1. We view our world in black and white. We’re blind to the outside world around us. We only see our lives; we don’t live others lives, nor do we understand how every individual lives. Outside of out simple, black and white life is a wide array of color: shades of red, and blue, and green, that we will never experience. Unless, of course, we take a risk. We can expand our horizons by expanding our world. We can explore, we can leave our safe zones, we can run free. There’s nothing stopping us. All we have to do is want to see the color of others’ worlds. Photo credit: “Portland [Black & White]” by Andre Peniche

    We view our world in black and white.

    We’re blind to the outside world around us. We only see our lives; we don’t live others lives, nor do we understand how every individual lives.

    Outside of out simple, black and white life is a wide array of color: shades of red, and blue, and green, that we will never experience. Unless, of course, we take a risk.

    We can expand our horizons by expanding our world. We can explore, we can leave our safe zones, we can run free. There’s nothing stopping us. All we have to do is want to see the color of others’ worlds.

    Photo credit: “Portland [Black & White]” by Andre Peniche

  2. I looked out the window of our minivan for the first time in two hours, since we were going on vacation. We were heading toward the Golden Gate Bridge on a rainy, cold afternoon, when, for the first time in my life, I gasped out of absolute shock. I know, I know. Why gasp at a bridge? I mean, it’s only a bridge; it’s not like it was the first time in my life I’d seen a bridge. And it wasn’t. Instead, it was what was happening on the bridge that shocked me. There was a man, about in his mid-thirties, being held back by two older gentlemen. He was only wearing a white tank-top and jeans, with crazy hair and bloodshot eyes. He was screaming ridiculously, trying to get out of the men’s arms. “Let me do it,” he kept yelling at the guards. “Let me jump, you bastards!” We had been learning in class about California’s history, and the fact that the Golden Gate Bridge was the most popular place to commit suicide in the world had came up. The teacher handled it with ease, except when one girl who sat in the back row asked a simple question: “Why?” The teacher stopped dead in her tracks. She didn’t have an honest answer for the girl. “Well,” she finally began, trying to state of an understandable explanation. “We have structure to our lives. We’re built on the foundation of our family, friends, and others we depend on, much like the bridge itself is. With time, we grow, and develop ourselves, and our “bridge” grows in size, until we hit a monumental moment, until we reach the sky. “Some people, however, aren’t built on a good foundation, or some have something else they come across that weakens their foundation. They can’t handle the pressure being put upon them, on their bridge, and the bridge comes crashing down, comes to an end. We can try prevent the crashes, of course, but sometimes they’ll happen, and they’ll just come crashing down anyway.” I sat there, in the minivan, staring at the man. He was now on his knees, sobbing into his tank-top, with one guard still holding on to him. The other was on the phone, talking to someone. He then put the man on the phone, which caused him to be even more hysterical. The man finally calmed down, hugged the guards, and was escorted back to his car. I thought about what my teacher said about the bridges, and the structure they needed. She had said that the foundation was the problem, and that, sometimes, you couldn’t stop the bridge from coming down. And, though that may be true, you can always rebuild. Photo credit: “Golden Gate Warning” by noesym

    I looked out the window of our minivan for the first time in two hours, since we were going on vacation. We were heading toward the Golden Gate Bridge on a rainy, cold afternoon, when, for the first time in my life, I gasped out of absolute shock. I know, I know. Why gasp at a bridge? I mean, it’s only a bridge; it’s not like it was the first time in my life I’d seen a bridge. And it wasn’t. Instead, it was what was happening on the bridge that shocked me.

    There was a man, about in his mid-thirties, being held back by two older gentlemen. He was only wearing a white tank-top and jeans, with crazy hair and bloodshot eyes. He was screaming ridiculously, trying to get out of the men’s arms.

    “Let me do it,” he kept yelling at the guards. “Let me jump, you bastards!”

    We had been learning in class about California’s history, and the fact that the Golden Gate Bridge was the most popular place to commit suicide in the world had came up. The teacher handled it with ease, except when one girl who sat in the back row asked a simple question:

    “Why?”

