«5|8|19

“Now, my dear,” the loving voice in her mind soothed her, as she walked down the path, “... try, try to focus on nicer things...”, and she knew that at least for a while, that could not do any harm, nor mean any disrespect to her late spouse's memory. The woman was glad that she had thought of bringing a sweater with her. She had not thought, though, of tying her hair properly, and now felt her ponytail go ruffled and tangly with the change of a too rough breeze. Now she had reached the point where the path started steepening up the cliff, and the wind hit harder. Determinedly she walked on, facing the sea. As she climbed closer and closer to the edge of the cliff, she thought, “I'll get there and look at the rocks, I'll get there and watch my spouse dying there all over again, I'll get there and see how the hostile rocks welcomed him as he fell...” She shook her head, as if that would shake away those dangerous thoughts, as well as her tears. “I'll get there and gasp, for the rocks might still be painted red, I'll get there and scream at them, for they have broken his young body, I'll get there and beg them to bless me with the same fate, for I can't bear this anymore.” Presently she started running. Her tears clouded her vision. Her heart thudded, muffling out the sea. She tripped on a rock she had not seen, almost right at the very edge of the cliff. She almost fell over and down the 500 metres into the sea, but she managed to hold onto the boulder at the top. When she had hoisted herself fully back into land, feeling confused, anguished, awkwardly grateful, she cried her soul out.

#Prose

«17|4|19

True Story Sister

It is a bright winter afternoon, so I am wearing my favourite turtleneck and my snow jacket. I favour warmth over fashion, of course. I am walking the five blocks from the bus stop home when suddenly I hear honking behind me. – You’d work fantastically as a model! – a senior citizen compliments from his car – I mean it! I laugh uncomfortably, and turn the corner. He drives on, because it is the wrong way for him. Just a lewd old man, I think, not quite at ease. I always feel nervous when anyone talks to me in the street. My heart stops when the man intercepts me again. He had driven round the block to find me. – Why did you walk away? – he pulls over and gets out. By now the situation does not look so innocent. I think, if I run away, he will know I suspect him and do me harm. He reassures me again that I am fine model material. – I need models for my clothes shop. I design my very own outfits. You’d look terrific in them, we could have some pictures taken. Are you shy? – Depends – I answer carefully, with a hint of tease. – Good – he looks pleased and walks over to the boot of the car – I’ve got some of my outfits here with me, you can take as many as you wish, want to check them out? – his hand is ready to pop the boot door open, but it just lingers there for now, waiting expectantly for my answer. Now the idea strikes me, he will definitely pull me in there and kidnap me. – No thanks, you’re too kind. – Are you sure? I bet there is someone hidden in there too… – Really, I’m fine, thanks. But I could visit your shop anytime – I add, as an afterthought. – Do you live around here? – I'm visiting a friend. He insists again on me checking out the outfits. I repeat I would gladly visit his shop. Finally he hands me a slip of paper with the name “Tito” and a phone number scribbled in it. He asks me to call as soon as possible. I thank him and he leaves. From that moment on I have never felt safe again, not even when I do not dress “provocatively”, in broad daylight, three blocks from home.

#Prose

«4|4|19

On Non-Dysphoric Transgender Identity: a Reflection.

Similar to otherkinness, transgender is an identity that is captured only after the identity of the model has been known and related to. The kin and the other gender are not inherent in the person that identifies themselves with them, that is to say, it is a fully adopted identity. So, even though transgender is a psychologically assimilated process, its trigger lies in the perception of each individual of it, id est, it is rooted in their interpretation of their social presentation.

21st century western society in general yearns to break bonding and unnecessary taboos and stereotypes. A great day it will be when all women can say without fear of being violented against, “I am a woman and valid as such regardless of what I think, do, say, wear, look like, act like, regardless of what I fight for”.

Does it make sense for this ideal and its counterconcept to coexist within the same society: “I am a woman and valid as such because of what I think, do, say, wear, look like, act like, because of what I fight for”? The issue being presented here is not enablement but perception, and consequently, position adopting regarding the individual's view on where the line is drawn – what does a woman, or a man, or something else make. Yet it is exactly because there is wide room for discussion on the matter, that whatever statement on it hardly has any meaning or relevance at all.

