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Literature Text
(Open-mindedness is not a power.)
Hold up your hand.
Straighten it and make a fist. That arm is a solid structure, a column of cells, a staff.
It's simply a cylinder, and that is all.
(Open mindedness is not a force.)
Go up to a trashcan, place your hands on its side, and shove as hard as you can.
Try it. Watch the trashcan fly, its lid clanging open and its guts spilling over the pavement.
You did that. Notice the veins bulging from your arms.
Do you feel at peace?
(Open-mindedness is not a form of knowledge.)
These I know to be true: the sky is blue, blood is red, and the Earth is round.
"Do you deny sunsets, then? Do you expect only oxygen, and disregard calculus?"
......Please stop.
i dont want to be wrong, its embarrassing
Now go outside.
Imagine yourself immersed in sky, wrapped in the great blue blanket.
There are thousands of clouds above you, some heavy with rain and others bursting with sunshine, and seagulls dip and dive around you. They peck at your face and defecate on your skin,
and you are not made of steel. It hurts, it burns, it colors your cheeks and makes you want to
close up and
drop,
away from the gulls, the harsh sky.
But don't.
Instead,
hold up the fist that you made earlier, the one now covered in scrapes, cuts and seagull excrement.
What's there? An arm and a fist, as it was before and will always be.
Now cup your hand to the sky.
What's there?
What's inside your palm?
Not power, not a force, not even the air racing through your fingers.
Do you want to know?
It's everything.
(Open-mindedness is freedom.)
Hold up your hand.
Straighten it and make a fist. That arm is a solid structure, a column of cells, a staff.
It's simply a cylinder, and that is all.
(Open mindedness is not a force.)
Go up to a trashcan, place your hands on its side, and shove as hard as you can.
Try it. Watch the trashcan fly, its lid clanging open and its guts spilling over the pavement.
You did that. Notice the veins bulging from your arms.
Do you feel at peace?
(Open-mindedness is not a form of knowledge.)
These I know to be true: the sky is blue, blood is red, and the Earth is round.
"Do you deny sunsets, then? Do you expect only oxygen, and disregard calculus?"
......Please stop.
i dont want to be wrong, its embarrassing
Now go outside.
Imagine yourself immersed in sky, wrapped in the great blue blanket.
There are thousands of clouds above you, some heavy with rain and others bursting with sunshine, and seagulls dip and dive around you. They peck at your face and defecate on your skin,
and you are not made of steel. It hurts, it burns, it colors your cheeks and makes you want to
close up and
drop,
away from the gulls, the harsh sky.
But don't.
Instead,
hold up the fist that you made earlier, the one now covered in scrapes, cuts and seagull excrement.
What's there? An arm and a fist, as it was before and will always be.
Now cup your hand to the sky.
What's there?
What's inside your palm?
Not power, not a force, not even the air racing through your fingers.
Do you want to know?
It's everything.
(Open-mindedness is freedom.)
Literature
Faith
I love your belief in God.
Not because it matches mine.
Because it makes you even more beautiful to me.
You are the dream I always wanted, but never had.
(God likes to surprise me. Well, consider me surprised.)
It makes me want to sleep every single night by your side.
I want to wrap my prayers around you.
I want to press my lips to the segments of your body.
If you asked, I would rest my head besides yours
and dream your nightmares for you.
(You shudder in your sleep. I don't think you know.)
In faith, I'll be your dreamcatcher.
In dreams, let me wis
Literature
Before I Can Become a Writer
Develop insomnia. Develop
problems with substance abuse,
nothing serious, but enough
that I can say “write drunk,
edit sober” and mean it.
Drink tea. Write about drinking
tea. Take up smoking, ignore
the thoughts about it being
a slower suicide. Write about
suicide. Don’t mean it.
Write about sunsets and
ink veins. Mean it.
Fall in love with someone
who will never love me back.
Lament. Write a million
crappy poems and two good
ones. Never show him.
Move on. Write a few more
bad poems. Fall in love with
someone perfect. Screw it up.
Fall in love with someone awful.
Call him perfect. Screw it up.
Cry. Cry for the inevitab
Literature
Relativity
What could do me some good, you ask? A deep-tissue massage and a nice, long nap. No alarm clocks, no fitful dreams, no banging on my door, yelling at me to get my ass in gear. Just a few hours of undisturbed sleep.
Sleep is proof God loves us and wants us to be happy. Benjamin Franklin said it was beer, but I think it’s sleep. Now don’t get me wrong, I love a good beer, but let’s be honest, what’s better: waking up with one bitch of a hangover and a bad case of the shits, or waking up refreshed and realizing you’re not quite as dead as you thought you were? And let’s not
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