    The teacher stopped dead in her tracks. She didn’t have an honest answer for the girl.

    “Well,” she finally began, trying to state of an understandable explanation. “We have structure to our lives. We’re built on the foundation of our family, friends, and others we depend on, much like the bridge itself is. With time, we grow, and develop ourselves, and our “bridge” grows in size, until we hit a monumental moment, until we reach the sky.

    “Some people, however, aren’t built on a good foundation, or some have something else they come across that weakens their foundation. They can’t handle the pressure being put upon them, on their bridge, and the bridge comes crashing down, comes to an end. We can try prevent the crashes, of course, but sometimes they’ll happen, and they’ll just come crashing down anyway.”

    I sat there, in the minivan, staring at the man. He was now on his knees, sobbing into his tank-top, with one guard still holding on to him. The other was on the phone, talking to someone. He then put the man on the phone, which caused him to be even more hysterical. The man finally calmed down, hugged the guards, and was escorted back to his car.

    I thought about what my teacher said about the bridges, and the structure they needed. She had said that the foundation was the problem, and that, sometimes, you couldn’t stop the bridge from coming down. And, though that may be true, you can always rebuild.

    Photo credit: “Golden Gate Warning” by noesym

  3. I sat there, in that same seat in the back of the bus, listening to the raindrops slamming against the window. It was melodic, and mesmerized me. I had always been one to recognize patterns, whether they were worth noticing or not. It was a habit I had, for better or for worse, and it couldn’t be stopped. Some would find it obnoxious, to always hear music out of such trivial things, but I considered it a treat. Outside the window was a scene of pure chaos; rain flew everywhere, with large winds blowing green grass all about. There were farm animals, too, dazed and confused while grazing in fields, wondering how they ended up in this storm, and wanting nothing more than to exit it. I tried to take my mind off of the weather and began to look around the bus. It was nearly packed with people trying to weather the storm: a young mother with two boys was sitting in the very back, trying to deal with her crying offspring; an elderly man and his wife sat in the front row, holding hands as their wet, thin hair dried; a dog walker brought along his entire troop, including two poodles, a bulldog, and a Rottweiler, which scared a young girl sitting next to the dog walker, who was sobbing into her mother’s dress. There were skaters, and businessmen, and readers, and dreamers, and everyone under the Sun, all in this small bus. At that very moment, a thought popped into my head: we were all here for the same reason. We all had different upbringings, different backgrounds, different wants, different needs, different professions, different family, different friends, and different lives. But, at that very moment in time, we all wanted to do the same thing: we all wanted to weather the storm. We all wanted to try and lessen our problems, one of our many, many problems, by hopping aboard a bus, and staying dry for a few minutes. We all wanted to make our lives just a bit easier, just a bit more manageable, in that moment. I turned around and looked out the window one last time before exiting the bus, filled with strangers who I felt close to, and saw a rainbow coming from behind a large tree. I smiled, and walked out, silently wishing the other passengers good luck in life, and passing on the melody of the raindrops. Photo credit: “Rainy bus ride.” by Michelle R.

    I sat there, in that same seat in the back of the bus, listening to the raindrops slamming against the window. It was melodic, and mesmerized me. I had always been one to recognize patterns, whether they were worth noticing or not. It was a habit I had, for better or for worse, and it couldn’t be stopped. Some would find it obnoxious, to always hear music out of such trivial things, but I considered it a treat.

    Outside the window was a scene of pure chaos; rain flew everywhere, with large winds blowing green grass all about. There were farm animals, too, dazed and confused while grazing in fields, wondering how they ended up in this storm, and wanting nothing more than to exit it.

    I tried to take my mind off of the weather and began to look around the bus. It was nearly packed with people trying to weather the storm: a young mother with two boys was sitting in the very back, trying to deal with her crying offspring; an elderly man and his wife sat in the front row, holding hands as their wet, thin hair dried; a dog walker brought along his entire troop, including two poodles, a bulldog, and a Rottweiler, which scared a young girl sitting next to the dog walker, who was sobbing into her mother’s dress. There were skaters, and businessmen, and readers, and dreamers, and everyone under the Sun, all in this small bus.

