The Sick Child has very defined brush strokes, and this is something that stays prevalent throughout all of the times he redid it. There is a lot of green and yellow, which represent sickness and dying (Heer), throughout the painting, but we see some strokes of red and orange around the painting as well. These represent hemoptysis, the blood coming from the child's lungs, which is typical in late-stage tuberculosis (Heer). Instead of having obvious splatters of blood, Munch just has small lines of red here and there more subtly, showing that consumption kills you quietly and lingers in the air after it's done. Munch described this painting as a “breakthrough” in his art (Vermeer). Even though it was not well received by critics, it helped him decide to lean more towards expressionism than impressionism in his art for the rest of his career (Vermeer). This was beneficial to him, as the technique helped him to later make his most famous painting, The Scream. Munch ended up redoing this work several times throughout the course of his life as an artist. He said, “I reworked the picture countless times in the course of a year—scratched it out—allowed it to infuse the paint medium—struggling again and again to recapture the first impression—its translucency—the pale skin towards the canvas, the trembling lips, the trembling hands” (Heer). He wanted to get the feeling and image of his sister dying just right, showing his and his aunt Karen's emotions as perfectly as possible, even in the first few years. He painted it for the first time in 1886, nine years after the event happened. He made a lithograph of it in 1894, and redid it in paint in 1896, twice in 1907, in 1925, and in 1927. He was obsessed with getting this work just right, saying, “I am convinced that there is hardly a painter among them who drained his subject to the very last bitter drop as I did in The Sick Child. It was not only I myself sitting there – it was all my loved ones” (Heer). He felt as though as long as he was reworking the painting, his loved ones who had died, including his mother, sister, and aunt, were still with him. Redoing this painting over and over helped him to heal emotionally from the trauma of his sister's death. Overall, The Sick Child is an amazing piece, showcasing exactly how the artist felt at the time, and how a lot of families and relatives of ill people felt throughout the tuberculosis epidemic. Munch felt that there was no hope left in the world after his sister died except through art, specifically this piece, so he redid it over and over again, ending up with more than six finished oil paintings (“The Sick Child, 1885 by Edvard Munch”). It helped him to heal and also to figure out what he really wanted his paintings to be like, what techniques and styles to use in his future pieces. He redid this painting a lot over 40 years, and was able to really make it convey exactly what he wanted it to. This piece goes to show that even when tragedy strikes, you can use it to make something of yourself, and if you happen to be an artist, you can make truly heart-wrenching art from it. Works Cited “Edvard Munch | The Sick Child.” The Metropolitan Museum of Art, http://metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/669368. Accessed 30 March 2023. Heer, Sati. “The Sick Child: Edvard, empathy and expertise.” UNEXAMINED MEDICINE, 17 April 2021, https://unexaminedmedicine.org/2021/04/17/the-sick-child-edvard-empathy-and-expertise/. Accessed 30 March 2023. Paulson, Noelle. “Munch, The Scream (article).” Khan Academy, https://www.khanacademy.org/humanities/ap-art-history/later-europe-and-americas/modernity-ap/a/munch-the-scream. Accessed 7 April 2023. “The Sick Child.” Munchmuseet, https://www.munchmuseet.no/en/our-collection/the-sick-child/. Accessed 6 April 2023. “The Sick Child, 1885 by Edvard Munch.” Edvard Munch, https://www.edvardmunch.org/the-sick-child.jsp. Accessed 28 March 2023. Vermeer, Johannes. “The Sick Child (Det Syke Barn): Munch's Most Important Painting.” Artsapien, 1 May 2021, https://artsapien.com/2021/05/the-sick-child/. Accessed 7 April 2023.

