Blurred Ink on Bizarre Time
(09/16/21 12:00pm)
Clocks are strange, they don’t have agendas but move promptly.
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Clocks are strange, they don’t have agendas but move promptly.
I stare at the blank canvas in front of me with a glimmer of desperation in my eyes. It’s happening again. My body is frozen, trying to pull inspiration from thin air. My eyes scan the empty room. The paintbrush in my right hand feels like a dumbbell begging to be put down. It’s been half an hour at this point and still nothing.
POV: It’s 2014. You’re getting dressed for school and reach for black tights, your new skater skirt from Kohl’s and a pair of black combat boots. You scroll through Tumblr while you wait for your parents to drive you. "Chocolate" by The 1975 is playing on your iPod. Life is good.
Fake parking tickets, sidewalk pavement, public buses. These are just a few places Ed Madden has inserted poetry as Columbia’s poet laureate. He has two main goals: to make poetry a public art and to promote the voices of local writers.
i started chewing my gum too soon
I skipped the last day of high school to go to your funeral.
The traveler stood in the rubble, looking onward with unseeing eyes. All around him lay the ruins of an alien world. He saw mysterious structures from a forgotten era, infected with life as the vegetation strangled the surroundings. Towers that touched the heavens, now lying along the ground as nature reclaimed what it had lost. He walked along, noticing the statues of the now extinct builders, and he wondered where everything had gone wrong. It seemed to him that they had built monuments that they believed would last forever, testaments to their greatness and skill. But now that they were gone, they only served as testaments of their failure, a monument to disaster. What a strange people, unknowing of their fragile mortality yet boasting of life and power. The traveler found it rather odd.
Tally the numbers of your answers as you go and see at the end which "Fate: The Winx Saga" character you most likely are!
Unity can be difficult to envision in a world
You remember what it was like. Before the nightmare. Before all of this. Every second the memories of better days run through you at the speed of light, never ending and never ceasing. You remember your family. You remember your friends. You remember the time spent together. Your life, your passion, your happiness. But all of that is gone. All that was is now nothing at all. You can’t handle this and eventually you stop trying. Now you sit, alone among the shattered pieces of your mind, with nothing to keep you company but the memories.
It was supposed to just be a normal day. I just wanted it to be a normal day.
I've recently decided that fall is my favorite season. It's the latest addition to a growing list of self-discoveries from the past couple of months.
Click.
Videography by Samantha Cheeseright
Graphic by Emily Schoonover
It was November. Late enough that the very eager were atop precarious ladders hanging boughs of lights, and early enough that the very dispassionate had a few more weeks of ignorant bliss before the scramble to buy gifts. The coffeehouse had, of course, been abuzz with workaholics on conference calls (black coffee, no sugar), burnt out teachers inching ever closer to their holiday (cappuccino, lots of sugar) and bubbly teenagers meeting to “work on a group project” (like, a frappé thing?). From overworked retail employees to underworked beneficiaries of nepotism, the sonorous siren of the espresso machine was a summoning of hope.