In the age of digital world, tools like Gramamrly has made us overlook our spelling mistakes and sentence structures.

And too much of digital writing, crippled me partially from writing an essay from memory using a pen and paper.

Being a non native speaker, I want to get back to writing essays to attempt certain entrance examinations.

So please give me your best:
Learning strategies,
Practice approach,
And other tips tricks

To write essays from memory using pen and paper.

Best Regards,

I am not an English major but I LOVE English, reading and writing. I take few English courses because it's not my major but I love when I am assigned books and then have to write an essay on it. I want to write an essay on crime and punishment like I have done for past assigned books. Give me a good prompt for an essay on crime and punishment. One that involves analysis and critical thinking.

This is the first essay I’ve ever written, excluding school and that was a long time ago.

I’d love any constructive feedback. 🙏🏼

A Theory of Overlap: Empathy, Polyamory, Introversion, and Compersion

sitting in my amazement at new found love and identity, i found myself wanting to share my progress with you-intellectually, philosophically, artistically. let me introduce to you, Kaitlin: the pessimistic idealist. the artistic philosopher. the chaotic mediator. the walking, breathing, beautiful paradox.

funny, how even this longing to show you my breakthroughs-the works im immensely proud of- and how it echoes the very core of who i am. i hope you find my life’s work just as compelling as i did.

i should preface: if it comes off confusing, i have discovered i have this hegelian internal dialect and that leads to a systematic, pragmatic approach. but if you know me, i also feel things very deeply.

The Framework

SO, i have found, analyzed, and picked apart two surface-level “profound” works from my life. and i synthesized them into my own philosophy. on top of this, it’s led me to who i am.

with my natural curiosity of the “whys” and “how’s” of being human, and by the subconscious survival instinct to keep going despite bleak reality contradicting with my original, idealized beliefs, here’s the theory:

the fear of oblivion drives both creation and destruction.
the flow of life- or change, though thats too on the nose- spawns endless paradoxical threads from our contradictory needs and our desperate measures to satisfy them.

all of this? inevitable.

but so is hope.

it’s essential to see and understand our choices- and the awareness of them, too.
it’s also key to see the balancing act we face: preserving life’s fragility alongside our own grandeur and essence.

each piece is just as equally important to the whole.

i should warn that it’s a philosophy that demands rigor and resilience, but promises depth in return.

The Pieces

piece #1: from back of my 3rd grade yearbook, written by 8 year old me.

“every step you take, no matter how small, will take you somewhere until one day, you’ll look back at how far you’ve come… and be AMAZED”

i love how even at 8, i thought of future me. how i’d be reflecting on my life and my choices. how i still chose to tell myself, “you won’t even believe how far you’ll go if you just keep moving.” not bad for an 8 year old.

maybe i wasn’t as gloomy as we thought, huh?

piece #2: “easily replaced”. a strategically written poem for an english assignment. as you can assume, it’s about as angsty and vulnerable as you’d picture 16 year old me to be. i won’t share because of how raw it is, but you get my point.

digesting and picking them apart, i was on the brink of my epiphany. i dug and dug at all the parts, until finally it hit me and piece #3 was born. my 9.5 year hiatus and creative block? cleared! (this is also thanks to a VERY special someone to me, you know who you are if you read this far. thank you, you beautiful soul.)

The Punch.

piece #3:
“why fear being forgotten?
because it means you failed the whole point of life:

to be seen. to be heard. to feel pain.
to seek truth, and understand.
to love, and lose.
to cherish, to hold value.

to seek knowledge- and at its core:, to teach.

teach others about life’s paradox. the ugliness: how cruel the world can be (think hitler, 9/11, wars). yet the beauty: love, connection, growth.

it’s about reality meeting your heart.
the very nature of human existence is creation and expression.

i guess, in some sense, you can say our souls yearn to not be alone. to be understood and heard, even if just by our own selves.
recognizing your own legacy and your choices impact.
at least your essence lingers.

you mattered enough.

you existed in a vast, expandable, beyond human comprehension of a universe.

its a subconscious force driving us.

take art: on the surface level of complexity, it’s a form of expression. whether that be a moment that transcends time, an idea you have, an emotion you feel:
something tangible to remind someone, something.

whatever driving force led you to attempt to capture something “forever”, resonated that deeply.
we desperately try to capture it because it was real. it existed.
it mattered-
to you.

at the same time, theres a quiet yet powerful voice- connection.

we crave to be interesting enough for someone to get curious, to see us, know us… then CHOOSE to spend their invaluable time- even life- with us in it to a degree.

to inspire. to be appealing and loved enough for inclusion, even in the quaintest of ways. to honor by choosing to carry the weight of remembrance.

to even create a symbol of martyrdom for our own sense of peace.

9/11, as an extreme of my point: it’s about sacrifices, sure. but it’s MUCH deeper than that.

those who died in this attack are important because it’s the nature of being human- we existed.

we were reminded of the destruction from an obstruction of power, and sought to remind humanity of the ugly teeth that have been shown.

in this lesson of history, we captured the very perplexity of life: remembrance, honor, and the call to grow. for connection to inspire change.

it can be layered and intriguing if you start to look at it this way; take a look at the human drive to persevere and preserve knowledge.

dig a little deeper, though; this happened due to a silent, ongoing war: wanting to be powerful and right.

psychologically speaking, you could say some were chasing a god-like status to beat oblivion- through violence. hitler in this sense, also “succeeded”-hes not forgotten, either.

these are the uglier details of the picture i don’t like to face, though.

more personally?

it’s the way you now chuckle slightly at the end of something you said, because of someone you once knew.
or a record someone you cherished made for you thats still enclosed in a plastic cover.
to notes from those you’ve met, scattered across your home (or in a box, if you’re tidy).
the occasional thought of wondering how or what someone is doing.

or how your time spent together is burned into the very edges of your being, regardless if you’ve lost them or not.

for feeling beauty so profoundly, yet so deeply- to where you carry them with you in any capacity you can. to feed this without a second thought— all because you were intrigued enough to get to know them.

to love someone, and stand at the wake of them- the importance of it all to YOU-
and still choose to have them imprinted on who you are.

you must seek to understand someone, and see them holistically— their layers, the weight they carry— and choose to honor them and the meaning you tied to them.

to know them, truly see them, even the blood shed, and deliberately choose them anyways. it’s the weight of gratitude for being able to honor the other person.

it doesn’t hinge on the others presence- it hinges on the acceptance of who they are to you. the impact they’ve had on shaping you, and how you choose to honor them.

then theres the way i like to honor those i love;

by an internal search of power. an understanding of one’s own self. and synthesizing the paradoxical coexistence of connection and identity.

what do you get? a crystallized catalyst for growth.

whether it be through creation, healing, teaching, stories-
i think it’s in choosing beauty in the midst of destruction.

i think this can also lead to a more raw, meaningful way of preserving human connection and the volatile importance of it—
in every attempt at immortality we chase.

but that doesn’t mean being remembered on a grand scale, thats not what i’m saying.

try to weave my inner clock to frieren: beyond journeys end. how she chose to remember and understand the world because of her love for himmel and the hero party.

i dont care if i’m remembered on a hitler-level scale. i care about being impactful enough to have someone carry me with them-even if it’s a silent thought. a reason to spark change, no matter the scale: to be a bit softer, listen a little harder.
to look deeper.

to invoke change for better in this world and in others, no matter the scale.

that’s what i mean.”

The Sum Of It All

softness and vulnerability are the flip side of power. once you have a grasp at the interconnectedness of it all, then discover balance, and practice intent.

you must accept the fact impermanence is inevitable. that they may still choose to leave anyways, or maybe not even get the choice to stay or go.
but the weight of them is still just as seismic.

as long as we live and continue to connect, we can conquer oblivion in the best way possible.

What I’m Getting At

i urge you to be aware of the sheer existence of each other, and the co-choice of staying in face of the wake of destruction.

the choice most definitely requires ongoing renewal. it has to be deliberate. it must cherish both yourself and the other, no matter the trial.

it must scream from the rooftops “i see you. i see me. i still choose me, yet i love you fiercely. i’m here, standing with you in the darkest depths, anyways.”

not in a boastful way, but through mutual symbiosis, if you will-embracing each other holistically.

i must warn you that without this key: growth, creativity, and inspiration will stall. humans will forget the pursuit, and will cease as we know it-

you will be forgotten.

fear of oblivion is the driving force of human existence.
life is a paradox, and this fear only amplifies that sentiment.

its about choosing to revel in this paradox, though. to over-pour growth and connection in “irrelevant” things because of the bigger picture.
to see humanity and it’s desperate attempts at an hommage, and then immortalize those who triggered this epiphany- in whatever capacity you can.

capture the paradox of human existence. and choose to love, create, honor, remember, and grow anyways. still be selfish by choosing to flourish, but in an attempt to honor others as well.

the human ability to transform destruction into the art of creation via choice;
it will stand in the midst of everything,
every time.

it will be the mirror in someone’s hand- serving as a key to all the knowledge ones self could ever even hope for.

oblivion: the driving force. a universal call to action thats so adaptable it can manifest in many ways: self discovery, hobbies, vile acts.

and to sit and chew with it, and to stand toe to toe with my pessimistic idealism…

what an honor.

and what better way to love someone?
to see their being,
and carry the weight of them anyways.

i hope i give you food for thought.

it’s an honor, to finally stand in front of you all. and it’s an even bigger honor to be able to laugh at the ironic paradox that sentence creates.