Edvard Munch led a life that was by no means considered easy, especially at the beginning. His emotional pain led to him painting The Scream. This is a very widely known painting, even today, in the 21st century. If you showed it to the average person, they'd know it by name. They might even know the painter. What a lot of people don't know, however, is that Munch has many other works, many of which are drenched in just as much emotion as The Scream is. The painting that sticks out, and will be discussed today, is The Sick Child. The Sick Child is an oil painting done in Norway by Edvard Munch. The first rendition of it was done in 1896. It features a young girl with red hair looking out the window, resigned, as an older woman cries at her side. As part of his creative process, Munch tended to redo paintings over and over until he believed they were just right. For example, there are four different versions of The Scream (Paulson). The Sick Child is no exception to this, being redone over six times in oil paint and other mediums. He wanted to make sure that this painting conveyed his emotions perfectly, that he took every bit of emotion possible and put it into this work. Edvard Munch's The Sick Child is an extremely emotional painting full of grief and anguish, and the artist used painting this piece over and over as a way to get past the untimely deaths of several of his relatives. This piece's name was originally in Norwegian, and in this language it's called “Det Syke Barn” (“The Sick Child, 1885 by Edvard Munch”). Munch ended up redoing this painting over and over again throughout the rest of his career (Heer), to process his feelings of grief and love toward his sister and to make sure that everything about it was right. Edvard Munch's life definitely influenced this piece a lot. At the time that his sister Sophie, the child in the painting, died, he was only 14 years old (Heer), yet he had already been through unimaginable trauma. His mother died of tuberculosis when he was only five years old (“The Sick Child”), and his sister was dying of it now. She was just fifteen and should have had many years left. Munch himself had tuberculosis when he was young, but was able to overcome it. The artist ended up being glad he had such a tumultuous childhood, though. He later said, “Without fear and illness, my life would have been a boat without a rudder” (Heer). Without the sickness and trauma, the artist would not have been able to make so many works that have so much emotion in them. They fueled his work for many years, but first he had to get started. It wasn't until 1886 that Munch revisited his sister's death for the first time, venturing to paint it to try to get his feelings out and work through the trauma that he'd been through. He ended up reworking the painting several times for over 40 years (“The Sick Child, 1885 by Edvard Munch”), trying to get it just right, but many of these renditions are very similar to one another, with just small parts changed. The background of the work is dark in all renditions. The lightest parts are always right in the center, where the subject is lying in her bed. This shows that she had a lot of life in her, even though she was dying. She is very clearly the focal point of this image, her bright orange-ish hair contrasting the dark green background. Her hair seems almost to be glowing. She was the light in Edvard Munch's life and it was devastating to him to see his older sister die. He wanted to highlight the fact that she was still alive in this painting. Referring to the painting, Munch said, “What I wanted to bring out―is that which cannot be measured―I wanted to bring out the tired movement in the eyelids―the lips must look as though they are whispering―she must look as though she is breathing―I want life―what is alive” (Heer). She was still alive, and he wanted to highlight this, the sense of hope he felt even as she was clearly very ill. He painted her with a very neutral expression, even though the person next to her is very clearly in a lot of emotional pain. At this point she has resigned herself to her fate. Sophie, the subject of the painting, is looking toward the window, which is dark. This is seen as another sign of her being resigned to her death. The window has no light, showing that her life is coming to an end; there is no more light in her life (Heer). The woman next to her, who is believed to be their Aunt Karen, taking care of the children after their mother's untimely death, is in dark clothes, representing mourning (“The Sick Child”). She is very upset at her niece's death, even more so than Sophie is about dying, it seems. Munch wanted to capture Sophie's feelings in this painting, his sister being brave in her last moments.

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It is an odd feeling being fifty. Wrinkles are settled in now, and my body feels more flimsy by the day. An elaborate continuum of forgotten memories hangs by a thread. As time passes, my thirst for spontaneity dissipates. My brain is resistant like dusty cogwheels waiting for a spark. Looking around, many strangers I used to know now rest six feet under with an identical bouquet of flowers adorning an $11,000 gravestone. Some of their bodies were taken by the wind, drowned in the deep blue sea, or kept in generational attics. Looking back, I lost many jobs in my late 20s, but thankfully I had a second chance to restart my life. Today is my 50th birthday. A day I never knew would come so soon. Occasionally, I wonder how differently my life would have played out or ponder on old friends. Even at this instant, I can taste the bittersweet memories of nostalgia in my lukewarm cappuccino. Reaching into my pocket, I felt a terrible shock enter my body. Like a pinch too sudden and too painful to even breathe. Slowly I pulled out my hand with purple bruises and a pack of sewing needles. A series of flashbacks entered my mind. My mother had sowed, and her mother sewed, and before her, my great-grandmother sewed, and her mother before that. Funny how bits of my past somehow sneak into my present and future. The pain took me back to when I was a little girl sewing patches of all textures and colors onto my corduroy pants. Clothing was scarce then, and most of my blankets were quilted. Sowing became a part of me and followed me through adolescenthood when I joined the Craft Club at my school. During the second meet-up, I noticed a girl named Lila, with hazelnut eyes and brown hair, in the back of the classroom with a croquet kit on her desk. After introducing myself to her, we became instant friends with the everlasting promise of world domination. Our friendship ended abruptly when she told me she was going to study in Europe. I lost contact with her and thought about her occasionally over the years. Even now, her mystery plagues my mind in times of solitude and reflection. Today is my Birthday. My kids and grandchildren are waiting for me to come home and celebrate a year more. This morning has been my secret escape into the past, but now I must return to the present and finish my cold cappuccino. I reach the table next to me and grab a few napkins to place my needles in. It is an odd feeling being 50, but now I feel comfortable in my flimsy skin. My life has played out the exact way it should have, and now I must keep telling my tale so that my daughter and her daughter, and her daughter will tell it too.

