I'm going to tell you a story, and it does not start with "Once upon a time...", but she might wish it did. For then, she too would be blissfully fictional and not painfully human. It is about the girl like any other. She liked the smell ground after the rain and hated the ultimate heat of the summer. Loved to get lost in the known parts of the woods and enjoyed how a creek can wash off all kinds of emotions. She loved dogs. Had two. She often admired her yellow cat for the simplicity of the days... Candles were for tough days and something sweet for every. Wind could make her feel alive and soothe the anger of raw emotion and strange people. She adored smelling that celestial aroma on her wrists, but often forget to put the perfume on. Loved ladybugs and nightingales, but never actually heard the exact lullaby. Fireflies were the magic and leaves could tell a story, though often a gloomy one. Spring could make her feel the pain of melancholy and autumn would make her feel alive again. Blood would make her wonder and people made her sick. Some days all the bottles of laughter she cherished so fondly were cracked and leaked in places, in time, melted with pain and grief. And when all that heroic pain became a burden, she'd start to grieve for the person she was before... the softness of a pillow, hot showers, and chocolate... the best thing for the worn-out soul. so that's when she'd realize that grief was just wild and forgotten love. Eyes are the mirrors and grin is a battle scar. Nothing can turn back time. Except for memories. And sometimes she hated that wretched window she could easily open. But through the image, the glass was already gone. So she would think of salt as an ocean and not a drop. Wild, ultimate, and free. The smell of the ocean always brought smiles and with the scent of pines, the moment of freedom. Cold is clarity for her and heat is too much. She likes the color blue and the sky with puffy clouds. In fields of green, she's frequently looking for clover with three petals, because that brings peace to the storms in the force of life around her. December sun can make her soul warm and she would smile like a new miracle was found. Every night they met, she often asked the Moon if she can make her full too because she was torn between the wonder of thoughts and wounds of reality; that didn't make her bitter, just more human than she knew. So, you see, all people enjoy Earth and what they think magic is in their different, but just another way of understanding the real world around them. Romanticized by the poets and worshipped by the nature. And sometimes air around you shifts and the path for the day goes well off the tracks... and the whole world is against you. Those days you frequently ask yourself about the mere purpose, but there's no known response that can bring you enough wisdom or happiness. It all belongs to you. All that pain and joy. Mind is a strange struggle itself, and I believe completely in that quote I bear in my mind; it sometimes creeps in, like a phantom and I find it sipping herbal tea, oblivious to my fear... "Not all those who wander are lost." So when our girl, that this story is about, goes looking for that particular wardrobe, blue box or huge hole near the tree... or even second star in the night sky... don't you dare to stop her! You can join her of course, and bring a book! She might not be fond of people in general, but I can tell that she likes humans with a rainbow in their eyes.
There are a lot of contests for youths that are constituted by our President.Among them,the competition called "Young Reader" has become a sample of my vibrant memories.In fact,in 2022 for the first time I got to participate in the republican stage of this contest. I was left in 4th in the regional stage because of the lack of my experience.After this catastrophic lose of hope for winning,my craving for the reward has died.You may ask,who was the impetus for my constancy of attempts,then I would answer "that's my mom and my dad,they were the motivation themselves" I used to be just televiewer of this contest only, while the winners were gathered in front of the main stage I used to hear my mums words "when I will be able to see my daughter in the group of these intelligent young people?Will I see my daughter holding the main reward,waving the key of an automobile?"As I am a pupil of the russian school,where all the subjects are taught in Russian,I was strictly against to my participation in this contest as if the sky was going to fall down to the ground. But my mother's request taught me not to lose myself, our national values, literature,not to forget my mother tongue. The terms of the competition were much more difficult, I hesitated too much when i was speaking in public for preparation of the contest. It was too challenging me. How many sleepless nights,cartoonless and phoneless days have I experienced...When I prioritized my perfect participation I dreamed a lot about: discussing difficult topics with the most quick-witted readers from the different parts of my country, creating a group on a Telegram Messenger, and building a brief conversation with them.The most interesting part was the poetry challenge. I was in 4th in terms of the participants. Until this round I skimmed the whole book that was being presented to first participants.I felt that I should read this book as much as I can in order to answer to the questions of judges,but anyway the feeling of low memory-esteem left no way for me.I clearly remember that the participant called Shahriyor asked me to lend the book. I felt the powerful fire inside. Soon realized that that's called jealousy.Somehow more powerful river ran and engulfed the flame, and gave back my sense of humanity to myself. Then I gave the book to Shahriyor. I began to turn the book "Little star" of Abdulla Oripov over and over until i was called to the main stage ...Just a minute before leaving the waiting room suddenly I came across the short poem.It was about a pen. I read it just once. On the stage I was required to choose any random number on the screen with random poems behind. This is unbelievable but... overriskingly,I chose the number 13 against the beliefs that it's an unlucky number.The 4 lines of the poem behind the number were the ones that I read 5 minutes ago!!!I was amazed!!!For the whole preparation year for this contest I read this poem only once,and plus once,there,in waiting room.I was confident in describing this poem to judges,as ideas were fresh in my mind.Fortunately,I got the highest score in this part of the challenges.While leaving the stage I was completely convinced that Allah is seeing all my efforts and will not leave them without reward.But at first,I speculate,I was examined in terms of humanity.When I agreed to lend that book,i passed the exam. I could control my jealousy and put the tolerance and humanity as my priorities.From that moment,I started to take actions accepting them as if they are exams that Allah is giving.What if I had not lent the book?!I would not achieve the highest score and stage overall.Thank God,I am receiving the fruits of my hard efforts.Shortly,that competition taught me a life lesson.
