The yellow lines on the highway sped by in a blur, and we flew through the night, and we felt free.

But we weren’t, and we knew it. We were running away from something, and running away was never the path to freedom.

I thought about telling him to turn back. I thought about suggesting that we pull over and take a minute to consider before we went too far, before we got lost.

I did not want to stop, but I knew that we had to. We could not leave the dominoes which had been set up for us, thought which we were to knock over as we moved on into our adult lives.

We both knew which colleges we would be attending already. Nowhere spectacular, but enough to start. We would go our separate ways in life.

Instead of stopping, we just continued to drive. I didn’t know what speed. The trees whizzing past seemed inconsequential to what we were both thinking about.

I knew I should get what I wanted to say off of my chest, but though it was false, I loved the feeling that we were so free we could speed on forever. We would leave everything behind and nobody would be able to tell where we had gone.

He and I were from two different worlds, with two paths that were destined to drift apart.

I opened my mouth to speak.


She was going through her late grandfather’s things, helping her family in the effort to arrange what would be kept and what would be gotten rid of.

She was sorting through the contents of the antique desk in his study, the lacquer on the wood chipped at the edges, and the handles to the drawers oxidized black from their original shine. After wrestling with its second drawer, she was finally able to see what was inside.

There was a pile of papers in a faded yellow folder, which she moved aside to review later in case it might contain something important. If they revealed any previously unknown assets, they would be added to the list of things which her relatives would argue about.

Her grandfather was not an emotional man, but she thought that she had known him well enough as a child, though not as an adult. She hadn’t the chance to know him as a person before his memory started to fail him.

In truth, nothing in this study had probably been touched since he had been moved to a care facility by her family after her grandmother’s death. Nothing in this house had been touched in years, but at least her family had waited until he was dead to start rifling through his belongings.

Beneath the folder was a small box, seeming to contain knick-knacks of all sorts. An empty old tin from mints that they don’t make anymore, a fountain pen, a fossilized eraser, and one more item, which seemed to be a small metal disk, engraved with something that she couldn’t read.

She picked up the strange object, wondering what it could possibly be. After dusting it off, she saw that it was a bronze-ish color, spotted with the same oxidation as the handles of the drawers. She traced the edge of the disk until the center popped out, revealing a magnifying glass.

She dusted off the glass, and looked though it onto her hand. To her surprise, she had it turned the wrong way, and her hand looked smaller instead of larger.

As she held it up to the light, it was like a world in miniature through that glass. The edges were sharper, yet, more compressed. The dust on the green glass lampshade was less apparent. It was like the view of the world when you are in an airplane, when cars look like ants, and neighborhoods a series of lines and squares. Eventually your home fades away through the clouds until its just like the speck on the map that it is.

This was a magnifying glass of that world. Of her grandfather’s world. She could imagine him carrying it in his pocket, using it to read the newspaper or a book. It was but an object, but it was something which he had used to see what was out there.

“Are you done over there?” called her aunt, who she could hear coming down the hall.

She stuffed the magnifying glass into her pocket.

Her aunt rounded the corner and stood in the doorway.

She responded, “Yeah”.

“Is there anything important?”

“No, just a few papers and some knick-knacks”.

In case you were confused as to what it looked like, it’s like this (where the magnifying glass rotates back into the center):


“How did you know?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know the answer. I thought I had been careful. I thought that she couldn’t possibly know anything about me at all.

I knew her, technically, but we had never talked about anything personal before. How could she know?

“You play with your necklace a lot”

My hand shot up to my neck, where the chain with a music note charm hung.

“And … you never seem to talk about your family”

My brain was scrambled. I was searching for words, standing there with my mouth hung wide open like some kind of idiot.

“Someone died in your family. Someone close to you. Didn’t they? And they’re the one who gave you the necklace?”

I finally closed my mouth, then opened it again, to mumble, “… yes”.

“I’ll assume that you don’t care to talk about it”

I didn’t.

“How did you know? Are you some kind of mind reader?”

She smiled. “Something like that, I guess”

“Well, its just creepy”

She looked sad for a moment before replying, “I’m sorry you feel that way”

She continued to look at me in a peculiar way, seeming to forget that I was even there.

“Is there anything else about me that you want to expose today or are you done?”

She snapped out of it, looking at me instead of through me.

“Yes. I know you may not care for it, but I wanted to give you some advice; it may not be obvious to you, but people find your broodiness intimidating.

“You should get out more, try to be more available for your friends, not just when you so happen to be in the same place. If you hate feeling alone, stop doing it”

I stared at her, confused yet again as to how she seemed to know exactly what was going with me.

“How –“

“I’m sorry, I need to get to class, but I just wanted to give you my thoughts”

I watched her hair sway as she walked away.

I never saw her again. According to everyone else, such a girl never existed as our classmate.

Hi, I guess

So … it’s been nearly two years since I made a post announcing that I would be ending writing on this blog. Even as I’m writing this, I’m debating about posting it. I’m not sure that anyone who follows this blog actually cares anymore.

If you are one of of old followers or someone who has come across this blog in the time since I’ve stopped posting, I would like to say: sorry.

Two years ago when I was writing all of these posts based on one-word prompts I was very try-hard and tried to sound very intellectual and deep. I was at a point in my life where I was bored and unchallenged and let myself wallow in my internal emotions. Honestly reading most of these posts makes me cringe so hard, so I advise that if this is your first introduction to my blog, that you need not proceed further.