In the early days of the pandemic, I lived in a five hundred square foot apartment. About three hundred of that was taken up by furniture, and the rest was run by my five cats. My momma and I were starved for space, but too scared to go outside for fear of catching covid. We lived in the upper unit of an aged duplex; our downstairs neighbor was never home to keep his apartment cool so the heat rose and baked us in our sardine can. We had a couple decade old window units that tried their best to keep us cool, but more often than not we would eat meals in our car so we could have well-functioning A/C. “All I want is a house,” my mom said while the food wrapper in her hands crinkled. This had been a dream of hers my entire life, I always said if I ever won the lottery the first thing I would do is buy her one. Being in that apartment made that dream bigger, more urgent, something that constantly itched underneath both of our skins. We wanted walls of our own to paint and put holes in, we wanted freedom from overbearing landlords. We wanted to not be scared of eviction with little notice, which is what had landed us in that duplex in the first place. I crossed my legs to make myself more comfortable in the front seat. I stared out at the countryside we had seen so many times in passing, nothing but vast fields with the occasional dots of trees. “I applied for a grant,” I turned to look at my mom and make a questioning sound in my throat, “A grant, some banks will give money to poor folks to help with a down payment. I know we could afford a mortgage and utilities, but I could never save up enough for the down payment,” At the time it seemed like a pipe dream, but the worst thing they could say was no. We would never know if we didn't give it a shot, and at the time all we wanted was that miracle. “Holy shit! Kitty! We got it, we got it!” my mom burst into my room to give me a hug, squeezing me tighter than she ever had before. She nearly dropped her phone her hands were shaking so much. She seemed to be on the verge of tears so I held her a little longer and bonked my head against hers. From that moment on our life consisted of scrolling through Zillow and looking through the newspaper for any home that fit our budget. We didn't have much but fortunately the areas we were looking in weren't the fanciest. We toured place after place, always six feet behind our realtor and shrouded with our masks. “Wow! This place is so spacious and look at those hardwood floors.” She commented as our feet clacked on the floors. The walls were painted a cool blue, it felt like the living room alone was the size of our apartment. It had four whole bedrooms, and a dining room! It was more space than we could have ever dreamed of. At the time we didn't want to get our hopes up, the place was ten thousand dollars over our seemingly meager budget. My mom's door slammed as we climbed into her jeep after the tour. “I mean, it was amazing, but there's no way they'll ever accept our offer,” I looked at her and told her we never thought we would get the grant either. It would hurt more if we never put in an offer in the first place than it would to be told no. It would haunt us to let this opportunity sleep by. A place that wasn't ancient, not too far from family, and had enough room for all of us. She held my hand and nodded, texting our realtor to put in the offer. The day we learned that we got the house, it felt like someone out there was watching out for us. It felt like a blur, between putting in the offer, signing for it, and moving in. For a while it felt like I was dreaming. It didn't hit me until we were standing there in our new living room, with our second hand couch and great value tv stand, that the house was ours. I remember holding my mom real tight, crying for the first time in what felt like years. We spent the night laughing and celebrating, finally able to eat a meal not in our car.