Our lives are profoundly impacted by the Latin word "COMMUNICATION" (meaning "to share"). We are separate from all other species of ecosystems because of this process of "Sender-Medium-Receiver;" through graphical or verbal communication. Does that really sum it up? Or are we just a speaking and hearing entity? That's absurd! EMOTIONS & THEIR ROLE Despite being invisible, emotions play a critical role in communication. Many people don't realize that communication is more than just their ability to exchange thoughts. Globally, people are more attached to a range of feelings that are a result of reactions instead of formal, non-responsive dialogue. Even the chat screen on your smartphone includes emoticons that can help you deepen your descriptions at that particular point, or, better yet, to involve your companion in your world of thoughts altogether. Communication ought to be strong when people are on the same page. This is attainable only with equal involvement. Just visualize a person saying “I won!" with an uptight expression. That's not very logical. For listeners to experience the winning feeling, the words "I WON" should be delivered with genuine enthusiasm. The listener must feel that our expressions are revealed vaguely. This pragmatic communication can occur only if we rivet our feelings. The indifference of not-just-being a speaking entity starts with us. EMPHASIS ON FEELINGS Sharing our true feelings is important for a healthy relation. Communication always comes with an aim. The speaker is well aware of the topic but sometimes, when the speaker isn't well pioneered to express their thoughts, a void stays between the speaker and the listener. This void might be unhealthy for any relation, may it be professional or personal. Efforts should not be made for conveying; they should be made for explaining. More communication leads to a better understanding of the tactics of communication. Gradually, we become familiar with various reactions of the listeners, we become amicable with the possibilities of the mindsets of the listeners. The only secret to avoid any confusion is to describe the complete idea in our mind with rationality. Verbalizing just to empty our hearts can't be fruitful without maintaining the decency to take the loved one throughout our mind journey. Our intentions, whether to make one listen or whether to make one understand, hold into account. OUTCOME & LISTENING There's a long string of thoughts when we convey our story; the replies, the reactions and the latter's emotions are taken into account too! This creates a path that doesn't involve only one topic, instead, we walk together discussing many other points of view different from the aim of communication. Aggressive reactions are expected but interestingly, people can have opinions we haven't even considered! A brimming glass of thoughts squeezed into juice can taste sweeter if everyone's on the same page and equally reactive, regardless of a heated communication. We the best communication comes an involved Listening. Each eye has its sight different from everyone, so is our thought process. People wander away in the forest of words amidst talking. To stay in line, listening is crucial since our time and energy deserves to be channelized into productive communication. This is not just limited to communication. This leads to greater discovery, the listener himself! His reaction defines his feelings and indirectly defines his vision and his mindset. Words, however bold they are, they are never a struggle. If everyone takes the whole discussion empathically, the day ends fine. Expressing with details, without fearing the reactions in return, would never create a negative environment. The more you are free, the more you grow! Let your voice reach their heart, not just ears. May you be heard without saying. Please feel free to write your point of view in comments below.