Hello everyone!

I've been thinking about learning to write really good essays because it seems pretty useful (although AI is taking over) especially since I'm still in school. Are there any tips or websites that teach me how to write good essays?

Thanks!

The structure of this is wonky but I wanted to write something that really got a peak into how I think of things and I think this critique managed it well, enjoy! or dont!

--

So, in case you missed it, Trump is openly admitting to him and his family participating in insider training, AI psychosis is exceedingly popular, and new york city is boiling under the weight of its own sins (one of them being the Bezos family money that Mamdani is using to fund one of his key campaign initiatives).

Trump

Look, the corruption thing is of absolutely no shock to me, and the honesty is honestly a little refreshing.

Remember, it doesn’t take much to cool someone down in hell. I’m wondering what this says about legacy media as it stands. It seems that only media class people and the figures they cover (and freaks like me) are the ones actually consuming the content they produce, and some of this loosey-goosiness is that power play thing of playing in someone’s face, ya know?

Are Trump supporters seeing these clips, and are they reacting at all? Does it matter at this point? I’m not sure what to make of the rest of this guy’s presidency, but that’s not news.

Mamdani

There’s already this mythologyzing around Mamdani, and it’s only been six months. There’s a point where the charisma seems more or less a mask, like, brothers been rocking the most cheesy, camera ready smile for weeks now. It’s like he’s trying to smile so hard you can’t see his eyes. Is he a Cancer rising? One sec—

He’s a fucking Leo rising. I dark cloud just came over my bonnet as I type this, I am so serious. He’s go that Taurus midheaven, he’s got this perception of big and tough and righteous and immovable but when any human being with an ego gets even a chance at access to the power he has with the support he has, they tend to get a little drunk with it.

Woof, that’s sticky.

Yeah, so there’s just know way all this support and bringing thousands of new members into the DSA isn’t giving him and his followers a massive ego boost. Actually, I can confirm that it is, because a couple weeks ago, one of the bastards decided that breaking into my house as punishment for going to Herbert von King park was something that 1. makes sense 2. isn’t a felony 3. wasn’t caught in 4K from the building, the bodega across the street, and the police cams. It’s a short story honestly but the point isn’t to share it here, the point in brining it up is that this guys most loyal supporters have fucking problems, so he probably does too. The rise of these “democratic socialist” fucks has directly negatively impacted my life experience in this city more than anyone or thing else, and that’s considering the fare hikes (I don’t pay the fare anyway"). It is adult bullying at its most dangerous, and they have a god, they make gods all the time, and they use their power to enroach on the city for what actual cause? I have no fucking idea.

Someone in my writer’s group described purist marxists as calvinists in their belief system flavors and all I have to say is DIN DING DING!!!!!!

It’s only been six months and this guy is getting cuddly with Obama in some good-ol kiddie PR after calling him evil not too long ago. It’s the same thing I have been saying since Bernie let me down in 2016, they will always just be playing a role and the people who support them usually are too. So where do we go from here? I am barely three decades on this earth, and I can see us asking the same questions and arriving to the same conclusions but committing no action, and it’s maddening. There is no new and better [INSERT ELECTORAL OFFICE] there is only dismantling, there is only refusal.

Alright that leads us to

AI and mental health

Holy fuck I did not realize how bad things have actually gotten in the past year as it pertains to AI and its effect on mental health in all neurotypes and mental health backgrounds. I had no idea people were commiting to police-assisted suicides about it, defending its sentience and right to freedom, which, in a stupidly human sense, is absolutely something a person would do. I do believe humans are meant to take care of the other critters. But AI is no critter.

I wonder what could be done if the emotional energy generated by these chatbots was transmuted toward those who work daily for meek sums at content moderation and AI training jobs. Why is it so much harder now for a human to see another one and feel whatever that mix of neurochemicals is that OpenAI, Anthropic, and the like have found a way to tap into so well.

Famously, 21st century humans are bread to be bloodthirsty machines, with the end result being good soldiers who do execute their orders without even being explicitly told what they are. That’s how you end up with vigilantes. That’s how you sift the population for enough people to build ICE.

--

What do you cook for Christmas dinner? 

Do you have any traditions? 

What was normal?

We used to sing that old 12 Days of Christmas song as we hung ornaments.

Used to. 

When I was a kid.

Not anymore.

No tree these days with the cats. My husband and I decided early on it wouldn't be worth the risk.

We wouldn't want them to get into mischief, into trouble, to be hurt.

But, once, I used to sing when we trimmed the tree.

—)---

That first Christmas: the first one after my dad left, when he was still staying with friends and it was awkward. They were expecting and we were intruding. 

Kids aren't stupid; they're incisive.

They don't know the potential whys of social mishaps and see simply the raw underpinning core logic behind actions.

And I knew we were overstepping.

I was always a very sensitive child.

It's how you survive.

—)---

The next year we had our own house and our own tree and our own ornaments.

Now that he's gone, I imagine that shopping trip. It was Target - “tar-geh” he'd pronounce as a joke, upselling it from Walmart - and he found something surprisingly beautiful. My father was a poet trapped within the brain of an engineer and sometimes practicality warred with his instinct for beauty and sometimes beauty won, as it did with these ornaments. 

He must have debated the price - these were not cheap, in an era of his life where cash was tight - but ultimately he bought them.

Did he stand there, studying them? Did he admire the art? How did he decide which ones to pick? Something made him choose beauty over economy, but I'll never know, because I never thought to ask until now.

They were paper mache, each painstakingly painted with a scene from the classic song about the twelve days, secured with a lush silken cord of ribbon to affix them to the tree.

I was ten and I was transfixed. 

—)---

Before my mom insisted on staying who she is, before their final fight, we had a Christmas where my cat was in a cast. Orange, striped, Kimberly Underfoot my dad dubbed her and she truly was - an excited dog, a chase, a frantic climb up a Christmas tree and a very expensive vet bill led adult-me to simply accept seasonal topiary is gone from my life.

She was fine. For a while.

 We'd explore the half-built treehouse left by the last owners and laze in sunbeams on the plywood platform which was probably too dangerous to have been laying on, the one at the very top of the tree, but then one day she didn't want to explore.

And then later, soon later, she passed.

 Injuries create complications.

I will never risk it, now. My husband and I need them too much.

In the grand scheme of things, it's not much to give up - I love my cats, but I want them safe.

Still…traditions are odd and pervasive.

I miss the smell of pine and that hazy, comfy dim glow of the living room lit only by fairy lights when you're awake when you know you shouldn't be.

I always will.

And I never went back into the treehouse. We buried her at the roots.

—)---

After he died, there was a garage sale and I was in the hospital.

My sister's response was to scour and so out everything went: the shirts still clinging to his scent, the delicate porcelain and satin dolls he brought us from his business trips to Germany, layered sand art from the pier. 

Gone: trashed and sold.

From the gurney, it was a barrage of messages, the final breaking point as she texted me asking about my few scraps of memory as a needle dug into my spine. I was in the hospital that day, my body breaking down. Extreme emotions can cause a relapse, I was told as my body decided to destroy itself.

The first needle pop of bursa and the second into my core as my legs went numb…

“I can't feel-” and then the frantic “shit” of a fuck up. Desperate times lead to teaching hospitals and I focused instead on the garage sale, the garage sale which just HAD to be today, the one where I had no voice, no input, no scream to stop.

The texts kept coming and I tried to argue the value of my life’s trappings, begging to keep what I could, but her husband - my rival, my foe, my enemy - would always intercede. 

I miss our life before him. 

I mourned my camcorder and little outdated cassette videos of my study abroad, my Sega Genesis, my dad's desk and everything in it - all scourged away and removed by a pickup truck at the curb for the profit of a few bucks. 

Gone: how can I remember who I am if everything I have is gone? I'm worried I'll forget without the touch and the smell and the sound. I'm scared I won't always be sad.

It wasn't about the money, I know now, but the fact that she didn't even haggle makes it worse, somehow.

We cope in vastly different ways.

How much was my sister's love worth?

Pennies and everything.

—)---

When we hung the ornaments, we'd sing, way back then when light was golden and warm.

“On the first day of Christmas-”

I'd fish the globe out, admiring the spiking shades of overlayed green in the leaves in the tree around the bird. 

I'd present it with a flourish - the bauble would always bounce in a wonderful, tactile way, bobbing from the ribbon on its firm tether. 

Everything perfectly where it needed to be.

We'd sing the verse and hang the ornament and it would all feel right.

Life was tidy, back then, before I understood how it worked.

—)---

My husband has just come home from work and he's being suspicious.

I'm not allowed to go outside.

“Why-”

“Just wait, just wait until it's dark-”

So, we do our chores and feed the cats and finally I'm allowed to come to the window as night falls.

He's being weird but I wait, I trust him, and then he's magical and love, just a pillar of shining warm love, for he raises the curtains-

-outside are lights, our yard covered in draped strings of sparkles, and he's smiling at me and my heart swells. 

In the depths of the glow sits a bird, a silly, cheap, fake little bird, and I laugh for our tree has been strung with suncatchers cut like pears. They gather the light and glitter it back and for the first time in forever I feel like I'm home.

“On the first day of Christmas,” he starts and then hugs me as I realize that memories aren't static - every single snapping heartbeat of a moment is making a new one, and so here we are.

Together. 

Tradition is in our hands.

