Sometimes I can’t help but feel this way.



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my mother.
it stares at me and runs away.
large manor, victorian, ivy, brick;

large silver table stretching across a huge room. there is a large chair at the end. there are silverware and plates set on the table. there is a red carpet lying down the middle of the table.

pick and it up and look at it.
a stream.
i will jump over it.

Freda Jera


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Freda Jera,

Rip my heart from stone.

Evening falls and I am listening ever intently, never ceasing while you chisel me away.

Down, beneath the Earth, where blood like velvet,

and eyes like the midnight sky meet.

Jostled and thrown when you formed me as a woman damned to sing,

evermore; until when I am

ready to depart.

And when I am done, let me know, so I may return to stone.

Art and the Sanctity of Human Life


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I am of the opinion that the universal value of art is greater than the sanctity of one or of several human lives. I do not believe this in the sense that for every painting created one should sacrifice himself willingly to protect it; instead, I believe that it is the voice, timeless nature, and culture portrayed within works of art that are worth the sanctity of human life.

When looking at art as a whole, it is apparent that the voice and the ideas it speaks of are far beyond the life of a single man. The works of both ancient and modern times capture thoughts of the cultural era in which they were created. They each encase the passions of man within their brush strokes, melodies, photographs, and scrapings of marble. Each respected piece does not simply communicate the mind of its artisan; it reveals a glimpse of the period in time in which such a thing of beauty was created. Each piece represents struggle, love, hatred, oppression, and freedom which ultimately make the thoughts and actions of men immortal. If one is eager to fight and die for the country they love in battle, would it not be noble then to do the same for such a cultural importance as art? Since the heart and spirit of a nation is embedded in the art it produces, it is of the utmost importance to preserve and protect it. After all, many men have died for causes much more wicked than that of art.

The consistency of art and its immortal impact leads me to believe it is worth the sanctity of human life. Its universal proclamation of harmony and beauty allows separate nations of men to appreciate a common object. Art, much like mathematics, is a universal language which can reach any audience despite national boundaries. It is a way to influence others peacefully by using beauty instead of might. The universal value of this beauty reaches beyond just a single soul. Its ability to impact men outside the limitations of time, race, and gender leads me to believe art is worth the sanctity of human life because that is what it represents. While men live and die, art remains consistent. The endeavors, innovations, and important figures of each period in history are captured within its creations. The inspiration of ancient and new ideas can be seen in the paintings, songs, architecture, and sculpture these ideas produced. It is in this way that the concept of art does not operate simply on a physical level; art tells the immortal story of man, what he has accomplished, what he has created, and what he has made better for himself and his country. In my opinion, the sanctity of human life is art and all it represents.

If the dignity and sanctity of man is preserved in the beautiful things he creates, man should be willing to die for the good of these creations. It is the universal value of art that makes its protection crucial. Art is an indicator that men from different national standings are able to come together and appreciate something beautiful and historical as one. It shows the cultural struggles of those before us and inspires those alive in the present to innovate, create, and change society for the better. Pieces of art are pieces of mankind’s soul and if one cannot die for something such as that, what then can one die for?

The Trouble of Day


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They say the soul is old,

like a struggling creature nailed to a body – frantic; trembling for escape.

It sings out, in the middle of the night.

Sends the sleeping mind dreams of lavish worlds with their indescribable nature

which churn within themselves incomprehensibly,

until the lights pitter forth from eastern horizons.

We meet ourselves inside these dreams.

Regretfully, with morning comes the redundant irritation

of worldly things, our useless construct; beating down with its

prattling quarrels and empty banter.

We cannot rest.

Hold up the body high and rise forth with might – we fight each other over simple matters!

Objectives are unclear, motivation is questionable and we all scuttle about

lost, nervous, and so utterly alone.

Toil and slave to feed a higher master – the machine operating underneath our existence functions so



and so discreetly that it is almost as if it does not exist at all.

It is almost as if we have always been this way,

like this is the purpose;

this is our end.

I walk through choked streets, lined with concrete and metal braces,

through alley ways, and muddy gutters in the pouring rain.

I can see them living in rows upon rows of identical boxes – stretched with the same canvas,

packaged all the same way.

I watch the streams moving in organized lines,

all the same direction, not one out of place.

Each single mask fits each single face perfectly with the utmost importance; it’s a brilliant game,

but I don’t want to play.

It grows very silent sometimes on these streets,

with everyone locked away in individual cells.

It appears so fragile; you might be able to reach out and touch

their sphere of reality,

one end of the street to the other, the beginning and end.

A deluded parade marching without a cause, conversation for nothing, efforts in vain,

forever supposing a higher design but finding themselves never having the time

to sit and muse over what’s divine and sublime.

They say the soul is old,

like a struggling creature nailed to the body;

I believe what they say.