There is something of an imposition from interpretation- indeed it seems to stem from this dangerous prefix “inter” which quietly mocks us with the very thing so universally shared. But this will need to be left for another time, as we are not very surprised that duality is often found in pairing with duplicity. Rather, a return to point: that there is a projection occurring here. An ability to see things which we ourselves have planted in the garden. This analogy is not so clear, but perhaps this is not so bad (no, not so bad). Even improper tools (if they are truly that) have their uses, and this is the precise sort of thing we are discussing (a convenient coincidence). Where clarity lacks we make stitches, but stitching sheets of glass should prove an endeavor quite strained- and indeed one with remnant obscurities. You see, construction is inherently duplicitous. An admission which, later, will turn to a foe against me. Yet as it stands my point is solitary, we impose ourselves onto that which we interpret. It comes through us and then is excreted with reductions and comparisons, lines drawn here and there between forgotten scraps of corn as if constructing astrological charts. Even if you are capable of drawing Orion's belt among your feces, I doubt you should then make the claim the turd was purposefully composed this way. Take for example the work of Poe. We imagine that there may well be seeds beneath the soil. That there are clues to a commentary, a decided moral lesson, a purpose driven usage of terms in concentration. But perhaps, and it will be uncomfortable to imagine, these things do not echo anything at all. Because what do we know? That Poe was an author, wrote in serial, and that this was the primary business of his life. If such, it might equally be presumed he had made the effort to appeal to pop culture of the time, that he may have fed himself on the flavours in which he was stewed. We imagine this of writers in our era. We imagine they feed upon a simple and pointless fat, worthy of no investigation beyond an unscrupulous scoff. Why not extend this same discourtesy to our past, to disregard Poe as a hack, capable only of servicing his fans to meals with which they were mostly accustomed. The precise nature of the beast I cannot isolate, but I may presume a little. Note, this is a presumption- likely to be afoul of the same feculent wastes which mark my life. I presume, it is a matter of subtlety -a thing I imagine I am capable of, I only imagine, because clearly the length of this shows it is not true. It is my observation (to whatever quality that is), that heavier hands have never been more present than they are today. Those who once plodded around with iron soles have neatly switched them out for lead and they have taken to masturbating so furiously to themselves their grip has tremendously strengthened. To this description, I should say that subtlety is not dead, simply quieter than it has ever been- what with the stomping and the squelching. And indeed it would make sense in the era of Poe to favour a subtle hand, as one could not really afford to be so tremendously loud as they might today. Even beyond this, there is a note about subtlety, in that it keeps a single thing alive for a terribly long time. A salt of sorts, a brine. A word with two meanings ought to be read twice. A tedious notion when mixed amongst a great availability of distraction- ah and there is the meat of the discussion! For, you see, Poe was a writer at a time of greater boredoms. Well, not so much, but a time where the weight of necessities was certainly greater, their accomplishment more consuming, their requirement more pressing. Such that being retracted from them was like a plague of sorts, discomforting in its emptiness. Modern medicines are far more available, but overuse of numbing requires us to either use stronger prescriptions or -as is far more common and simpler- consume immense quantities. I presume Poe was quite the distributor, that his laudanum was of high quality, and quite assuaged the pains of his time. For this reason we attribute lasting respect. In contrast, we suffer now from a great difficulty: to find good dealers amongst an immense number of prospects. Even if we assume this the case, all a matter of selecting good chemists, I know something more. A terribly, horrendously ugly type of thing. That construction is duplicitous. Buildings do not assemble themselves of chance, astral alignment, or fair winds. Nor, for that matter, is laudanum produced purely for its numbing. Construction is a deliberate sort of creature, it acts towards deliberate outcomes. The panes of glass exist between their stitches, the seeds nestled beneath soil brush their shoulders with ones we plant ourselves. There is something impositional in interpretation, I suppose that is the very trick of the matter. To weed amongst that which we inter, and that which is already interred.