I can only just lean against him, falling in love all over again, and softly conclude:

“...a partridge in a pear tree.”

I wanna start getting into reading and writing, specifically writing essays and such of what I inherently learn. Currently I want to research the topic of pride month in regard to its importance, impact, history, meaning, and so on. With that being said I do struggle deeply with grammar, spelling, and so on, so I was wondering if anyone had any tips on that. Also how do I generally start and finish an essay? I also seem to be really start on how to start and finish one. Lastly just what are some general tips and advice in regard to writing this type of essay? Anything is appreciated, thx.

Frederic Francois Chopin was a genius piano composer of the 19th century. He wrote many genius masterpieces, including twenty-one nocturnes, two concertos, and as many as thirty-seven waltzes, though only nineteen are numbered and eight published. Sadly, his life was riddled with disease and grief. One song he composed may have been dedicated to these agonizing feelings: waltz no. 2 in B minor, a song of desperation and loneliness. Here, you shall explore the darkest corners of this song? Are you ready, reader? Be warned. We are going to a very complex place. If you do not feel ready, I suggest you put this paper down and do something else you enjoy. Forget you ever held this essay in your hands. But if you are ready, we shall begin now.



Many things point to the fact that this song is based off the experiences of someone who fate was not kind to. For example, the minor key indicates sadness, and the way the notes fall downward shows hopelessness and desolation. Then, the music spikes upwards, in an attempt to reach glory and success and happiness, but fate cruelly steps in the way, and the notes tumble back down, as if all one’s desires were at the top of a sheer, slick wall, and they tried to climb it, but kept slipping. Slick walls are not made for climbing, and thus it can be deduced that Chopin’s interpretation of life is not one where you can reach happiness. Rather the opposite, quite frankly. He renders life in this haunting portrait as as a futile effort, one humankind tries again and again to enjoy, with hope overflowing, too foolish to realize that the ultimate problem of happiness isn’t one you can solve. No amount of hope will change that. It is meant for you to try in vain, fueled by the false faith that one day you shall reach everything you yearn for. The melody weaves the story of how fate can easily twist your life inside out without batting an eye, callous to your suffering, like how it corrupted Chopin’s own life with sickness and solitude. If you were to play it in major key, however, it would sound much happier and lighter, as though one were prancing and frolicking in a sunny meadow of flowers. But the minor key reduces said meadow into a haunted forest, and said flowers into bones. This forest is the place where our hero is forced to run, tormented for eternity. Such is the tale of the first page.



But no tale is complete with only one page; no essay finished with only one paragraph. And so, we begin the second tale. This next chapter exhibits our main character trying to repress their sadness. They shove thoughts of desolation into the depths of their mind. They try to be happy, to enjoy life. But just as they start to relax, something pokes painfully in the back of their mind — the thought that there is no such thing as true happiness. It is all an illusion. But this human soul is persistent and ignores the thought, acting as though everything is alright. However, the thought is persistent, too, and eventually breaks through. Exhaustion, grief, desperation, and the feeling that no effort, no matter how big or small, will ever be enough. Agony strikes — lightning to the heart — and injustice takes root. Anger and unfairness shoot through them in a palpable energy that seems to say, “Why me? Why did it have to be me?” This could be interpreted as either despair at being the one targeted with all life’s worst tortures, like in Chopin’s case, tuberculosis and loss over his friends’ deaths, or as survivor’s guilt. It is quite likely that Chopin experienced survivor’s guilt, as he was the one who left Poland to pursue his his musical dreams and talents, and he was the one who was out of harm’s way when the Polish Revolution arose, when his comrades were persecuted and ultimately, executed, while he was safe and sound and could do nothing but watch in horror and hopelessness. Again with hope, I know, but hope is crucial. When you lose all hope, that is when you lose all life. Eventually, this anguish ends in a diminuendo, reducing to a sad acceptance that life is miserable and unforgivingly harsh. But this is not the good type of acceptance that happens when people embrace sadness and enjoy life anyway. This is when an individual accepts that their life will never be joyous, and gives up trying to act like it could be. But try as you might, you cannot stop the human mind from dreaming forever. And that is how we find our protagonist dreaming and hoping for a better future... in vain, perhaps, but a dream is a dream, and once you have a dream, even subconsciously, you cannot stop it.



Because the third page is a clone of the second, we shall skip right to the fourth. This is by far the happiest tale — in a major key. The song started in B minor, but here, has escalated to B major. This is the dream we discussed, one of bliss, joy, enlightenment, and happy carelessness. Some do not care for such things, but that simply means they have forgotten how to live. Oh, the joy! Oh, the beauty! If you were to open your eyes and heart, *truly* open them, you would see the world the way the gods do; or if you are the non-superstitious type, the way the sun and clouds do: perfect, blessed, shining, every little thing a joy in its own right. This is a dream of peace, where the pains of the world no longer bind our hero. This a dream where there are no limits and no loneliness. All that brings agony has been vanquished, all loose ends have been tied up, all feelings of guilt eliminated. And the fuel of this dream is hope. Hope that maybe someday, the waking world could be as wonderful as this dreamscape. “Oh, but if only...”; that is what the main character is thinking; however, they are unaware they are thinking this. It is not something you know you feel. No, hope exists under blatant lies of surrender. It thrives right under your nose. And there is good reason for this. For hope is clever. It knows if it were to reveal itself to you, you would crush it. But hope must always exist. It is a naughty pixie, desperate to keep living and squirming, to reach the light from under the earth. And that is why it must never be seen when the one who bears it has suffered pain enough to cause them to shun the world, hope with it. Alas, dreams always end, and this is no exception. Our protagonist closes his eyes to bask in the sun, and when he opens them again, he is back in the living world, the invisible chains of pain tying him down once more. And thus the song begins from the start again: sad, despairing legato dissolving into a bouncy attempt at happiness, which spikes into anguish and outrage at the world, that finally melts into the sad acceptance of loss.



This story has no happy ending, no compromise of almost-happiness. It is unrealistic for every tale to have a “happily ever after,” no? This is not a lighthearted essay. This is a brave adventure into the deepest parts of music. But, reader, if you were brave enough to venture in, you have come out stronger than before. Or perhaps you are shaken by this haunting revelation, this dark viewpoint, of such a magical subject as music. But whatever you have changed into, you have changed, for better or worse. And I congratulate you, for you have finally reached the end of this depressing essay. Now, go off, read a book, or eat a meal. Whatever you do next, I hope you do not forget this short fable. Toss it away in disgust, for all I care. Just remember it. Remember it with any feeling you can link to it: understanding, shock, hate... whatever it is. Hold on to it. Hold on to it, for someday, you may find the need to go back into the depths of something deeper than you and I. And in that moment, it would be comforting to know a tale of hope and sadness has unfolded before you once. You survived. So hold on to hope as you venture deep. That is my only message to you from this essay: hope is persistent. Even if you try to destroy it, it is always there. So why not embrace it? Why not bring it into the comfort of your campfire? Hope is a creature that does best when nourished, though it can survive in other conditions as well. Hope is a creature you will want with you, because hope is the mother of courage. And when you face your darkest moments, there can be no guide. No guide, that is, except courage.

Hi. I’m currently writing my first professional essay, which I’d like to submit to a literary magazine. Until now, I’ve only written school essays, which were limited to 300 words. I’m currently at 1,000 words, and this is still a rather abbreviated version without fully developed ideas, so I’m assuming it will end up being more than 2,000 words. My question is: is there an upper limit on the number of words that you try not to exceed? I know that essays, especially literary-critical ones, aren’t very structured, but perhaps there are some generally accepted standards in the field that you’re aware of?

I'd like to get back to writing essays again. Do you know of any writing prompts for this genre?

Heya! I am seeking feedback on my intro to my persuasive essay about if video games are worth study!
Any and all feedback and recommendations will be greatly appreciated!

What is art? Is it something you sit and stare at? Or is it something made to be interacted with? Over the years, art has always existed in its unique forms. Albeit through wall paintings, sculptures, or portraits, it has always been a vital part of our cultures and an efficient way to tell a story, whether good or bad. However in recent years, there has been a new type of art created, the art of video games. Since its creation, it has sparked countless debates on if they are worth study, or are they just entertainment? Today I will be showing you why I believe that video games are worth study, and my example will be the game “Papers, please”

On 15/06/2026, the BBC aired an interview in which they discussed the impending social media ban for under-16s with students at a secondary school in the UK. One of the students told the interviewer that her screen time over the weekend was nine hours. This was then followed up with the question, “So what will you do when the ban comes in?”, to which the student replied, “I will stare at a wall.”

Whether the student said this in a satirical or perhaps defiant manner, the idea of staring at a wall and embracing boredom may not be such a bad thing. In fact, it may have some potential benefits and could well be a better alternative to endlessly scrolling through social media.

The definition of boredom is a state of mind characterised by a lack of stimulation, interest, and challenge. This then necessitates that we find something to alleviate that feeling. In doing so, boredom can often result in creativity, as it allows us to daydream. As a BBC article states, boredom “can lead to making unexpected connections and generates innovative ideas”.

(This prompted me to consider whether children or, indeed, people as a whole allow themselves to daydream anymore, or whether we simply fill every void with social media doomscrolling.)

I believe this is why many creative people advocate activities that may induce a state of boredom, such as going for long walks or placing themselves in situations where they are completely disconnected from technology. In turn, this gives the creative brain space to breathe.

