio was always playing biguine. It was quite dark inside as the house was surrounded by fruit trees, which protected it from the hardest bites of the sun. “Hello, Aunt Lena.” A step or two of the biguine to mimic the old people's ways and make my great-aunt laugh and it was time to go. We would then rush back to Nana's house and say hello to Ma' Nò, on the other side of the road. Year-round, she had fat pomegranates hanging from a slim and short tree and she would always give us one to share. “Thank you, Ma' Nò!” Then we would run along the side of her house, pushing the tall grass, jumping over a tiny little stream to find ourselves on a small country road; and just 50 feet down stood heaven in the form of a jujube tree. The sight of the first leaf indicated the start of the hunt for the perfect fruits. I wanted them as soon as they had turned yellow—not completely—a bit of green was particularly desirable. This was the promise of sweetness, juice and just the right amount of tartness. Imagine sinking your teeth… Careful! Not too fast, not too hard. It is quite easy to hurt oneself. The stone in the middle is hard as a rock. Instead, allow your teeth to pierce the crisp skin and to feel the Granny Smith-like crispiness underneath, together with the first drops of sweet juice. Close your eyes—it only intensifies the experience. Bite off a piece of crunchy flesh and enjoy the transition of the texture, from a crackling sweet and sour battle to a mucilaginous puree with the taste of what happens when an apple tree has fallen in love with the tropical sun and founded a family of fun-size fruits of heaven. An occasional really yellow one was a special treasure—a burst of sweetness, less firmness, more chew; even more perfect when it preceded a barely ripe, mostly green one that would make saliva rush to your mouth with its amazing sharpness. Paradise, I say. Pleasure in abundance! If we were lucky, and not trapped in a hungry trance, we would bring a fistful back to the house so that others could partake in the deliciousness, the precious gift of nature that was sirèt season. -----  traditionally a blood sausage  horsetail she-oak  Mommy  19th century music from Guadeloupe and Martinique  jujube
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