How can this be solved? Would an ideal society stand for clearly outlined definitions and characteristics of each gender, so that the fact of identifying oneself with any one of them starts being truly significant? However if that does not happen, non-dysphoric transgender identity remains a socially-triggered phenomenon which in turn provokes no actual social effect in itself.

#Prose

«4|4|19

Achille's Heel

There is just too, too much of the world. Explorers of ye olden days are no more, in fact, if anything, internet explorers have shown us exactly google results for every single thing in the universe. If Plato was alive, perhaps he would be appalled to observe how the ideal platform for the ideal world is at times more dystopic than the real world. Everything in the universe is in it – and also everything that is not and can only be found inside it. Some are amazed and encouraged to go out and explore beyond their home; others are absolutely terrified and confine themselves inside their room.

There is reason for wonder and reason for horror, after all, a millenial has all of it at hand. And that is precisely why my generation needs to be the wisest. It is not. But it needs to be. As heirs of wealthy families forget their ancestors' toil and strife, so millenials often forget there was ever time before them (unless it is to copy fashion, of course). This leads mostly, ironically, to a lack of empathy, I am afraid. That there is much social justice being done nowadays is undeniable, thus leading to a general thought of mine being the most sympathetic generation of all. But is it really empathy what drives us? Or a feeling of self-righteousness?

Since time immemorial the human race has turned to whatever enhanced their power and inspired other people's admiration. It may be, roughly speaking, that with the Spartans it was war; the Ancient Greeks, knowledge; Romans, conquest; Middle Ages Europe, holiness; and in the Renaissance, the fine arts; Enlightenment, freedom. Now are all these values harmful in themselves? Not all. Yet even the best of them were infamously distorted, thus giving rise to the greatest hypocrisies in history. The most disgusting are perhaps on behalf of the church, and the tyranny of the holy is not over even today. It is not God that turned his face from us. It is the church that kicked it away. And so a new ideal is king of kings today – and who can claim to know social justice's will perfectly? How can it be revealed unto us? This benevolent ideal originates the most dreadful incongruences: pro-choice advocates wishing death on others for not being pro-choice – and pro-life advocates claiming that those who died aborting deserved it. Gender ideology is idolised when its roots are either in strict gender roles and limiting dress codes, or in gender dysphoria, something nobody would be lucky to suffer. Not to mention that because of the former reason it is even practically substituted for personality, and trivialised to the point that it ignores the real suffering of the latter. But of course the mere questioning of it all is often taken as an indicator of a most undesirable person.

An alarum mere fifty years ago goes off. She had a child out of wedlock? She should be banished from the parish! Much improvement has been done. That is why I find it all the more shocking when those who longed to scream shut others up. Yet maybe it is because we millenials have only the faintest clue of the struggle that happened before us, but we were not there to live it. The hardest part of the road has already been paved, and we must only take it in our hands responsibly to pave the rest knowingly and lovingly, because we know now more than ever that we have the power to do it. And we should remember that, whatever our background and beliefs are, love is a living, heart-testing matter, not a dogmatic one.

#Prose

«4|4|19

There are some books everyone seems to agree children should grow up with. Classics like “A Christmas Carol”, modern classics like “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”, legends like King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, Aesop's fables, or the timeless “Little Prince”. Rarely ever among these lists is another essential book found: any Choose-Your-Own-Adventure book. Readable and re-readable, these are stories with multiple endings in which you, the protagonist, have to survive in space, find lost ancient jewels, discover a murderer, unravel a Mayan mystery, and live through – literally – hundreds other amazing journeys.

Besides these books being terrific fun, other characteristics place them (or should, at least) among children's must-reads. Many stories are devoid of fantastic elements, others are slice-of-life with just a slight seasoning of magic, and others are simply the stuff of dreams and myths. Whatever the case, imagination encouragement is guaranteed. Yet in every story reality blends in with fiction; you are the protagonist of this story! Is it not wonderful to finish the first book in the series and declare: “I have time-travelled, and I chose where to go”? A book that offers that experience is not an every-day thing, but when it comes to any Choose-Your-Own-Adventure book, it can be.

Going deeper into the benefits of these reads, the fact of choosing your own adventure is also a great lesson in responsibility and cause-and-consequence. For sometimes stories do take a nasty turn, and the culprit is, of course, the protagonist. Except when the result is completely unfair and unpredictable. Perhaps running away from a ghost ends up in a painful fall down the stairs; and running to it means discovering it was an hologram all along. This could be a lesson in accepting the odds and making the best of it.