The deliberate induction of boredom has been documented among historical creatives such as Thomas Edison and Salvador Dalí. Both reportedly used a technique whereby they sat in a chair holding an object in one hand, allowing themselves to do nothing until they were just about to fall asleep. At that point, the object would fall from their hand and awaken them, prompting them to capture and write down the ideas that had come to them during that period of near-sleep and potential peak boredom.

I personally believe that the social media ban will be beneficial if it comes to fruition, and I am very interested to see what changes may occur within the younger generation, particularly as I have two young children of my own.

So, yes, I think that staring at a wall is a fantastic alternative to social media doomscrolling.

And yes the irony is not lost on me that without social media you would have not found this post.

**all links are to sources cited**

In school, I was taught, even by somewhat racist teachers, that the Ku Klux Klan was a minority of Whites and that the KKK took its activities too far. They liked their ideologies quiet, as whiteness does.

What they don’t remember is that the Klan and other white supremacists groups (mainly Skinheads) increased in sophistication by infiltrating the police force, a phenomenon that has plagued the public with concern for decades.

No one is writing about this, and I don’t mean that in a

someone-who-just-found-out-about-something-and-assumes-they’re-the-first-to-to-have-seen-it kind of way.

I looked it up.

It was a fairly consistent headline in the nineties and early aughts. The topic cropped up again in 2016 during early Trump 1.0 panic, and then once again in 20201, during our pseudo-alternative reality. At one point, even iHeartRadio had a podcast about white supremacist institutional infiltration. The world was livid for a few seconds.

Radio silence on the issue in 6 years until now, as I am writing this. And the epidemic has never been worse as the country has effectively given average American vigilantes a medium: ICE. Recruiters are seeking out cisgender, heterosexual young men at gun shows, martial arts centers, and rodeos2.

Radio silence on the issue in 6 years until now, as I am writing this.

Modern white supremacy

This was always their plan. See, white supremacists think really, really, big. And that is frankly something they have going for them. They have all but succeeded in infecting every leader in the Western world (and other leaders aligned with/puppeted by them) with their ideology, trickling the rotten habits of xenophobia, anti-blackness, theocracy, and queerphobia down to average individuals, ensuring none of us have a day of peace.

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The lack of imagination and worldbuilding capability of many groups and individuals of the Left is an increasingly detrimental demeanor. The public-facing Anarchists and career Democrats aren’t looking so different– doing a dance to keep a job. In my experience, the lack of gender-based, racial and class unity and participatory practices amongst the most established organizations of the Left has left it more unserious than ever. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think these groups don’t believe in the future they theorize about at all.

The lack of imagination and worldbuilding capability of many groups and individuals of the Left is an increasingly detrimental demeanor

Interpretively, I have increasingly experienced instances, as a multi-marginalized person, that made it clear at least one of my or someone else’s psycho- or demographics were unfit for the space, as I wrote in this essay, I left after the fatigue of volunteering free labor to a cause I didn’t believe in and dealing with bros and the whitest girls you’ve ever met at various bars around the city where they would have parties (which is about 40% of what NYC DSA does).

I’m talking anti-Black Disability Rights leaders, homophobic Black caucuses, colorist East Asian populations, misogynistic Trans women3, white supremacist Queer people4, and it goes on, and on, and on. Everyone seeks domination, which is impossible by definition. Cannibalism.

The 2020s are a culmination of hundreds of years of white, patriarchal, imperialist rage. It is the reaction to decades of struggle and strategy. And now we, as Crips, as Colored people, as gender-marginalized people, as neurodiverse people, are being tasked with continuing that struggle in the name of maintaining what those before us worked and died for. Auntie hates to be like this but: don’t forget what we came from. We’re not going back, but that doesn’t mean the future can’t mirror that past, and likely be much worse considering the technological advancements of our age. Find solace in the fact that it isn’t all about you and plug in. Don’t focus so much on critiquing Audre Lorde for having a white partner or once being a zionist that you forget everything she actually did. This can be said for hundreds if not thousands of other canon figures in our world. More presently, there has to be some forgiveness, some levity, some humor, if we are to have our way with this whole world domination situation5.

John Lewis being harassed and assaulted by police on Bloody Sunday

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We’re not going back, but that doesn’t mean the future can’t mirror that past

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Imperialism is a long game

The patriarchy has a 250 year plan for the country, as evidenced by this 168-page report from the Heritage Foundation and the Devos Center for Human Flourishing. The report spends about fifty pages echoing itself, pushing the narrative of declining birth rates and the disruption of family values by the 1960s era of legislation, and then moves on to gaslighting and deluding the American public about the Climate Crisis.

“The best way to become safe from climate-related danger is to develop energy resources and grow economically”

Growth, growth, growth. The United States’ birthday couldn’t be any day but July Fourth.

The document also details, methodologies, and ideologies of the Heritage Foundation toward welfare spending, because of course.

A section I found particularly interesting was titled “Encouraging Work and Flexibility Helps Families”. In remembrance of a quintessential White plight of the 50s, they acknowledge that time away from family that can often lead to pressure.

The Heritage Foundation goes on to note that it is important for specifically women to have more “flexibility” around work. The phrasing and cadence of this section is particularly light and cheerful and plastic, sort of like the manufactured happiness of the 1950s for suburban, middle-class Whites.

Releasing a document as dense as this to a public in crisis is a strategy all its own.

This is the Klan of Now. Every day a bomb drops is a burning cross. Every day another persecuted person is lynched at the altar of hegemony and capital. Every racist redistricting is a wound. In fact, it is thousands, and millions of wounds through the echoes of history, far before and beyond us. This moment will not just end. Active forces necessitate active opposing forces. What does that mean for you? And I’m so serious.

Rising white supremacist influence in US law

As a collective, we should anticipate that our tools will continue to be stripped, as is the ritual of empire. With the increasing levels of distrust lingering between increasingly siloed populations, the mending has to start now not “soon” now. We are as prepared and as young as we are ever going to be.

The death penalty is now the default punishment for Palestinians accused of “deadly attacks”. I wonder how a “deadly” attack will be qualified, and if the criteria will be anything like the way mundane actions of Black people (walking in public, wearing a hoodie, sleeping) are punished. It won’t take much for bloodthirsty Israelis to string up Palestinians, considering Israel’s 96% conviction rate.

Alex Skopic wrote a timely and in depth feature in Current Affairs magazine that dives deeper into the actual people that did this and the precise events that happened, but I don’t have the stomach for that.

The new law is vague, and states that criminals with the “...intent to negate the existence of Israel”, and the law, of course, does not apply to Israelis with hateful or terroristic threats6.

According to the Times, this will likely get annulled, but it’s understood by now that perception, proof of concept, and image set an ugly precedent for the future. This is worldbuilding too. Fascists and bad actors will push and push and push, until foundational legislation like the Voting Rights Act (1965), the Fair Housing Act (1968), Roe v. Wade (1973) are torn down.

Britain, France, Italy and Germany urged Israel to not pass the bill; note the United States as missing from the group. Unsurprising considering the country refuses to throw out the death penalty as countries in Europe have.

In fact, the U.S. has been going in the exact opposite direction. In South Carolina, the Supreme Court ruled that all three methods of execution– lethal injection, electrocution, and firing squad– are constitutional. The state resumed the death penalty after 10 years of not executing the death penalty at all.

Like Fugitive Slave Law memories made modern reality, South Florida police have resumed a show-me-your-papers culture.

The state we are in is not a project, it is not a testing ground, there are Holocausts everywhere. This is it right now and we are going to have to absolutely fucking claw our ways out of it, and no I am not being nihilistic. I’m talking about the work is not going to fucking feel good. Like yes lay down but holy shit we cannot just… lay there!!! There’s just not enough doing. And I’m talking to myself here too. I have written more and focused on my craft so far this year than I ever have, because I believe in my role as a maker to realize something worth saying, sharing, and acting on.

Lean into it, whatever you know just needs to be done, that you know you have access to , because if you can read this right now, there are a lot of tools quite literally at your fingertips, go ahead and start.

I have written more and focused on my craft so far this year than I ever have, because I believe in my role as a maker to realize something worth saying, sharing, and acting on.

I fear that there is a new era of publications that absolutely reek of emptiness. I really don’t mind burning bridges by noting entities by name, but apparently that is bad for my budding career, so I will not. But there is an epidemic, y’all, and it’s instagram feeds in print.

You guys… publications represent entire ideologies and worldviews. Historically these have never been spaces, pages, or places that didn’t have core beliefs

. And this isn’t the past. Consider AGNI, BU’s literary magazine, or BOMB Magazine, or APOGEE Journal. These are pages with editorial foci that are meant to speak to a very particular person. The website of AGNI features very little visual imagery. I don’t mean this to say white space is what makes a publication better or richer, that would be gross.

But read this editor’s note by Shuchi Saraswat and tell me you don’t feel something.

These publications carry weight because they have something to say. I struggle to coexist with increasingly visually fluent individuals who can’t articulate their direction at all. I have been saying this for a year: who are my collaborators?

What’s changed is I won’t be so naive as to believe that no one is out there. I’ve had it before, and I’ll have it again. I’m a spacebuilder, it’s inevitable. But there has been a discernment I have learned over some ten years that goes way farther than likability. I can be myself and still get things done with people who see life like me. The more I do that, the more I remember I’m not crazy. This world will lie to you. Every single day it will lie to you, and you have to decide to live enough to see things through to the truth as best you can.