Call me Eliana, a medium height, and smart woman. My flawless dark skin has always been a center of attraction wherever I go. Moreover, my smile is radiant, often painting a ray of sunshine all over my face. My character is, however, unpredictable, mostly dependent on the weather or my schedule. Many from my school would say I am a no-nonsense lady. I do not disagree, I mean work is work, and I don't take anything that concerns my future lightly. My close friends would probably describe me as funny and easy-going. My family would go with hardworking and determined, and lastly, my neighbors might be tempted to use the word lazy and unbothered. Again, the impression you get from me will depend on the Eliana you meet. My confidence makes me outstanding. Everyone at school knows the girl who ‘catwalks' to class, speaks up and is ‘perhaps feared by most men,' Some like her and have nicknamed her ‘the Queen'' others have opposing names for her. Nonetheless, she carries all those titles with pride. Many people look up to her, and now she has the sense of ‘entitlement' of getting whatever she wants. She can be polite, but mostly, her straightforwardness makes her appear commanding. Behind all this ‘strength', however, is a normal human being, who cries when hurt or disappointed, and gets depressed over small issues. Being a Kenyan in Rwanda, COVID-19 has introduced myself to me. Okay, I am an ambivert, and I have a long contact list with only three friends. Four months indoors for me was marked with self-discovery and discipline. Because of the language barrier and trust issues, I am rarely friends with random locals though we talk. Somehow after lockdown eases, I realize I might need a ‘close friend' to talk to, perhaps about my unpaid internships, or the uncomfort that comes with wearing masks or maybe social media and how draining it can get. Sunday 5th July 2020, my birthday month! Well, I have just summarized my thorough cleaning, and now it's time to buy some supper. I stay on my phone when I find a group of people having conversations in a language I do not understand. A girl, probably my age enters the shop, goes straight to the shopkeeper, and speaks English. From her accent, I can already tell she is from my country. You might relate if you were ever in a foreign country and met someone from your country. Me: Are you Kenyan? Her: Silence followed by a smirk Me: (Thinking to myself, maybe she hasn't heard me) Are you Kenyan? Her: A smirk followed by silence She is not deaf, I am sure, and I have never been ignored my entire life, at least not in an obvious way. Someone told me to trust my instincts, and sure they have never failed me. Moments after she walks away, I turn to the shopkeeper, and he confirms my claims,' she is a serious Kenyan.' he says. I am kind of disappointed that she did not answer me, yet we share the same Nationality. For a moment, I forget the ordeal and focus on my purchase. Coincidentally, I see her in the next shop and somehow wait for her to come out so that I can introduce myself, something that I am not used to doing. Me: I asked if you were Kenyan and you ignored me Her: Silence (walking towards the opposite direction) Me: Hello, are you Kenyan? Her: Silence ( continues walking) Me: Well, I was just asking because I am Kenyan too Her: (Walking towards me while smiling) Oh, sorry you could have said that as your first statement, can I have your number? At this moment, I try to re-examine my communication skills. I have learned how to communicate, but then how can I do it effectively when not given a chance? Anyway, we talk a little about school, work and being in a foreign country. My last statement to her is,'be nice' while walking laughing. I understand where she is coming from, only four months old in the country, perhaps still struggling with trust issues. While preparing my supper, I think about the pain I felt while being ignored, then I think of the numerous people I have ignored in my life, perhaps having nothing but pure intentions. Not a good feeling, trust me. Now I decide it is time to descend my throne and get to learn and understand people more. What about her? I wonder how many good people she has turned off with her ignorant nature, which is perhaps understandable, at least for now. But we can be better human beings, can't we? There's a message notification on my phone, and she has invited me over to her house. Moreover, there is an apology for the ‘wrong first impression.'' Wow, I have mixed feelings, and I am still figuring out whether ‘it is worth it.''My ego has been crashed because, usually,' I do not beg anyone' I am independent and always survives. I was okay without any close friends during the quarantine anyway, and now I have to sleep and think things over. The energy I put, the effort and time to get to know someone who had ignored me at first, is it really worth it?
An early reader poem. Where is the rat He is in the flat. Where is the flat? It is on the map. Where is the map? It is in your hat. Where is my hat? It is on the cat. Where is the cat? He is on the mat. Where is the mat? It is by the fat bat. Why is the bat fat? He ate the rat.