Since the time I stopped writing in this blog, I feel like I have become a much more joyful person, and I’m glad that I don’t feel the need to do something “deep” anymore. Now I have a better idea of my immediate and longer term goals in life, and know more clearly how I am going to accomplish them. They may not be easy but I will try my best anyways because I like myself better when I’m busy than when I’m not.

This sort of internal narration is a very personal thing to put on a blog on the internet, but only two, max three people I know in real life know about this blog, and I’m not sure that they care anymore either. I’d like to thank them for being there when I wanted part of my thoughts to be heard by someone, although I’m sure we’ve all changed in the time since then. I hope that you, too, are doing well, even if I haven’t spoken to you in a while.

This is not an announcement that I will be revitalizing this blog, not by any means. However, I would like to take this time to say this:

If you find yourself unsatisfied in life, complaining to yourself (or the internet) about it won’t change anything. Seek something, anything to occupy your time, whether some new friends or a new hobby. Go somewhere or do something. No matter how bad you are feeling, the world always has something good to offer.


I never understood the purpose of writing down resolutions for the new year. The words on the paper count for nothing if you don’t actually follow them. There is no magic in the ink to force you to do it. Only you can change the way you choose to live your life.

Otherwise, its just a nice, but empty hope for the better.



Every time a new year arrives, I am reminded of what happened in the previous year. Despite the pile of flaming garbage in the foreground of 2017, I feel like not too many people focus on the things in the background which are slowly getting better.

Funny how bad news always garners more attention than good.



I started this year out with an excess of time and a mountain of boredom. I would say that has been very much solved, evidenced here by the fact that I created more than 15 times more posts in the first half of the year than the latter half.

As such, I wanted to announce that this is probably the last time that I will ever post on this blog, since I will probably have even less time on my hands next year than I do now. As for the approximately 2 times a month it strikes me to be creative, I’ll do something more productive (lol).

This was a nice outlet for me for some time, but from now on I’ll just be keeping that to myself.

Thanks for the nice comments which helped convince me my writing might not actually suck.



The landlord showed me the place: a basement apartment with no view, no windows, out of sight, invisible to the world.

It was perfect.

There wasn’t much room either, but that was okay. All I needed was a quiet place to recharge. I didn’t need an architectural work of art. So what if the ceiling tiles looked like they were from a century ago? I could make it my own special sanctuary; natural light was overrated anyway.

If I told or showed my friends this place, they would probably question my judgement. The idea in their minds would be how someone so vibrant could live in a place so dark. But the trick to my lifestyle was that I balance spending time with people, being active and social, with returning to my hidey-hole to recover.

In the past, that place had been my dorm room, but more recently some of my roommate’s friends seemed to think that our room (and mini fridge) were open 24/7. I figured I had aged out of living at the dorm anyways, so I ventured out on the journey to find my new sanctuary.

And honestly, despite its apparent invisibility and undesirability, this place was calling to me.

It helped that the rent was excessively cheap, exactly because of its unique character.

So, this could do.


Before I even start talking about what happened to me, I want to introduce you to the world that I live in, just to give you a bit of background on my extremely sad universe.

In my world, we have the modern innovation of being able to use electricity 24 hours a day, in advanced countries at least. Where electricity is available, it is reliable to be able to be used in every aspect of everyday life, from refrigeration, cooking, light, and computers of course.

Thankfully, we do not need to deplete the earth in order to access this world, but the way we actually get it may be more heinous.

In my world, there are two kinds of people: the regular population and sparks.

Sparks are people who carry the recessive genotype for one gene on the 4th chromosome: electricity. Science still has yet to know how it works, and some with the special genotype don’t even possess the ability, but as a society we have seemingly silently and unanimously decided to exploit and abuse these people for their ability in order to power the of the population’s electrical needs.

Even before the modern age, before the understanding of their full power, Sparks have always been treated poorly. They were often called witches and warlocks, unable to explain the power that flowed through them which occasionally killed other people if it was powerful enough. They were burned at the stake, killed by their families in infancy, and just in general stopped from reproducing, further decreasing the presence of a recessive gene.

Sparks, in the modern age, are systematically identified in infancy and early childhood and raised to maximize electrical output to power our cities and towns. In the most recent statistics, only a half of a percent of the general population are born with any ability to produce electricity, and their few number support the other ninety nine percent. National governments generally keep the worst information about their treatment from the public, but it has always been a thought in the back of society’s mind that they are shoved somewhere to essentially slave away.

Whenever someone is born a Spark, they are taken away from their family at a young age and never seen again. Federal laws throughout the world take away the parental rights of Sparks at the time of their discovery. Any trace of their existence is essentially erased from the public mind, but for the few families who know of those who have been taken in this way.

I always wondered what it must be like to be one of them in that way; to be invisible to the rest of the world, never given the chance to go out and live a normal life.

Story ideas often come to me in this format: I might know the world inside and out and be able to develop the background of a character but I suck at figuring out what’s supposed to come next. I’ve always been better at reading books 😛 I just thought that this is an interesting story concept and wanted to put it out there for people to think about, since this dystopia sort of parallels our actual world in a way.


Hi, my name is _________ .


Is that who I am?

Can it be contained within that noun?

Would I be the same person with a different name?


“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet”

Is my name an appropriate descriptor of who I am then?


Can that seemingly random combination of symbols somehow communicate something about who I am?

Is it able to tell anything about me?


What impression does it leave?

Why does it matter?


Sometimes, I don’t feel like what my name says.

I just feel…



There’s no name to my own consciousness.

It’s just there.


Sometimes, I can forget where I am.

I can forget who I am.

In that context, my name doesn’t matter.


I’m just a person.