Choose-Your-Own-Adventure books teach a greater lesson yet: there is always an option. When it seems the story has come to an end, the option of starting all over again is ever present. These are the best self-help books not only for children, but for adults as well. What better reminder is there that one runs the show? Whenever feelings of powerlessness arise, I say, turn to these books, and then choose your own adventure.

#Prose

«4|4|19

The Beastie

One of the most coveted toys in my childhood were wooden articulated snakes. My younger brother and I positively lusted after these, and gave them great use: not only did we play with them, but we also used them to scare our grandma. Yet even though it seems we were the loyal subjects of these bendy wooden sticks, it was actually them who offered the greater service to us, by feeding our imagination.

The first snake was the matriarch Micotax, the ancestor of all the others who would come later, like Derek and Yanara. She would set the foundation not only for a great ophidian genealogy, but for its mythology too. For at the foot of my brother's bed there was a lake – well, you had to imagine it in the gap between the bed and the wardrobe – and that was Sáiezar's Lake.

Who was Sáiezar? Well, no one, really, yet everyone at the same time; for anyone who fell into the lake would immediately turn evil and emerge from its waters to the war cry of “Sáiezar!” like some infuriated pokèmon. And this myth's pioneer was, of course, Micotax.

I really cannot answer for the logic of our imagination, or the names we came up with, but of course, the spotlight is elsewhere; it is the fun, intricate, years-long stories we lived in playing together that takes centre stage. Micotax had many scales chipped off until it was absolutely necessary to throw her away. It certainly took much battering for us to consider her unfit to play. The physical Micotax left me a long time ago, but the cherished place she has in my memories is there to stay.

#Prose

«4|4|19

A feature common to all the admirable characters in the novel “To Kill a Mockingbird” is the respect for the sanctity of life. Something that may strike as odd, then, is the chasm that is found regarding this matter in three closely acquainted Maycomb women: Miss Maudie and the pair Miss Stephanie Crawford-Mrs Merriweather. all of them belong to the Ladies' Missionary Circle, which as the name suggests, is composed of Christian women; yet it is evident in their race relations that they do not stand out for practising what they preach.

Miss Stephanie Crawford is characterised mainly by having a spiteful tongue and spreading gossip relentlessly, the meaner the better. She does not hesitate before accusing Jem of having been at the Radleys' or shaming Scout for her “unladylike” habit of wearing overalls: “well, you won't get very far until you start wearing dresses more often”, she states when Scout expresses her desire to grow up into “just a lady”. In the very same chapter, at the very same tea party, Mrs Merriweather has a wonderful time blowing her own Christian horn. It is clear to the reader that her boasts of charity and compassion are hollow and self-deceiving, for when talking about the innocent Tom Robinson and family she generously claims “if we just let them know we forgive 'em, that we've forgotten it, then this whole thing'll blow over”.

Miss Maudie, on the other hand, seems to be the only bright spot among the women. While most of the White community cares nothing for the life of a Black person, her love reaches out even to plants: “she loved everything that grew on God's earth, even the weeds”. Also, when the trial is over, she is hopeful and salvages the fact that the jury had taken so long in deciding. Miss Maudie tells the children: “we're making a step – it's just a baby step, but it's a step”.

Harper Lee's portrayal of prejudice is vivid and brave in unmasking the hypocritical Christian ladies that congratulate themselves on their virtue while showing grotesquely racist attitudes. While kindly announcing their intention of reforming and forgiving the Black community, they fail to see that in reality it is the White ladies themselves who are in dire need of reform and forgiveness from the very people they despise. However, the author has left us the truly humble, charitable and kind Miss Maudie as an example who considers that the most important people in Maycomb are “the handful of people who say a fair trial is for everybody, not just us (Whites)”.

#Prose

«2|4|19

How to Sleep a Wink

One of the most pleasurable feelings so considered nowadays is that of barely closing your eyelids in a whole night. How delightful it is to start a day overwhelmed by various impairments to your most natural body functions. How rich to the senses this experience is! Only metaphors can do justice to it. Sundried eyes, a rusty nail driven through the temples, a brain victimated by a vicious cheesegrater, limbs as strong as a balloon and as light as the world. In this wonderful state, even breathing takes a conscious and taxing effort. Well, all this must be wonderful, since it has been increasingly lusted after in the most cosmopolitan cities all over the globe.