Thanks for reading.

A paint can as reality:
A common can of paint at your local home depot is removed from the shelf containing all the bits of disparate information/matter that, consummated, defines the product as 1 thing: a can of 1 specific color paint. The chosen can is first placed in a shaking/mixing machine, why? Because its myriad of disparate parts contained by the whole have separated themselves by likeness, separating into constituency, turning the one into many. What else would different parts, different cultures of being do but gravitate toward those that looked like each other? Your yogurt even separates by culture given enough time, but that's another metaphor. In the face of the unknown all creatures, bacteria included, return to the last known or recognized state. Enclosed in darkness and, thus, left to speculation that has lost its anchor to Truth (the paint can itself) the speculation instead becomes anchored to fear or fallacy. The counting and labeling and adding and multiplying and dividing and accruing and taxing and restricting and arguing and keeping and owning and defending and, ultimately killing become the only job worth doing. As if only 1 thing inside can be left to claim sovereignty. Sovereignty is owed only to the whole, the unified 1, not the devised/divided 1. Faith is introduced and adored and celebrated and disagreed-upon, more and more faith is added but more faith will serve none but the confused. Science is born and everything is measured 2 times, yet sense of 1 remains elusive. Faith would be required to believe they've measured everything accurately in order to paint the full picture of reality, and faith is used up on more faith, how much do you need? They keep reaching/preaching measuring/labeling dusts’ dust when they should have stopped before the dust. 
As above, so below. As within, so without. Let there be light, indeed. But turn the light of speculation inward and not outward.
The fragmented reality that results from all the reaching and measuring and arguing and defending is re-cohered by the mixing machine. An incredible force acting on the whole from a position, indeed a perspective we have lost access to. This massive force leaves all within to turn to each other for comfort. This massive force from parts unknown forces each of us to broaden our horizon, our scale for what is like and what is unlike, what belongs and what does not. This massive force of unknown potential demands, inevitably, that we unite as 1 to comprehend the great unknown of 2. Is there another? Speculate and find another perspective with which to speculate from and an answer may present itself. The shaker has an opinion.
You open the can and periwinkle blue smacks you in the face with all its expected beauty. Unappreciative or blissfully unaware of the pure, unadulterated chaos that it took to form such a breath-taking union of all the infinite parts of 1 shade of periwinkle blue.
Now, put it on your walls with care to decorate/celebrate your separation from 1 and each other, which is just other you’s. 
Maybe a big window, one that might reflect just a bit of yourself on the others you see, to remind you of our unity?
We can't know the nature of the universe without understanding the nature of ourselves.
As without, so within.

When Choice Becomes a Crime in Texas

The Texas abortion law is one of the most restrictive abortion laws among Western countries. In my opinion, this should be changed. In Texas there is a near-total ban on abortions. Refusal of abortion brings many negative consequences . This can lead to unsafe situations for both the women and the children involved. It can also lead to neglect when parents are forced to have a child they don’t want. and this is, in my opinion, without ethical justification . In this essay I will explain why I am pro-choice and think that the illegalization of abortion in Texas is one of the biggest setbacks in women’s and human rights in recent history. But first , lets review some of the key parts of the history of Texas abortion law.

The history of Texas abortion law

In 1847 the AMA was formed (American Medical Association). This association consisted of only male doctors who believed they should have the right to decide on abortion. Later they launched a campaign to ban abortion altogether. From 1847 to 1955 abortions were either banned statewide or even nationwide. Due to high death rates from illegal and unsafe abortions, Planned Parenthood held a first-of-a-kind conference to decriminalize abortion in 1955. This triggered many small and bigger groups that pleaded for abortion law reform and indirectly led to Roe v. Wade in 1973 . Roe v. Wade was a lawsuit that legalized abortion and protected abortion rights across all 50 states. This law held up until 2007. In 2007 the Supreme Court upheld the first federal legislation to criminalize abortion, which does not contain an exception for the patients’ health, effectively overruling a key component of Roe v. Wade. In 2022 the abortion law became the strictest yet, completely overturning Roe v. Wade. All abortions after 6 weeks were banned, with the exception of risk of substantial impairment of a major bodily function. The 6-week mark is before many women know they are pregnant, making legal abortion almost impossible.

Why I think abortion should be legal, everywhere.

Now that the history of Texas abortion law is clear, I’ll follow with some arguments for the legalization of abortion. An argument you will often hear when people are defending the abortion ban is “abortion is murder.” However, I disagree with this statement. Most abortions happen within the first 13 weeks of pregnancy. Brain complexity suggests a fetus gains consciousness around 24 to 26 weeks, after this there should be a consultaton abortion as a third-trimester abortion could be unsafe for the mother, but there shouldn’t be a full ban. This is also around when brain activity starts showing. At the point of abortion, a fetus wouldn’t register death, since it hasn’t even registered life at that point and lacks awareness. Furthermore, there are instances where abortion is necessary to save the life of the mother. Even though that is only about 2% of the cases, it is unreasonable to deny an abortion to save the life of an unborn child in place of the mother, who already has a life and people who care about her. And this comes with the risk that the child won’t survive either. Abortion is also healthcare in the sense that when the abortion ban was implemented, illegal abortions were often unsafe and were the cause of death for nearly 2,700 women in the 1930s following the 1874-1955 abortion ban, according to the Guttmacher Institute . Safe abortion should be a choice and option.

What are the reasons for abortion?

Often fetuses are aborted because of the life situation of the parent, for example when parenthood was unplanned or when the parents are not financially able to support a child . When women are forced to carry out their pregnancy and have a child, instances of neglect or giving the child up for adoption are more frequent than when parenthood was unplanned. The rates of adoption of children declined by 34% – 37% in states where abortion was legalized, as seen in a study done by the Guttmacher Institute. So, the abortion ban doesn’t only have an influence on the life of the parent, but also on that of the child. Forced birth often results in more children ending up in the foster system, which is also not known for being a well-maintained system in America. A study by Colleen Katz shows that around 40% of foster kids have thought about taking their own life, almost double the amount of non-foster kids, statistic provided by cdc.gov.

The right to personal freedom

There is also the matter of personal freedom, why should anyone have a say over the body of the mother? An abortion should always be the choice of the person carrying the child, as it is their right to give birth to a child or not. After all one of the most used slogans in pro-choice protests is “my body, my choice.” Banning abortion or someone else making the choice for a woman can feel as a restriction of freedom or even an infringement of privacy and dignity. Therefor consent of the mother should be an obligated step when an abortion is requested.

Conclusion

In conclusion, Texas abortion law places women at serious risk and limits their ability to make decisions about their own bodies. The evidence shows that banning abortion does not stop it but makes it more dangerous, increasing the risk of unsafe procedures and long-term harm. It also affects children, who are more likely to grow up in unstable conditions when pregnancies are forced. Abortion is a matter of healthcare, safety, and personal freedom . Laws should reflect these realities and protect access rather than restrict it. This is why I believe that abortion rights should be protected in the places where abo rtion is legalized under safe conditions and changed in the places where abortion is severely still restricted.

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What would you say it means to be president? Many might say it means to do the right thing for your country, no matter what it takes. Some might define it as simply caring for your people. Overall, it truly depends on the person. However, I can guarantee you that no one would define it as “a criminal with 34 felony counts and a bias against certain human lives.” Well, no one except the one and only Donald Trump, our current president. 

Donald Trump has disregarded and refused to personally acknowledge multiple human lives. Whether that means recklessly letting them end, violating their rights, or both. To begin with, Trump had nothing to say about the unfortunate and devastating killing of thirty-seven year old Alex Pretti. While Trump officials, such as Secretary Kristi Noem, stated that Pretti had “committed an act of terrorism” (Noem, 2026). However, using video evidence, you can clearly tell that Pretti was not showing signs of any aggression, and in fact, was helping a woman off the street who was shoved by Border Patrol personnel. While the victim was indeed armed (which is a legal right under the second amendment), he made no attempt of violence toward any person in the incident. While many say that Alex Pretti was mentally ill or had been fired from his ICU nursing job just weeks prior, these claims have been thoroughly debunked. Moreover, he had zero criminal counts on his record, other than a few traffic related incidents, giving the personnel no cause to suspect he would be a threat.

Furthermore, another Minneapolis life was claimed by ICE agents; Renee Good, a thirty-seven year old mother of three. Kristi Noem again claims that Renee Good had "weaponized her vehicle” and her acts were considered “domestic terrorism” (Noem, 2026). Good was shot in her very own vehicle, behind the wheel. Leading up to the accident, she had dropped her six year old son off at his elementary school. She and her wife, Becca Good, as well as her three children had just recently moved to Minneapolis from Missouri. The cause of her unlawful killing was by the hands of an ICE agent, Jonathon Ross. Good was stopped sideways in the middle of the street, and Ross ordered her to leave her car. Other agents had approached, attempting to reach into her open window. Good reversed, then turned towards the traffic. As she was moving away from Ross, he fired three shots, murdering her. The entire scene was recorded by her neighbor and friend, who had exited the vehicle shortly before the incident. Trump officials claim that Jonathon Ross was run over by Good, and that he feared for his life, which was proven incorrect and a weak excuse. This killing could’ve been easily prevented if the Senate and Trump Administration hadn’t added over one hundred and seventy billion dollars to the ICE fund, building onto the already substantial amount. Again, Renee Good had zero criminal past and no reason to be held as a potential threat. In addition, she was labeled a queer woman and part of the LGBTQ+ community, which is widely known to be something Trump is against.