A town where the snow is black, bringing coldness and fear. Old remnants of tears held back, and times too hard to bear. Woven from black sheets of rain, fear covers in disarray. Anguished and frozen with pain, dark petals fall in dismay. Hell has come to Oasis, The Dead and gone at its side. Now hidden behind faces that are well-known far and wide. Who will fall prey to The Dead? I hope it is not me. I'm hiding under my bed. I'm afraid as I can be. Prey for The Dead
Once when I was working on my public group on a social network, I found a quotation of Nadeya Yasminska, a Belorussian writer, ‘Each of us faced a miracle... on the other side of a book.' We all know about the influence of books on a person, the importance of reading and the value of literature. However, I searched through the Internet to find some real stories about how books had changed people lives. I faced a lot of information. I read the stories about how books had helped to change a profession and to change a person himself; thanks to a book, someone had become a vet, someone had found bravery to start a business and someone had defeated the disease; I faced too many stories about how a book had helped to build relations and even one story about how it had destroyed them… I asked myself, whether I had a special book that had made an influence on my life and me. As long as I can remember, I was fond of literature starting with the fairy tales that firstly I was read by my mother and completing with the novel that I finished last week. Nevertheless, to a certain moment it was difficult to me to choice one book that would be really special. The situation was changed in 2016, a year when there was born a book, about which I want to tell. This story started at the beginning of 2016 when a famous Ukrainian poet, the chief editor of ‘The Dnipro', and the founder of the web-site ‘Poetry Club' Evgen Uhnytsya proposed to take part in creating a book of poems devoted to women. The book was planned to be published prior to the 8th of March when in Ukraine the International Women's Day was celebrated. They announced a competition. I found the announcement by accident and decided to participate. By that time, I had written poems, but I hadn't had any one about a woman. Therefore, I started my work purposely for the competition. Once Anna Akhmatova, a famous Russian poet, was asked a question of whether it is difficult to write poetry. She smiled and answered, ‘What's difficult when it is dictated!' When I wrote my poem, it was the same mystery. I finished the work in less than half an hour, sent my poetry to organizers of the competition, and began to wait for a response. It was the beginning of February when I received a letter. My poem was selected for publishing. Of course, this news made me happy, but, at the same time, I was afraid. What if it is some mistake? What if the organizers will change their mind? What if there will arise some problems with publishing? Oh, there were so much different ‘what ifs' that I could not believe in my happiness. However, there were not any mistakes or problems, and the book with no less poetic title than its poetry ‘The Poetry Inspired by a Woman' was released as planned with my poem ‘A Woman in Love is Beautiful' printed on its pages. Maybe it is a proof that we live in the 21st century that, while my book was delivered to me, I had already known what to post on my page on a social network after receiving it. ‘A little of bravery and very much inspiration, excitement while waiting for a letter from a publishing house and sudden joy when at last I received a wishful message on my e-mail, then – some time while a book was being published, still quite a bit of waiting for the delivery by “Ukrposhta”… And here it is. Happiness. The book that contains my poem… Once again, I was made sure that the main is to believe in a dream and to have bravery for venturing to realize it,' with these words, I shared the happiness with my friends. I thanked to everybody who believed in me. ‘The happiness is worth to be dreamt about it,' there was a conclusion. It is my story. An ordinary book became a wonder for me. Thanks to this happenstance, I really found the faith in my work. Writing was not my profession, but, after this first publication, I remembered about my pending novel and finished it. I do that I love and I love that I do. Probably every reader has his favorite books that are in some way special for him. At the same time, every book means something for its author. No matter how large the publication is – it is a poem in a collection or a whole novel – it is not just some pages with a cover, but it is something of much more importance. Inspiration, ideas, work, excitement, joy – all of these stands behind every page with text printed on it. After all, there is a prize – an amazing feeling when printing ink сovers pages and a new book is born. Is it not a miracle for both readers and authors? I think it is. An idea of an author through a publishing house comes to a reader. A book is a microcosmos that is wonderful. A book is a special guest that brings inspiration to someone's life. A book is a dream – a dream that from some moment can be read.
At my early twenties, I realized that time when you become very conscious and before having a baby is the time when you have to live for yourself. At this time, it is required to strive to understand yourself as much as possible. However, the question arose how? In fact, it is necessary to find an orientation not only for in a career, but also to find some kind of occupation you love whereby you can figure out what you want to do. As for me, I like everything to record: importance events of my life with those emotions at that time, ideas and future goals, lists of wishes, to do things and so on. At the same time, a record is the way to speak on a piece of paper for different themes, particularly doubt, living through the certain situation. This is the method to feel better! In that context, I would like to add before you want to say or to do something, it needs to think three times through the truth (the thing you want to say is it real and truly?), the kindness (the thing is good or bad?) and the benefit (is it so really necessary to say?). If you answer to those questions, you will know to say (do) or not. For the time being, I am trying to find my place under the sun by utilizing the record and by asking the questions above. I hope my dear reader after reading this you can understand the importance of life which you have.