    At that very moment, a thought popped into my head: we were all here for the same reason. We all had different upbringings, different backgrounds, different wants, different needs, different professions, different family, different friends, and different lives. But, at that very moment in time, we all wanted to do the same thing: we all wanted to weather the storm. We all wanted to try and lessen our problems, one of our many, many problems, by hopping aboard a bus, and staying dry for a few minutes. We all wanted to make our lives just a bit easier, just a bit more manageable, in that moment.

    I turned around and looked out the window one last time before exiting the bus, filled with strangers who I felt close to, and saw a rainbow coming from behind a large tree. I smiled, and walked out, silently wishing the other passengers good luck in life, and passing on the melody of the raindrops.

    Photo credit: “Rainy bus ride.” by Michelle R.

  4. Midnight

    A man sat on a train station bench, facing the tracks. It was extremely dark, to the point where nothing beyond two feet of one’s person could be seen, yet the only lit light within this train station shown on him, like a floodlight from the heavens. The train station he was residing in was located in Nethala, Kansas, which normally wouldn’t have made a difference, except for the fact that he was dressed in extremely fancy clothing. The man wore a jacket made of the purest cotton, dyed in the darkest navy blue known to man. Atop one eye sat a monocle, made of the finest silver and fashioned in a perfect circle, while the other contained a wooden sphere, used in place of an actual eye. But perhaps his oddest attribute was a puff of red hair sprouting from the middle of his cranium, like a plant rising from the cold, dead earth. It was fashioned stylishly, however, and smothered by a dense top hat, though the hairstyle remained quite obvious.

    Within the man’s arms was a box. The box, on the surface, looked quite normal: a light brown cube with a light brown lid, labeled “FRAGILE”. The only unique thing about the container was a bright orange ribbon, tied across the box very sweetly, as if the objects contained within were to be given as a gift. Whatever was contained within the box must have been of grave importance to the man, as well, for he looked nervous, sweat beginning to drop from his large puff of hair. The look on his face screamed for a train ride immediately, an escape from his current situation.

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  5. Discovery. I’ve never been one for video games. Sure, when I was seven, I would play Mario, or Sonic for an hour, but I would never really get into a game to the point where I wanted to be on it every second of every day. So, when we got an Xbox 360 last February, I wasn’t thrilled. Sure, it was interesting, and sure, it was unique, but I wasn’t a gamer, so it didn’t matter to me. However, this week, I’ve undertaken a complete transformation. I’ve been playing more and more, specifically this little gem, until odd hours of the night. I’ve laughed with friends via headset, I’ve learned to use the tools of the trade, and I’ve slowly started to become somewhat playable. Mind you, I said “slowly started” and “somewhat playable” in that sentence. I’m not the best, I’m still a “noob”, but every beginning starts off rough, usually with death via tactical nuke, and me screaming obscenities into the headset at the members in the party. But at least I’m procrastinating trying. In seven days, I’ve discovered that I’m becoming something I never thought I would become: a gamer.

    Discovery.

    I’ve never been one for video games. Sure, when I was seven, I would play Mario, or Sonic for an hour, but I would never really get into a game to the point where I wanted to be on it every second of every day. So, when we got an Xbox 360 last February, I wasn’t thrilled. Sure, it was interesting, and sure, it was unique, but I wasn’t a gamer, so it didn’t matter to me.

    However, this week, I’ve undertaken a complete transformation. I’ve been playing more and more, specifically this little gem, until odd hours of the night. I’ve laughed with friends via headset, I’ve learned to use the tools of the trade, and I’ve slowly started to become somewhat playable.

