the tilt shift

a phenomenon in which your lived experience seems oddly inconsequential once you put it down on paper

«27|9|18

Who hasn't had a mini crisis when asked to write an essay? I bet you have, and I definitely have as well, until I realised the solution to this situation had been right in front of me all along. Various teachers kept insisting for donkey's years that the key to writing a proper essay was planning it beforehand. I turned a deaf ear to this valuable piece of advice. “No planning needed!” I thought, “I shall take a trip on the wild side!”. I applied the same philosophy to cutting my own hair, and after many attempts, I found out that in both cases the result was not quite what I had expected. Why? Because writing an essay is just like cutting your own hair. You must look into how to do it properly.

First things first: what do you want your hair to look like, and how do you achieve the exact shape and length you desire? You will realise that this step is unavoidable, and the same is also true when planning an essay. You must know what it is going to be about. A helpful tip is to brainstorm some ideas and see how you can connect them. When your decision is made, investigate as much as possible and gather the necessary information so that your writing is ideologically coherent. This information, added to your knowledge of the language, will be your most important tool, without which you can do nothing – just like scissors and mirrors are essential for hair cutting.

Now is the time to put your knowledge into practice. Yet to cut hair properly, you must first split it into parts and then get at them one by one. So must you do with an essay. Have in mind that the reader ought to be introduced to the subject in order to read all about it in depth later, and of course there's also the conclusion, a great excuse to finish your work off with a bang.

Calmly, boldly, grab your scissors and pen and go snippety-snip, scribbly-scrib. It will not look ideal at the beginning, but remember, your work is not done yet. Once you have gone through all the layers, there is the crucial part of going over what you just created, and correct anything that seems off or askew. Keep doing this until it is an even, coherent, harmonious and satisfactory piece of work, beautiful in your eyes. For these final touches make for tidiness.

Last but not least, enjoy your creation! Rejoice in the wonderful work of your hands, be proud of it, go and flaunt it and show all your friends your gorgeous work of art – be it your essay, your haircut, or both.

#Prose

»21|10|17

sos hermosa adentro y afuera no te entregues a cualquiera

#poetry

»10|10|17

i can scream with my lips closed i can shout with my mouth shut i can shriek without air i can cry help with my tongue still

i can sob without tears i can wail without sounds i can cry with my eyes dry i can feel your hand there

i can panic in a standstill i can loathe you in silence i can pray in pain and i can i can.

#poetry

«9|10|17

Sheffield's Graveyard

The graveyard was part of a church high on a steep hill, surrounded by low stone walls. As soon as you crossed the iron gates you found yourself confronted with mossy, laden stone crosses taller than you were. Every thing was made of chipped, ancient stone, somewhat corroded by time. Many shades of grey met the eye. It was high evening, not too dark, but dark enough to justify a lonely Narnian-looking lamp post being lit by the side of the stone pathway. Its dim yellow halo was bright enough to be seen from afar, but it seemed to me that it couldn't serve any further purpose than that of being a feeble miniature lighthouse. I walked up to the lamp-post, dedicated a moment to admire it and feel like Lucy Pevensie, and made a turn to the right.

Broken stone steps, made even more unsteady by the constant drizzle that had been falling, took me to the presence of yet more tombs. Row after row of chipped gravestones, some bearing unintelligible epitaphs, either because the surface had smoothed out with age, or was half-buried in the ground... or both.

It really was an old, massive graveyard. A sign outside its grey walls stated, somewhat proudly, that it held more than ten thousand graves inside, where naughty badgers and radioactive red foxes had made their homes, or so I had been told. I had barely walked through a fifth of the whole place and was already amazed by the amount of bodies that were decomposing underground. No wonder, I thought, the grass is such a bright green, and daisies bloom so profusely.

#Prose

«9|10|17

Cian leaned on his arm, not even daring to look at the time, for he just wanted to admire Anne from afar. He was unable to actually see her but for a dark silhouette cut against the moonlit sky, yet he remembered what she looked like with such exact precision that he could picture her now as if she was under broad daylight: bony, yet with a full-breasted chest, to where her sandy hair reached, almond shaped and coloured eyes, curvy lips, a wide grin of slightly crooked teeth, sharp cheekbones and a round-edged nose, and she smelt of fresh cotton and virginal naïvety, even though her rosy skin betrayed a tainted glow. And one wondered how could a mouth with a voice so dry also have a tongue so wet.

#Prose #Strangeland

»15|3|17

Her curly hair never tangles, her amber eyes glow with joy only when around the people she loves, and sometimes not even then. She may either stand aside and keep quiet, or be the centre of attention while telling everyone about her last cause of happiness or distress; but at all times she observes and keeps everything that's going on in her heart and mind for later use. She may not want to admit it, but she's a hopeless romantic, and I know she'd love to know that I'm thinking of her now. Through thick and thin she will always be my friend.

#Prose

»4|10|17

otra vez me despierto justo ahora que el agua en mis ojos

otra vez el agua en mis ojos, justo ahora que me despierto

#poetry

«27|9|17

just you alone own my heart and it's quite unique i have known nothing better.

#poetry

«27|9|17

often it hurt to live i needed my girl she was so naïve

in another world her hair straight mine in curl

i could not wait but i did believe this was fate

#poetry

»27|8|17

coming back... ...at a time when i'm perhaps the polar opposite of my old self, the one i never thought i would be.

but in a way i'm the same foolish girl. i've anchored my heart yet again. i feel this ship will not sink. not unsatisfactorily at least. but again i'm holding on to earthly things. earthly beings.

i'm coming back at a time when i'm perhaps the exact mirror reflection of my old self, the one i never thought i would be again.

#poetry