For I’ve seen this before or grudgingly toiled in some other place

far, far away or perhaps even near here.

However, this makes no difference to me – for I have reached out to pierce the frame of reality,

tore fabrics aside, shredded the drapes and then let in the light.

I shook off the scales covering both of my eyes, and took in the answers – anything I could see,

I let it wash over me; for tonight I return to the deepest of sleeps

to vanish

beyond narrow streets; my soul will whisk me away, far from the world and the trouble of day.

How Pot Helped My Brother Find The Marauder’s Map


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It’s funny how bothersome nights can end up being. 

It was a seemingly average Thursday night when my brother, quite randomly, approached me with several pills; telling me he’d pass them off to me for five dollars. I considered it for a moment then figured that five dollars wasn’t such an incredible loss so I obliged.

The pills hit me slowly. They crept up from my feet; spreading over my body like ice-cold fingers. I began to nod my head lower and lower. My vision fogged just slighty and a dopey looking grin (I’m positive that it must have been upon recalling the position my face had been in) spread over my complexion from ear to ear. The movie I had been watching suddenly became more entertaining. My brother returned then and offered me a hit of his marijuana. He handed me the bong and his lighter so I, as any courteous person would do, took the hit.

Everything was quite hazy after that.

We decided to go on a late night walk with no definitive destination and purpose unknown. Perhaps I was feeling anxious and just wanted some fresh air.

The night was cool and calm. The heat which had scorched our neighbourhood before had simmered down to a musky mist; a gentle breeze tingled across my sweaty skin. We turned down a street lined with tall concrete buildings. They were in a depressing state, paint peeling, driveways cracking, bricks moulding …  I stared up at them sadly.

“Okay, so he’ll be here soon.”

“Who?” I asked.

“…the guy … Sam … for weed?”

“Oh.” So that’s why we went on a walk.

I panned the scene with bleary eyes, specifically focused on a bright red door; an anomaly within so much grey. I wondered if the family living inside this incongruity were any different from the typical families living inside all the other houses. Did they paint it themselves? Was it always that way?

What stupid and senseless questions I’m asking.

Eventually the “guy” my brother spoke of showed up in a blazing red car – music blared from its slightly cracked windows. It was like a beacon on the grey street – similar to the red door. What is it with the colour red tonight? I wrinkled my nose.

“So yeah, get in?”


“Wha-” I didn’t want to get in the car.

“Yeah.” Adamantly.

I found myself in the back of the obnoxiously loud vehicle which displeased me quite a lot. We rocked down the street, the car swerved ever so often. I clung tight to the cloth seats.

What surprised – or annoyed – me the most was not the car, the noise, or anything of that sort, it was the two in the front seats which rustled my feathers. They spoke in debauched English, firmly believing that their neanderthalic dialect made them more intimidating to the average man. I furrowed my brow as the car veered randomly. The benzos I’d taken normally make me irritable and this time was no exception.

I turned to my brother, “Can we get the fuck out of here?” I was tired and longed to go home and retire for the night.


Soon we stopped and the transaction was made. My brother got his marijuana. He refused to leave until he had a hit from the bong sitting the car – who it belonged to I did not know nor did I ask. Finally smoke poured from his nostrils and he gave me a nod whilst coughing erratically.

I have a sigh of relief, it was time to leave.

“You know we ain’t drivin’ you back, aiigt?” Damn. I flicked my head to the left to glare at my brother.

“I see.”

We exited the vehicle grudgingly, preparing for the tedious walk home.

I was absolutely furious at this point and refused to grace my brother with the slightest word or glance. My blood boiled, the last thing I wanted to do at this moment was walk through dirty streets filled with dirty people.


I rolled my eyes, “What?”

“Ha!” My brother ran up to decaying apartment entrance with eagerness. He scuffled around a bit before tearing some sort of paper substance from the door. He was chuckling arrogantly.

My brother walked up to me; smug. I raised an eyebrow at him, “What?”

“I have found-” he paused dramatically and unrolled the piece of paper in his hands, “-the Marauder’s Map!”

I looked down … indeed, he was right, there it was.

What We Found.


My embarrassing love of Harry Potter took over me then and a smile broke out over my face. I slurred and laughed, “What the fuck!”

“On someone’s door, weird right?” He laughed too.

Due to being stoned and on drugs, the discovery of the map was most likely much more exaggerated than it should have been but, for whatever reason, the finding brightened the entire walk home. We spent it chatting about how amusing it would be if the map did in fact reveal the footprint locations of people we knew and how we would use that to our advantage.

After the walk, we got home and I’m pretty such my brother taped up the map onto a wall in his bedroom.

I went to bed as soon as I could; exhausted from the long walk.

However, finding the map was totally worth it. It looks fuckin’ awesome.