Now, staying up late is easy – staying up all night is the real challenge, and it must be practised religiously over and over before proudly announcing to the doctor that critical insomnia has been achieved. So first things first: a full time job or a seven-year course of studies is a must; a combination of both is ideal. A long journey home is added to improve results. Upon arrival, exercise the postponement of certain tasks: homework, exam preparation, dinner, dish-washing, laundry and other household chores. However, these three activities must be done instantly: the intake of at least a litre of coffee, exhaustive social media checking, sitting as much time in front of the TV as is unhealthily possible (actually knowing what is on is absolutely irrelevant).

Tick tock, it's the small hours. A nice drink before going to bed, perhaps? Make that a whole coke bottle. Halfway to the bedroom, suddenly something urgent that was left undone comes to mind – and then another, and another. And then that embarrassing moment at school you will never really get over. And that goldfish you let die. These thoughts are to be encouraged. The aim is to regret every single mistake since birth. This paranoia is just right to set the stage for the next step: alertly pricking up your ears at the surroundings and relating every single sound to your imminent death. Let a wild imagination and the most profound fears run freely hand in hand. Anguish is a great helper too. Try love lost and love unrequited. By absolutely no means must any warm feelings of comfort and hope be summoned.

The alarm goes off just as exhaustion manifests itself in all body cells, and they come and demand that you pay for not having rested. Regretting last night's every action is a clear sign that the whole sleep-deprivation business was a catastrophical success. Bonus points for those who resent each blink, each clink. The situation gets even better if they are able to keep a heavy dull headache throughout the heavy dull day. Ultimate victory is crowned with a persistent bad mood that results in incessant snapping at and death-wishing on everyone, including themselves. So the game goes every day, and one is never too tired to play it.

#Prose

«1|4|19

As the clockhands crawl towards midnight, so do young rascals also – in fact, those who do not are contemptedly counted among the senile already. It seems that only the night owls, the streetlights and the goddess of blue rays, who is fond of curling up in laps and posing idly in living rooms, are responsible for fending off the dark and bringing life into it. Meanwhile, the rest of mortals are unenviably missing out for the sake of trying to add another forty winks to their sleep.

Cock-a-doodle-doo! “Would that sound more or less grating than the average wake-up alarm's beep-beep-beep (kudos to those who managed to make both ends meet)?” We often wonder, while considering the pros and cons of bidding the city farewell. Because no one knows anybody who feels like they have had enough sleep. Because everybody, try as they might with the aid of pills and meditation, eventually grows exhausted of the filth, the honking, the shouting, the transport malfunctions, the downright rage that has made of the city centre its dwelling. And to top it all off, it is so far away from home – not that living right in it is seventh heaven either. so the alarm goes off, right in the middle of the sweetest R.E.M., we hopelessly moan “if only I had five more hours!”, then delude ourselves and place our whole soul into just five more minutes worth of snooze, commit suicide or homicide (whichever opportunity comes first), and then go out to fulfill our daily, dreary, dreaded, dragging, dull civilian duties.

In the hope that few feel themselves related to the following story, I will proceed to describe what I abhor the most about waking up early, particularly in winter. It is not the bone chilling wind. It is the fear. When leaving home just before seven, it is still night. And it is a few minutes short of a ten minutes' walk to the bus stop. Having survived a kidnap attempt in broad spring daylight before, only blocks from home also, the thought is inevitable: how could anything not happen to me now? And who would rescue me? I take comfort from gazing up at the morning star, for all Venus has ever suffered.

Alas, I am not an early bird, though I needs must be, yet if I became one, it would all be for my other starry companion: Aurora. The victorious sunrise, bringing with it a whole burst of magenta, turquoise, coral and yellow hues, conquers over the gloom and the shadows. It seems that only the early birds, the morning light and the goddess of golden rays, who is fond of curling up in footbeds and resting idly on drowsy cats, are responsible for fending off the dark and bringing life into it. Meanwhile, the rest of mortals are unenviably missing out for the sake of trying to add another forty winks to their sleep.

#Prose

«1|4|19

He is as fiery as chili, as stern as a grandfather clock, as cranky as an old wooden chair – yet as homey as a fireplace, as cozy as a blanket, and as good as yakult. Ginger is as warm as a kitten – because he is one.

#Prose