    Mind you, I said “slowly started” and “somewhat playable” in that sentence. I’m not the best, I’m still a “noob”, but every beginning starts off rough, usually with death via tactical nuke, and me screaming obscenities into the headset at the members in the party. But at least I’m procrastinating trying. In seven days, I’ve discovered that I’m becoming something I never thought I would become: a gamer.

  6. Vices. Ever since I was a child, I loved reading. I was the first student to read in pre-school, amazing my teachers. When I was eight, I read the first four books of Harry Potter. Reading, whether it be through picture books as a child, or articles and blog posts during the present, has always been a major force in my life, most likely for the better. However, this leads to a problem: purchasing books. I’ve never liked the library systems, for reasons I find to be ridiculous, yet true. I don’t like just browsing through a book and returning it the next week. I like to keep books, to own books. Books touch me, in an odd way. Yes, Kindles and Nooks are changing the way we as humans get reading done. But they will never be able to replace the feeling of a new book, the way the pages turn freshly, the way the cover feels. These feelings, over all, are the reason I love books. So, back to purchasing. If I had to estimate, I would say that, throughout the years I’ve already lived, I’ve spent about one thousand to two thousand dollars on reading material.1 It’s a mighty amount, especially for books. However, unlike vices such as smoking or drinking, it gives me something in return: knowledge. Books have advanced the way I think, the way I read, the way I discover. Without books, I may have never started this blog. Without books, I may have hated writing, and never even though of completing NaNoWriMo. Without books, I may not have ever thought about picking up a pencil and writing what I thought. Books have not just provided me with entertainment; they’ve shaped the way I live my life. And that is something worth all the money in the world. “Reading material” meaning magazines, newspapers, and books. ↩

    Vices.

    Ever since I was a child, I loved reading. I was the first student to read in pre-school, amazing my teachers. When I was eight, I read the first four books of Harry Potter. Reading, whether it be through picture books as a child, or articles and blog posts during the present, has always been a major force in my life, most likely for the better.

    However, this leads to a problem: purchasing books. I’ve never liked the library systems, for reasons I find to be ridiculous, yet true. I don’t like just browsing through a book and returning it the next week. I like to keep books, to own books. Books touch me, in an odd way. Yes, Kindles and Nooks are changing the way we as humans get reading done. But they will never be able to replace the feeling of a new book, the way the pages turn freshly, the way the cover feels. These feelings, over all, are the reason I love books.

    So, back to purchasing. If I had to estimate, I would say that, throughout the years I’ve already lived, I’ve spent about one thousand to two thousand dollars on reading material.1 It’s a mighty amount, especially for books. However, unlike vices such as smoking or drinking, it gives me something in return: knowledge.

    Books have advanced the way I think, the way I read, the way I discover. Without books, I may have never started this blog. Without books, I may have hated writing, and never even though of completing NaNoWriMo. Without books, I may not have ever thought about picking up a pencil and writing what I thought. Books have not just provided me with entertainment; they’ve shaped the way I live my life. And that is something worth all the money in the world.

    1. “Reading material” meaning magazines, newspapers, and books. ↩

  7. Momentum. Anything can happen. Sometimes you just need a little push.1 This photo was taken a day before the first week began, but it fits with the theme perfectly. Don’t like it? Bite me. ↩

    Momentum.

    Anything can happen. Sometimes you just need a little push.1

    1. This photo was taken a day before the first week began, but it fits with the theme perfectly. Don’t like it? Bite me. ↩

  8. The 52 Weeks of Non-Committal Tumblr Creativity Project →

    Long-ass title, I know. However, this idea is fantastic. Michele (inthefade):

    The mission statement of this project: To foster creativity, whether it be in the form of words, music, photography or any medium of art on a weekly basis and to share the result of that creativity with others on tumblr in a very non-pressure kind of way.

    This is a non-committal project. If you have something that week, you do. If you don’t, you don’t. There are no project police who are going to knock on your door asking where your creative output for the week is.

    I’ll be doing this as many weeks as possible, and I suggest you do the same. If you want to be included on the master list, shoot Michele an email (or a DM on Twtter) with your Tumblr URL.