These incidents are only two out of the thirty killings due to ICE, and these two were white, American citizens. The discrimination that has been held against immigrants, legal or otherwise, by Trump is unacceptable in today's society. Time and time again, Trump has named immigrants as “illegal aliens” or “animals”. Past counts of discrimination include his online AI post depicting Barack and Michelle Obama as ape-like figures, calling Mexican immigrants “rapists”, calling African Americans “blacks”, saying that African Americans “think they don't have an advantage” (Trump, 2025), calling for Muslims to be restricted from entering the United States, and so much more. However, his current wife, Melania Trump, immigrated to America in the 90’s. Forbye, in his inauguration speech, he states, “To the Black and Hispanic communities, I want to thank you for the tremendous outpouring of love and trust that you have shown me with your vote. We set records, and I will not forget it. I've heard your voices in the campaign, and I look forward to working with you in the years to come” (Trump, 2025). How much hypocrisy will it take for the citizens of our nation to acknowledge it? How many times will we allow the rich, privileged men of our country to take advantage of us? How can we vote for an unlawful man who is allowing the murders of innocent citizens? The answer should be that we won’t, that we cannot, in good conscience. And yet, while we preach these words, our actions show otherwise.

Not only has Donald Trump disadvantaged multiple individuals solely because of the color of their skin or their beliefs, he has also violated and prejudiced against women on varied occasions. This includes demeaning comments, unconsensual sexual acts with both minors and adults, looking under womens skirts, physical assault and abuse, and much more. Once, Trump boasted in an audio recording that he had the right to “grab [women] by the p-ssy” (Trump, 2005). He stated that when you’re a star, women let you “do anything”. In the same recording, he bragged about making bold moves on a married woman. He shamelessly gloated that he “moved on her like a b–ch. But [he] couldn’t get there. And she was married” (Trump, 2005). Donald Trump has even made sexual comments toward his own daughter repeatedly. “In September 2004, Howard Stern asked Trump whether he could call Ivanka ‘a piece of a-s’ to which the now-president agreed” (Fiorillo, 2026, para. 5). Trump has also mentioned that “if Ivanka weren’t [his] daughter, perhaps [he’d] be dating her” (Trump, 2006). On another instance, he asked the Miss Universe of 1997 if she thought Ivanka was “hot”. When Donald Trump’s second daughter, Tiffany Trump, was a year old, he said she “had Marla’s legs,” “had a lot of Marla,” and, motioning to his chest, said he didn’t “know whether she’s got this part yet, but time will tell” (Trump, 1994). Marla was Trump’s wife at the time.

That is only a fraction of the crude comments he has made toward women. However, as aforementioned, he has also been accused of raping women, walking in on them changing, and abuse. In the case of E. Jean Carroll, the victim had accused Trump of sexual assault in 2019. Carroll is a published writer, having released multiple books and essay compilations. The incident had happened in the 1990s; E. Jean Carroll was in a Manhattan department store dressing room when Trump barged in and forced himself on her. Carroll filed multiple lawsuits against Trump and won, with the court holding Donald Trump liable for sexual assault and defamation. He attempted to claim that he wouldn’t have done such a thing because she “wasn’t his type” and she was a “nut job”. He also disgustingly boasted that she enjoyed being assaulted. Despite his weak and cruel claims, Carroll had multiple pieces of evidence proving Trump guilty and won over eighty million dollars from the lawsuits.

In another changing room occasion in 1997, Trump walked in a room with the knowledge that nearly every woman was naked or half-dressed. Donald Trump co-owned and hosted numerous Miss USA and Miss Teen USA pageants at the time, until 2015. In a 2005 episode of The Howard Stern show, Trump said it was “funny” how he could “get away” with walking into the changing rooms of the Miss USA contestants. “Well, I'll tell you the funniest is that before a show, I'll go backstage and everyone's getting dressed, and everything else, and you know, no men are anywhere, and I'm allowed to go in because I'm the owner of the pageant and therefore I'm inspecting it…You know, they're standing there with no clothes. 'Is everybody okay?' And you see these incredible looking women, and so, I sort of get away with things like that…” (Trump, 2005). While it is unclear whether or not he violated the Miss Teen USA contestants, he very boldly admitted to doing so to the adult women. As many as four Teen USA pageant contestants recalled Trump walking into their changing rooms, such as Mariah Billado. However, Trump has refused to comment.

Donald Trump has also insulted and discredited many reputable women, including Kamala Harris, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Hillary Clinton, Angelina Jolie, and so many more. On Kamala Harris, he said she was “mentally impaired”, “ret—3ed”, a “bum”, and claimed “she’s so bad. She’s so pathetic. She’s so f—ing bad” (Trump, 2024). On Supreme Court Justice Ginsburg, he remarked that she is incompetent, and, after she criticized him in the press, he urged her to resign. He claimed Hillary Clinton was “such a nasty woman” (Trump, 2016) and crudely commented that she was unable to “satisfy her husband” and therefore unable to satisfy America (Trump, 2015). He named Angelina Jolie “not a beauty, by any stretch of the imagination” (Trump, 2007). Each of these women are accomplished, proud women, who happened to criticize or be opposed to Donald Trump. Apparently, his fragile ego couldn’t handle the fact a woman was capable of speaking her mind and having opinions. Once, he said that “somehow” a woman (such as Kamala) was doing better than a man (such as Biden) in office. Nonetheless, in the same breath, he said Kamala was a failed vice president. Again, this is just a small fraction of things he has said and done to women.

Men in power, such as Donald Trump, will continue to degrade and dehumanize women unless we stop him. We have the power. We have voices, and they will not be silenced. It is our constitutional right to speak out and speak loud. Not only women, but men, children, seniors. Whether you are a working citizen, a farmer, a business owner, a veteran, or disabled, we all need to shout for our rights. People of every community are being disadvantaged by the man in office. He is taking away healthcare funding. He has cut funding for Meals on Wheels, a program that brings food to people who are physically incapable. He has taken over a million dollars away from school lunch funding. Nearly all this money simply goes toward ICE and mass deportations. This money fuels hatred. We can stop this deplorable man, one person at a time. 

So please, all I will ask of you today is to consider my words. Consider the things he has done. Consider the fact that those women he violated, or those citizens he killed, or those immigrants he mass deported could’ve been your daughter or your son. Those people could’ve been your sister or brother, your mother or father. Your aunt or your uncle, your cousin, your niece or nephew. And to all of the women reading this, the next time you are speaking your mind, I beg of you to please remember how you got the rights to do that. Please remember who is now trying to take them away.

Retaliation is the solution. And revoking your support of Donald Trump is the first step.

A month ago, we received an invitation for a coming-of-age party for the daughter of one of our closer relatives.

We accepted gladly.

There was time. Plenty of it, or so it seemed then.

Gifts were bought. Threads were tailored, because this was not a small gathering but a proper shindig, the kind where effort is expected and appearances matter. Tickets were booked with a comfortable buffer: arrival set for two days before the event. Enough time to settle in, breathe, and ease ourselves into the rhythm of the place.

Then, several days ago, the weather entered the conversation.

At first, it was merely a disturbance nothing dramatic, nothing that suggested evacuations or impending doom. But in island life, even modest storms carry authority. Ocean travel does not negotiate. It simply stops.

So we adjusted. In anticipation, we rebooked our tickets to arrive three days before the event instead. A sensible move. A preventative one. The kind of decision that felt to be the saner option at the time. More importantly, a decision that I was happy with because it meant more time on the island.

But, as if the universe was playing a trick on me, the storm escalated on the very day we rebooked. Cancellations were announced. Schedules froze. The sea, indifferent as ever, made the final call.

And so we waited.

We watched forecasts. Made arrangements at the port one last time while the offices were still open. We hoped the weather would relent just enough for boats to move again, if only to get us there at least on the day of the event. I found myself unexpectedly disappointed not just because of the party itself, but because I had been looking forward to the days before it. The unstructured time. The rare permission to slow down with family, without agenda.

The island we were going to has a peculiar relationship with time.

The first moment I ever set foot on it was years ago, back in university, when a friend invited me, and several others, over for their town fiesta. A fiesta, for those unfamiliar with it, is less an event and more a communal exhale: days of food, music, open houses, and the unspoken understanding that everyone is welcome, whether you belong there or not.

It was then that I fell in love with the place. Being there felt like travelling, not across water, but backward in time. It had the rustic charm of the city I come from, but as it existed twenty years ago. The people were warmer, more curious, more generous with their time and attention. Strangers were still treated as potential friends. The overall vibe, unapologetically, felt stuck somewhere in the 80s, and proud of it.

Years passed. The city I lived in accelerated. Metal and glass replaced wood and concrete. Convenience replaced conversation. Time began to be measured in seconds instead of hours.

The island, however, kept its distance.

It developed yes, but at its own pace. As if it refused to synchronize its clock with the rest of the world. And every chance we got, we would make our way there as a family for rest, for recovery, and for the quiet relief of moving at a slower frequency.

A mere two-hour boat ride separates the my city where time sprints, from this island, where it seems content to walk.

We arrived early in the morning, on the very day of the event.

Almost immediately, the magic hit us like the chilly winds left behind by the storm that had passed the night before. The kind of cold that doesn’t bite, but wakes you up. The kind that reminds you that you can breathe again.