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The Brief Story of Eternity Arthur Stace was not a man that you would have spent your hard-earned money betting on to become a celebrity. Born to alcoholic parents in Sydney in 1885, he lived in grinding poverty. That led to stealing bread and milk and searching for scraps of food in bins. As a teenager, he became an alcoholic, was sent to jail at 15 and, in his twenties, he was a scout for his sisters' brothels. Arthur was 45 when he entered a church one day, probably to get out of the rain and hoping for a handout. The sermon concerned eternity. And, for reasons he could never explain, he immediately gave up alcohol and became obsessed with that word - eternity. Despite the fact that he was illiterate and could hardly write his own name legibly, for the next 35 years he inscribed the word ‘Eternity' on footpaths and doorsteps in and around Sydney. He always wrote in immaculate copperplate and used yellow chalk and it's estimated he did this half a million times. Along the way, he achieved world-wide fame as ‘Mr. Eternity', before his death in 1967 at the age of 83. Only one original still exists, inside the bell of the Sydney General Post Office clock tower, which was brought out of storage in the 1960's. It had been sealed up for 20 years and no-one knows how Arthur had been able to get to it. He inspired many artists (including Banksy) and writers, spawned an opera and even a film by Julien Temple, the video chronicler of the Sex Pistols and The Kinks. In 2000, the Sydney Harbour Bridge was lit up with the word "Eternity" as part of the celebrations for the beginning of the year 2000, as well as being part of the Sydney 2000 Olympic Games Opening Ceremony, in celebration of a man who became eternal though the use of one word.

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I used to have a friend who was from another country. I had never seen him in person but, I think, we used to be good friends. I learnt many from him and he always gave me good advice. Because of my marriage I had to delete my facebook account and we are not friends anymore. Now my only friend and adviser is my husband. Alloh never leaves us alone! Allah knows better what is good or bad for us! Don't care and take everything easy! Live your best life!

I don't believe in love. With my generation genuine love is hard to come by. No one wants anything serious anymore. For some “I love you” is a meaningless statement, you can't truly love someone if you can get over them in a week. I was under the assumption I would never find real true love. My heart was already torn. I didn't want some silly boy making it ache. My parents got divorced when my older brother and I were young. Since then I never wanted anyone too close. Close enough for me to let my guard down. Figuring being insincere by not letting anyone in, I can't end up hurt. My “childhood” and so far teen years have been very hectic. So I never had a want for a relationship. I've been told to never settle young. I am young. Observing friends and couples around me. I never thought there was any point. Maybe further down the road, but not yet. Then this boy, this boy wasn't any boy. He was like finding a blue lobster, instead of 1 in 2 million, he was a 1 in 7.7 billion. Something you'd never find. There he was at my fingertips. When our eyes met, everything stopped, like the world stopped spinning. Mine did. The vast rush of butterflies I got when his striking deep pools, of glacial blue eyes met with mine is unexplainable. He has a dreamy smile, and an enchanting personality. Wearing his heart on his sleeve, with respect on another level something that most guys our age don't have anymore. I've never met a more gentle and genuine soul like his. The way his finger tips meet with mine, they're right in line. My heart in my throat everytime he spoke. A simple thought of him made my pupils dilate. What we have is fate. I believe in love.

We beg for our cries to be heard We cry for the unsettling storm inside us We adjure for the storm to leave, unharmed For our beat to not be disrupted The human conflict we call pain To be prevented in all scenarios But then again, it narrates a story People in pain are people who write With the pain subsiding, We lose a bulk of stories Is that a world we sought for? This might be the fifth poem I wrote today. The five poems have no relevance to each other. The first is about the moon, the second is about sunset, the third is a satire based on one of Shakespeare's sonnets, the fourth on vision, and the fifth is about pain. What I find ridiculing is the number of poems I wrote since the pandemic as I gave up on writing. And the cherry on top? I was repulsed by the idea of taking on literature. You ask why? Simple, it just felt too monotonous and gloomy. I found it hard to sympathize with it. Once I read The Picture Of Dorian Gray, I straight up went like, "no way this is real." With the extensive poetry and implied erotica, I barely understood half of it. But the writing style had me captivated. I still opined with the fact that writers need a big hug and be a bit optimistic. Now coming from a fellow pessimist, I get why they aren't on the bright side of life. Being locked in a dark room feels suffocating and frightening. Even if the atmosphere is vast, it still feels like the oxygen supply is cut off and soon you would be left with nothing. That is how the pandemic felt. It was around my transition age and everything felt so frustrating, so dull. At a certain point, I wanted to give up and it felt as if nothing is worth living for. Life became like a spiral abyss with no escape gate. Just like the chapters of a book, the plot keeps getting better and better right? But once the protagonist starts pitying himself, life becomes an endless nightmare where everything comes to a pause. Reflecting on past mistakes and never