Juliana Angela Lopez – Ĵý Wed, 05 Jan 2022 01:17:19 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.9.4 When the Ink Runs Dry /when-the-ink-runs-dry/ Wed, 23 Jun 2021 08:00:39 +0000 /?p=4970
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Juliana Angela Lopez

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Geanne Anciano

Author

When the Ink Runs Dry

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Bestowed upon small fragile hands was a quill filled with vigor. With her youth came her naivety, for she did not fully comprehend what she was given. Questions pooled in her mind as she kept searching for the reasons behind this unexpected item the universe brought to her. Despite her hesitation, she accepted the gift that was placed within her hands.

Little did she know that one fragile object would change her life so drastically.

She began to curve letters as the metal tip interacted with the rough texture of the paper. There were instances that the ink would bleed or fade unexpectedly. Her penmanship at times would be hard to read; occasionally, it would be illegible. Clouded with doubt, the light feather held weight that almost forced her to let go. But she clung unto it despite the inconsistency, believing that there was more she could do, more she could tell.

She wrote, and wrote, and wrote until the letters became words, and those words became stories.

The phrases perfectly intertwined, explaining narratives beyond her own eyes. She did more than just writing. Her quill traced the path for memories to be remembered, accomplishments to be celebrated, opinions to be heard, and the unsaid to be expressed. Written and accounted for, the highlights of life created footprints through these papers. She has done more. She had told more.

Writing had given her power beyond what she could begin to fathom.

But there will always come a time that the ink would run dry.

It is true that nothing stays constant in this lifetime but change. The clock would always restart even if we attempt to slow down the tick of the hours. A tale would always have its end, no matter the length of its chapters nor the number of its words. A story is not told, not unless it has reached its conclusion.

Perhaps it is time that she reaches hers. Though the lines have been filled and read in all its in-betweens, the ink will not fade, but leave its mark on the papers.

It is time for the quill to change the life of another.

My stories have been told, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

Now, it’s time to start writing yours.

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When the Ink Runs Dry

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Picture of Juliana Angela Lopez

Juliana Angela Lopez

Author

Picture of Geanne Anciano

Geanne Anciano

Author

When the Ink Runs Dry

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Bestowed upon small fragile hands was a quill filled with vigor. With her youth came her naivety, for she did not fully comprehend what she was given. Questions pooled in her mind as she kept searching for the reasons behind this unexpected item the universe brought to her. Despite her hesitation, she accepted the gift that was placed within her hands.

Little did she know that one fragile object would change her life so drastically.

She began to curve letters as the metal tip interacted with the rough texture of the paper. There were instances that the ink would bleed or fade unexpectedly. Her penmanship at times would be hard to read; occasionally, it would be illegible. Clouded with doubt, the light feather held weight that almost forced her to let go. But she clung unto it despite the inconsistency, believing that there was more she could do, more she could tell.

She wrote, and wrote, and wrote until the letters became words, and those words became stories.

The phrases perfectly intertwined, explaining narratives beyond her own eyes. She did more than just writing. Her quill traced the path for memories to be remembered, accomplishments to be celebrated, opinions to be heard, and the unsaid to be expressed. Written and accounted for, the highlights of life created footprints through these papers. She has done more. She had told more.

Writing had given her power beyond what she could begin to fathom.

But there will always come a time that the ink would run dry.

It is true that nothing stays constant in this lifetime but change. The clock would always restart even if we attempt to slow down the tick of the hours. A tale would always have its end, no matter the length of its chapters nor the number of its words. A story is not told, not unless it has reached its conclusion.

Perhaps it is time that she reaches hers. Though the lines have been filled and read in all its in-betweens, the ink will not fade, but leave its mark on the papers.

It is time for the quill to change the life of another.

My stories have been told, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

Now, it’s time to start writing yours.

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When the Ink Runs Dry

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The Flame /the-flame/ Wed, 23 Jun 2021 08:00:21 +0000 /?p=4918
Picture of Jillian Ramirez

Jillian Ramirez

Author

Picture of Patrick Joseph Rodriquez

Patrick Joseph Rodriquez

Artist

The Flame

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What does it mean to be passionate? 

What invigorates the feeble human to move the cells of his being? What keeps the intransigent the way they are? Perhaps it is the flame that burns in our hearts powered by the fuel that courses through our veins that enables the desire to know, to know more, to know most. 

Passion is the desire that wills us to do, do more and do the most. It’s the same fire Katniss felt when she shot the arrow into the leader’s heart, the same rush Sherlock feels in a sea of questions. To what extremities can this fire burn? The answer remains beyond my knowledge.  

It’s so often that I wonderwas it the flames of the same passion that drove Romeo and Juliet to the edge or was it the exhilarating feeling of falling love that caused their downfall? Our passions we often see are unconquerable. Perhaps it’s because it has already conquered us and we let it be unhinged. Love is something that strips you off the armor of your pride – passion is a word that keeps it intact. 

Maybe we let ourselves get lost with the idea of doing the most with the smoke of the flame blinding our eyes that we fail to see that loving something is enough. Love doesn’t demand you do the most, only to give what you can at the moment. 