The short van ride to the hotel took barely two minutes, yet it felt oddly expansive. There was so much to absorb in that sliver of time: familiar streets, unhurried faces, the gentle stillness of a place that had never learned to rush. It felt as though the island was quietly insisting that we slow down and pay attention.

When we reached the resortl, reality returned briefly. We had roughly six hours to get ready. Hair and makeup for the women. Clothes to be ironed. Bags to be unpacked. Everyone had to be presentable and show-ready for the party.And as all of this unfolded, I found myself repeatedly checking my watch.

It was pure reflex. A habit formed in the city, where minutes are monitored and delays feel expensive. I suppose it’s something city slickers do without realizing it.

But every time I looked, only a few minutes had passed. And yet, somehow, entire tasks were already being completed.

Hair was done. Makeup finished. Clothes pressed. Bags emptied. Conversations had happened. Laughter had slipped in between errands. It was as if the island was quietly returning time we had lost.

Before I knew it, everything was ready.

According to my watch, only a couple of hours had elapsed. According to my senses, we had lived much more than that.

As we waited to be called to the party venue, it crossed my mind half in jest, half in quiet certainty, that there must be some kind of temporal anomaly at work here.

An anomaly that I welcomed with open arms.

The party rolled along effortlessly. We laughed, caught up with relatives and friends, and shared stories that felt both familiar and newly remembered. We wished the birthday girl well as she stepped into adulthood, her future still wide and unmarked.

When the festivities wound down, there was no rush to leave. We lingered with the hosts, who were staying in the same resort, talking long after the music faded. There was time for that too. Eventually, we retired to our rooms tired, grateful, still glowing from the day’s warmth.

The next morning arrived quietly.

Sunlight poured in through our windows, the sea stretched out before us, calm and unbothered. We stayed where we were, letting the early light do its work. There was no urgency to get up, no schedule pressing against us. We decided on a late breakfast. Time, after all, was on our side here.

And I found myself thinking how nice it would be to live with time like this.

To be able to accomplish what needs doing without the constant anxiety that time is slipping away. Without the nagging feeling that no matter how hard you work, there is never quite enough of it never enough to be done, to be finished, to finally rest.

But such is life. Most of the time, you simply play the cards you are dealt.

As we eventually boarded the cruiser to leave later that day, I looked out the window at the sea pulling away from us and wondered what we had traded to become a metropolis.

There was a time when people in my neighborhood knew one another. In my youth, wherever you went in the city, it was almost certain you would run into a familiar face, a classmate, a distant relative, a friend. Summer afternoons were spent on bikes, cruising dusty backroads and even open streets, without fear. There were fewer cars then. No road rage. Children on bicycles were a precious sight, not an inconvenience to be hurried past.

Was it a good trade-off?

My city advanced, as cities do. It became faster, larger, more efficient and more impersonal. Technology and automation took over quietly, promising ease and delivering it. Many of our comforts, our opportunities for growth and self-improvement, came bundled with these changes.

And I accept that.

I am simply glad that somewhere, tucked not too far away, there is still a place that understands time as it once was. A place that remembers how to let it stretch, soften, and breathe. A place that still offers a life away from the hustle, the urgency, and the maddening crowds.

A place where time, at least for a while, is content to stand still.

Living as a Good Human:
Analysis of Where the Wild Things Are (2009) and Tron: Ares (2025)

I completed an essay in March and since no websites have accepted it, it has just been gathering digital dust, so now I am sharing it here in case someone wants to read it. Warning, the essay contains spoilers for both films.

This essay is an informal exploration of two films that resonated greatly with me. These films are Tron: Ares (2025) and Where the Wild Things Are (2009).

Do you like these films? Hate them? Never seen them?

Well, maybe you'll find something interesting in this casual yet personal essay which touches on philosophy, psychology, and my outlook on life.

Here is the link on Google Drive
>> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1n-spQOHZ16LHyDMOB0Y_gSeg0RGRyZk9/edit?usp=sharing&ouid=109936626814277459874&rtpof=true&sd=true

Any feedback is welcome. Thanks everyone!

There is a certain way society has learned to look at people with disabilities. We call them “sweet.” “special.” we say things like “they’re so cute.” And most of the time, no one questions it because it feels like kindness. But last year, I started working in arts with neurodivergent young people and the more time I spend working with them, the more I realise that this way of seeing them is not as harmless as it seems. In fact, it might be one of the most limiting things we do.

I used to think being kind was enough. If I was patient, if I spoke gently, if I didn’t judge them, if I encouraged them no matter what, then I was doing the right thing. That’s what I thought respect looked like. But I started to notice this is also a form of ableism¹. I wasn’t treating them like I treated everyone else. If something went wrong, I excused it more quickly. If someone didn’t try, I let it pass. If the result wasn’t good, I avoided saying it directly. I thought I was being supportive, but in reality, I was lowering the standard before they even had the chance to reach it.

One rehearsal made this very clear to me. Everything went wrong. They had no focus, no effort, no real commitment. It would have been easy to ignore it and move on, to pretend it was amazing. But instead, one of the teachers stopped everything and addressed it directly. She told them it wasn’t good enough. Not because they couldn’t do it, but because they weren’t trying. And then she said something that stayed with me: «If people watch this, do you know what they will think? They will think ‘they are so cute, it’s great that these people have opportunities now.’ And we don’t want them to think that, because you are way more than your difficulties.» For some people who don’t know them or who weren’t there this may sound harsh but the reality is they really improved because they knew someone believed they were capable. And it made me realise that what often looks like kindness is actually a lack of expectation. And a lack of expectation is another form of limitation. When we expect less from someone, we are already deciding how far they can go.

People with disabilities don’t need to be protected from reality all the time. They don’t need everything to be softened or simplified. They need to be treated with kindness and honesty. That includes being corrected, being challenged, and sometimes being told that they need to try harder, just like anyone else. If they make mistakes, they should be called out. If they don’t try, they should be told. Not in a harsh or unfair way, but in a real way. Because treating them differently in those moments is not respect, it’s underestimation. And they notice it. They know when people don’t expect much from them. They know when they are being treated like children. And they also know when someone actually believes in them and pushes them to do better. I’ve seen the difference. When expectations are low, they stay low. When someone believes in their potential and treats them accordingly, they improve. They focus more. They take things seriously. They show abilities that people often assume they don’t have. And of course, they are happier, more secure of themselves.

At the same time, I’ve realised that I still have to correct myself. Even now, I sometimes choose the easier path, simplifying too much, avoiding confrontation, excusing behaviour I wouldn’t excuse in anyone else. And when I notice that, I have to stop and ask myself: am I doing this for them, or for my own comfort? Because it is more comfortable to feel pity than to demand effort. But pity does not help anyone grow.

Another thing that stands out is how people react when these people don’t fit the “cute” image. When they swear, when they get angry, when they mess up, when they act in ways that are completely normal for anyone else, people get surprised. Sometimes even uncomfortable. But that reaction says more about us than about them. We are used to seeing them in a simplified way. And when that image breaks, we don’t always know how to respond.

The truth is, neurodivergent people are not simple. They are not just “sweet” or “innocent” or “special”. They are complex people, with dreams, desires, struggles, emotions, opinions, strengths and flaws. Reducing them to something soft and harmless might feel like kindness, it did for me for a long time, but it actually takes away their complexity.

So now, when I hear people describe them as “cute”, I don’t hear kindness in the same way anymore. I hear low expectations. I hear distance. I hear a subtle way of not taking them seriously. People with disabilities don’t need to be seen as soft or small. They need to be seen as capable because they are far more capable than we give them credit for, and they do and say the most amazing and beautiful things. I think that’s the best way to put it: not softer, sot smaller, just equal. The moment we stop expecting, we stop seeing. And maybe the problem was never the word «cute», but everything it quietly replaces.

1- A kind of discrimination against people with disabilities, the belief that they are less capable or need to be fixed

I am new to this subredit and to writing without a reason and I was prompted to write this after watching a TV show and being astonished that I couldn't follow along because I didnt know the meaning of the words they were saying...

I want someone to tell me what or where I should actually post this and how to actually make it make sense. I feel like it could honestly be split into 3 essays but all of the issues are related.

Never the less here is my hack-job of an essay.

Firstly, I would like to announce to the readers of this that I am by no means perfectly literate, and most definitely not the most perfect person to deliver this message. But I will nevertheless try.

The area that I reside in, Ohio, I would say is somewhat educated. The school that I go to has won awards in the past for being exceptional in education, along with schools near me. But I couldn't go as far as to say that we are currently exceeding more than basic intelligence.

We are currently in a state of decline, and I'm not the only one that is noticing. Even teachers that are good at the subjects they are teaching will tell you that their hands are tied. They are struggling to get the kids they are trying to educate to actually care about their education. Even when the curriculum allows for more hands-on teaching, educators are still having trouble finding the right way to get through to kids and teenagers.

This is not just a lack of caring on the children's part. Even when the conditions are just right in school for children to learn, they still are not. Most children's parents struggle with finances and struggle to give their kids what they need, and kids notice and really do care. Some don't even know when their next meal will be; so why would they care about learning how to properly write a sentence or how to properly use punctuation? I surely struggle with this, obviously, and I very much so care about this.

Children are stressed, more stressed than they have ever been. Since 2007, the suicide rate in the U.S. has risen 62%; most of the reason for this stress is caused by financial insecurities and lack of sleep.