moving from them made me adopt a façade that is not me. My present life is a like a house of cards- a house that might break with the slightest gush of wind blowing over it. It feels like I'm there even though I'm not. Even the slightest of things hurt me and I'm left numb. Sometimes I pretend to not care and just go with the flow. I once told one of my friends, ‘you know it wouldn't hurt me if any of you leave me.' Was I lying? No. As someone who everyone left, I expect the worse and nothing more. It is better to assume the worse than to have your expectations shattered. Ever since I was young, I struggled with feelings. I never had a potential lover neither did I feel anything. Yet I pretended to blend with them. Little did I know it would affect me so much. Almost everyone gave up on me including my parents, after all, I'm the embodiment of disappointment. An additional point, I keep making a fool out of myself all the time. I feel empty most of the time, a feeling I cannot explain. Yet I keep fighting but for what? Why am I trying so hard when everyone has turned their backs on me? Why am I trying when I have no reason to do so? I cannot quite remember the last time I was happy. That is where writing comes into play. It is not much of a hassle, just take a pen and paper and let your hands move. The art of writing is not understood by many but once you let the pen flow, a stream of words appears and your mind becomes active as ever. It's like an adrenaline rush for me- writing until your fingers are numb, the pain in your fingertips feels like you have accomplished something. Tragedy prevails in everyone's life. No matter how much we hide from the demons, staying in the light of the day, we are bound to face them once the night dawns upon us. When we practically vent out to someone, they listen and nod. But when one writes, the secrets are stored. One may look at it after a while and realize the progress they have made over time being and that it something to be proud of. Reading No Longer Human, I realized that Yozo, the protagonist tells us about his life filled with shame. He tried his best to be a human and did everything to act what we call ‘normal'. But his life was short-lived as he met the same fate as the author of the book- Osamu Dazai. Writing is not only for scribbling or writing stories but also portraying yourself in a subtle manner, something that Oscar did to Dorian, drawing his sinful life that led to his demise like Dorian. For a story to be successful, tragedy should be written in its utmost element. A lot of us have many stories to share. Especially after the pandemic that morphed everyone's life into someone they aren't. Someone they never wanted to be. Writing is not any form of rocket science. It is art, words combined to form emotions, something everyone can try. Exploring one's different side won't kill, will it?

Sophie was a young woman who lived in a small town surrounded by rolling hills and sprawling fields. She was passionate about traveling and exploring new cultures, but her plans were put on hold due to the outbreak of COVID-19. The lockdowns and travel restrictions left Sophie feeling frustrated and restless, as she watched her once-bustling hometown turn into a ghost town. One day, Sophie was walking down the street when she saw an elderly woman struggling with her groceries. Sophie offered to help, and the woman gratefully accepted. As they walked back to the woman's house, they struck up a conversation and Sophie learned that the woman was living alone, with no family or friends to help her. Mrs. Jackson was a widowed senior who had lived in the town for many years. She had outlived her children and her friends, and the COVID-19 pandemic had made it even more difficult for her to connect with others. Sophie was deeply moved by Mrs. Jackson's story, and she related to her own feelings of isolation and loneliness. Sophie had always felt like an outsider in her hometown, as she dreamed of traveling and exploring the world. She saw in Mrs. Jackson a reflection of her own struggles, and she was determined to make a difference in her life. Sophie began to visit Mrs. Jackson every week, bringing her groceries and spending time with her. They talked about their lives, their hopes and fears, and they formed a deep and meaningful bond. Mrs. Jackson became a source of inspiration and comfort for Sophie. She showed Sophie that even in the face of adversity and isolation, it is possible to find joy and fulfillment in the small moments of life. Mrs. Jackson was grateful for Sophie's company, and she encouraged her to continue to explore her creativity and find new ways to bring happiness into the world. As Sophie continued to visit Mrs. Jackson, she learned more about her background and her life experiences. Mrs. Jackson had been married to a soldier who died in combat, and she had raised her children on her own. Despite her hardships, she had always remained hopeful and resilient, and she had found joy in simple pleasures like gardening, reading, and spending time with friends. Sophie was inspired by Mrs. Jackson's strength and resilience, and she realized that she too had the power to overcome her own struggles. Mrs. Jackson's story showed her that life is a journey, filled with twists and turns, and that it is up to each of us to make the most of the journey, no matter what challenges we may face. In the end, Sophie realized that her relationship with Mrs. Jackson was one of the most meaningful experiences of her life. She was grateful for the chance to make a difference in the life of another person, and she was inspired by Mrs. Jackson's resilience and hope in the face of adversity. And although she still dreams of traveling the world, Sophie knows that there is beauty and wonder to be found in her own hometown, and she is grateful for the chance to live a life filled with love, laughter, and hope.