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A Love for Literature Last semester, I took an English Studies class. We read the book, An Introduction to Literature, Criticism, and Theory, by Bennett and Royle. It served as a guide to our literary studies. Its chapters explored prominent aspects of writing and interpretation. I remember doing a project on the "God" chapter. Here, they analyzed the correlation between the Bible and literature itself. Being one of the first texts, at least, regarding the Old Testament, it

The Stranger I am the stranger I see crossing the street. I share the same atoms as the trees, as the bees. I am the breeze. There is a piece of me in everything I see. I am the universe experiencing itself again for the first time. I am the combustion of my surroundings. I am as free as the ocean. I am as big as the world. I am one with my environment, though I am not grounded in it. Everything belongs to me, though nothing that I see is mine.  Everything, Everywhere I feel

Absence of Words I haven't had the urge to write recently, and I'm not quite sure why. I got back to Charleston last week, so I have been busy. I don't have time to think. I don't have the ability to let my thoughts linger. I have nothing to put on paper. I've been trying to grapple with the feeling of being stuck. I've been trying to understand that I need periods of rest, of grace. I need to let my thoughts go silent. Yet who am I without the motion, without the noise? Who

Coming home is a strange and oddly surreal feeling. I find myself feeling excited about everything and nothing at the same time here. My bedroom is a museum, trapped in a different era in each corner. My walls tell the stories of my teenage years through memories, through photographs. My shelves hold knick-knacks from my early childhood. My closet holds the remnants of everyone I have ever loved. My Time Capsule I still have the clothes my mother saved for me from the 90s bur

The Question I often find myself wondering if all creativity derives from illness, from some form of pain. The need to create coincides with my yearning for a cure. The two cannot be separated, interestingly enough. Does all good come from bad? I wonder. Would my favorite creations be the same if it weren't for the state of my body? For the failed aspects of the medical system? Would I have the same drive if I were given a different purpose? Creative Roots I've found mysel