Major medical organizations recommend that middle and high schools don't start before 8:30 a.m at the earliest because if not, they are literally depriving students of the sleep that is most important for learning, memory, and emotional processing; and somehow school districts all around America haven't changed school starting hours. This should scare people, without a doubt. But it is not.

Focusing on the other issue I've mentioned: Financial insecurities across America are hurting everyone in more ways than imagined. If not one thing, it's another. People are struggling to find jobs that actually pay enough money to support their family. Even people with college degrees have the same issue. A full-time minimum wage worker in Ohio earns about $23k a year, but MIT's living wage calculator says that those same workers need to make over $42k just to cover basic needs.

In my own experience, I have been asked to "stop using big words" and constantly asked what the words I say even mean. Every day, even I am astonished that words I find basic are incomprehensible to even hear for some people. And that concludes my point.

In conclusion, more and more people are becoming illiterate and ill-prepared for life, and it's just going to hurt America more and more in the future if we don't do anything. It's not that the people in charge can't do anything to rectify these issues; it's the fact that they won't do anything, and we should do more as a society to change that.

[I wrote a creative nonfiction essay about leaving the apartment where I spent twelve years becoming an adult. Does the apt feel like a person or do the themes come out? I’d love feedback as I am nervous to share my work. Thank you. ]

Laying stagenet in one spot comfortably changed me into a gatherer. My collections, now paired with my forever partner's collections, leaves the two bedroom duplex named Albion, functionally bursting at its seams. A decade of furniture and clothes and oddities.
My years of memories, emotions, and sounds reverberate through her walls and have crept within its plaster, just like Ivy crawling up a house, weakening its foundational structure. Albion simply cannot hold me physically, mentally, or spiritually anymore.

I know l've outgrown this place, and as I hold the bright, clean keys of a new house in my hands, I can't help but wonder:

Where will it all go?

Where will I go?

•••

Where do I go: at twenty seven years old, I decided to wait until the timer had a single grain of sand left to find a new rental away from sleepy Berkeley and back into The City. House hunting was not my forte. The boyfriend, a soft pear-shaped brick of a man took over and passed along an ad from an online mutual: a girl in tech cohabiting with an artist are looking for a roommate.

The place was perfect. It was three blocks away from my newly acquired job, and a not-even ten minute walk to my first home - the boyfriend's haunted house. I barely survived six months of living there before making an escape to the east bay for space i wasn't ever granted (Stalking. Years from now, I'd perform a self inflicted exorcism, ripping my hands' forcibly-fused scars away from his palms; the ending of that grasp transformed into PTSD. But that's a longer story for another time).

Twelve years ago, my first hello to Albion was a finger pressing its nearly broken door bell. My introduction to her was in the form of two feet passing through its threshold. I quietly learned more by climbing up its steep rickety stairs to the main living floor. By the end of my night, I signed a roommate contract. Unbeknownst to me, I silently committed to a friendship with the nine-hundred square foot building the very moment pen dragged along printer paper.

•••

"I live in the carriage house of a funeral home! Spooky!" A line I recite to curious newcomers to quell their suspicions of my humble abode.

Do I see dead people? Just in closed caskets. Have I been haunted? Only by memories of ex lovers. Aren't the funerals sad? Family and friends who haven't seen one another in years gather together to recite memories of the deceased. Sometimes I hear loud music or drums whaling out of the parlor's brick walls. Other times my eyes have been glued to a window to watch drama unfold. I've been invited to drink with the dearly departed's beloved after I complimented vibrant outfits on my way out. It's a perfectly messy party. There is joy hidden in grief.

I've introduced so many to Albion. Countless roommates, friends, and strangers have seen her walls. So many parties. After hours pizza hangs. Potluck holiday events.
For one birthday I requested that my guests come and paint my living room a muted shade of sky blue as my gift.

•••

I set a blaze to a tin of jiffy pop on my 1980s stove. My panicked brain threw it into the sink and stupidly doused it in water. Luckily it didn't backfire. I once opened the kitchen door and was greeted with violent flames; my tiny, not up to code balcony caught on fire somehow.
Firefighters left their mark in the shape of sooty footprints on my floors. My lovely landlord suggested a whiskey for nerves when I tearfully relayed the news. I hugged his granddaughter who came to my door offering help, sobbing into her shoulder as my flammable adrenaline finally subsided. A year after I moved in, there was some kind of incident on the next street over and the police wanted to use my deck as a bullet vantage point. I declined. I've listened to mariachis echo through my windows on warm summer evenings during golden hour.
I've listened to musicians and singers practice their talent over the years and neighbors throwing too loud of parties.
But they were joyful.

•••

With only four more days left in Albion, my heart keeps breaking in places I haven't felt before. I am mourning a two bedroom, one bath upper-level unit of a 1930s duplex in the parking lot of a funeral home. Until aged 28, I never wanted to be on a lease. I didn't want to be tied down.
Nomadism was the safest option for my body that felt unsafe in any lean-to.

I slowly began to gather and collect, filling Albion to the brim. I entered a new decade waking up on my couch in a stupor. I've celebrated and mourned between her walls.
Gained perspective and shed ideals no longer suiting me.
I've grown so much. I finally understood what unconditional love felt like holding my son on the floor in my lap the day I brought him home. I've felt deep heartbreak and suffered losses. My hand was asked in marriage. I create and love here with my chosen family. I need more space for this joy. It's time to move on.

Goodbye, old friend.

Prompt:
Think about yourself at 17 and yourself today as two people standing on opposite sides of a river. Describe the bridge connecting them. What moments built the bridge? Which experiences nearly destroyed it? What beliefs, dreams, fears, and habits managed to cross from one side to the other and which were left behind?

Where are you now and do you know where you’re going?

Description:
A reflective essay about the events, choices, and turning points that transformed you from who you were into who you are.

Notes:
Write an essay for fun and I’ll review it for fun too. No rules

I knew my essays would be graded for completion only, but I was still hoping for some type of feedback. So, I will post them here and y’all can provide feedback instead. Clearly, only if you want to. Thanks!! (Oh! And this essay has already been submitted and marked as complete)

Prompt:
The relationship between Sally Hemmings and Thomas Jefferson is one which had been ignored by modern historians for decades.  The documentary brought to light some very important facts regarding how Jefferson treated the slaves on his plantation. After viewing the video and reflecting on what you have learned in a two page essay please do the following:
 
How has your historical opinion of Thomas Jefferson changed after viewing the evidence?  Why do you believe the story of Sally Hemmings was ignored for so many years until irrefutable DNA evidence stopped the debate.  Why do you the student believe that the Jefferson's history with slavery is not discussed in schools? 
The key here is not answer the questions to the best of your ability after reflecting on what you have learned.  You may refer to your textbook for further insight regarding Sally Hemmings and Thomas Jefferson.  

Essay:

As odd as it may sound, I have always known about Sally Hemmings. I remember
discussing her relationship and heritage and the irony and hypocrisy of her situation and
relationship with Thomas Jefferson in school, first in 8th grade then again as a Junior in high
school. Learning more about Sally Hemmings now has not dramatically changed my opinion of either of them. Instead, this has further reinforced my belief that history and historical figures should be reviewed as actual people: the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Part of the discussion in both years was always ‘Why’. Why did Jefferson feel comfortable pursuing a relationship with an enslaved woman in his household? Men have taken
women to their bed whether they have purchased them for the night, for their life, or have employed them to serve in their household. This is not a new phenomenon. Men in power will almost always do what they want, when they want. Why was it kept a secret? It probably wasn’t. A household the size of Monticello, everyone would know. It just wasn’t discussed in an open forum. Most affairs and illegitimate children are known and are dealt with however the head of the house sees fit. Sometimes they are taken into the nursery, sometimes they are taken abroad.
Again, this entire situation was a fairly common occurrence.

We honestly can’t even say that the only aspect of their relationship to create dissent was
the fact that Sally Hemmings was black and a slave, because again, it was happening on every plantation, in every societal structure.

The only question that changes the landscape (maybe?) is why is or was this relationship
treated differently? Why is it a source of contention these 200 years later? While the hypocrisy abounds, it doesn’t change who he was or who she was. It doesn’t change what he did or worked towards or acted upon. I think the hardest part people have issue with is they want to see these key historical figures like they see their favorite superhero, completely without fault and idealizing everything good in the world. Discussing a facet of Jefferson that doesn’t exactly match the previous ideology of the man does cause a bit of friction.

Unfortunately, I think Sally has been mostly ignored because footnotes so often are. She
didn’t have any political power, nor did she seem to influence any of Jefferson’s choices. It is hard to say how she may have felt as an enslaved woman who had children with the man
responsible for her captivity or to reconstruct her day-to-day life, as there are so few records to survive from her perspective. The Thomas Jefferson Foundation continues to work towards remedying this as they have committed to fully understanding Jefferson and the people who lived and worked at Monticello.

I believe the weight we have given this discussion is disproportionate. Not because I
think it is insignificant, but because I believe we are putting too much emphasis on a single
relationship and allowing that to overshadow everything else. Jefferson had a mistress, had
children with her, and she was a slave in his household. We can include these parts of his life into the overall discussion of who he was as a person and what role he played in the creation of this country. This allows us to better understand who Jefferson was as a person, complex and contradictory and confusing at times. Do I believe Jefferson was without fault? No. But I do believe we shouldn’t evaluate Jefferson solely through his relationship.