To love something so passionately is to continuously be at war with yourself. It is to break down the same high walls that you’ve built for yourself and to be brave enough to seek beyond what you have considered as “comfortable” and “safe” for far too long. To be passionate equates to stripping down and confronting your vulnerability. View this not as a competition nor the focal point of your existence, but simply something to indulge in that  would bring you genuine happiness. 

Perhaps all this time, we pursue our passions with eyes trained to the horizon of what’s to come without coming to realize that we must also be mindful of each step we take along our path. It is not getting lost in the illusion of attaining the maximum, for the smoke of the fire blinds us from the glow of love in its simplicity. 

Love does not demand us to do the most, but only to give enough of ourselves. It does not ask us to empty the entirety of our being. To passionately love is to find a love that would make you whole.   

Maybe Romeo and Juliet were one of the unlucky few who understood love in the wrong light. Because love? It does not depend; it does not make you weak. 

Passion is not a fire that burns, but rather, a fire that will illuminate one’s soul to unleash the best version of themselves that they could be.

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Taho! /taho/ Wed, 23 Jun 2021 04:33:25 +0000 /?p=5149
Picture of Zeanna Joson

Zeanna Joson

Author

Picture of Shaina Joy Fabian

Shaina Joy Fabian

Artist

Taho!

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“Taho! Taho!”

Sa kabila ng ingay sa mga kalsada, sa kwentuhan ng mga magkakapitbahay, sa masasayang tili ng mga batang naglalaro ng piko at habol-habulan, nangingibabaw pa rin ang tinig ng malakas na baritonong boses ng naglalako kasabay ng matining na tunog ng munti niyang kampana. Ayan na siya, siyang nagdadala ng mainit na inumin na puno ng tamis at sarap.

Siya si Mang Miguel, ang naglalako ng taho mula umaga hanggang hapon. Dahil hindi siya nakapagtapos ng pag-aaral ng kolehiyo, ang paglalako ang kanyang naging kabuhayan. Ito rin ang naging daan para makapag-aral ang kanyang anak na si Norma.

“Papa, sama ako sayo,” wika ng kanyang anak.

“Huwag na ‘nak at sobrang init sa labas,” sinabi ni Mang Miguel.

“Sige na po, Papa! Nais kong samahan ka sa paglalako,” pagpilit ni Norma.

“Hay nako, makulit ka talaga! Ay siya, sige na nga at ‘di kita matiis! Magdala ka ng payong mo, anak.”

Araw-araw sila magkasamang naglalako ng taho sa masikip na eskinita sa Pasig. Isang araw, napadaan sila sa hilera ng matataas at magagandang mga gusali.

“Papa, tignan mo yung gusali na yun oh!” masayang wika ni Norma. “Gusto ko magtrabaho sa mga ganyang lugar!”

Napangiti si Mang Miguel sa anak. “Huwag ka mag-alala anak, at balang araw makapupunta ka rin diyan. Basta’t magsikap at mag-aral ka nang mabuti para matupad mo lahat ng pangarap mo.”

Labing-limang taon na ang nakalipas, labing-siyam na si Norma at nakapagtapos na siya ng kolehiyo. Si Mang Miguel naman ay naglalako pa rin ng taho para may panggastos sila sa bahay.

Sa paglipas ng panahon, hindi na nakukuntento si Norma sa simpleng buhay na kasalukuyang binigay sa kanya ng kanyang ama. Hinahangad niya rin ang magarbong buhay na mayroon ang mga katrabaho niya. Nais niya rin maranasang makapagsuot ng mga mamahaling damit, makikinang na alahas, at makabili ng lahat ng kanyang gusto. Ngunit hindi niya magawa ito dahil sapat lamang ang perang naiipon ni Mang Miguel sa paglalako.

“Hay, kung hindi lang sana mantataho ang aking tatay, e’di sana nagagawa ko ang lahat ng aking gusto. Nakakasawa nang mabuhay ng ganito,” malungkot na naisip ni Norma.

Napansin ni Mang Miguel ang paglayo ng loob ng kanyang anak sa kanya. Para mabawi at mapasaya siya, naisip niyang regaluhan ito ng bagong sapatos para may maisuot siyang maayos sa kanyang trabaho.

“Taho! Taho!” malakas niyang sigaw.

Habang naglalako si Mang Miguel ng taho, siya ay nakakita ng mga taong nakasuot ng mask sa ibabaw ng kanilang mga bibig at halos lahat ng mga tindahan ay sarado na. Ito’y hindi niya masyadong binigyang pansin hanggang sa may nadaanan siyang tv sa loob ng tindahan.

“Inaasahang manatili na lamang sa bahay para di mahawa sa nakakatakot na sakit na Coronavirus” narinig niyang sinabi ng nag-uulat sa telebisyon.

“Naku, delikado na pala lumabas ngayon,” nasabi ni Mang Miguel sa sarili. Pumasok sa isip niyang umuwi ngunit nagbago ang kanyang desisyon ng pumasok sa kanyang isip si Norma. “Kailangan kong maubos itong aking mga paninda para mayroon akong pambili ng sapatos ni Norma.”

At kanyang pinagpatuloy ang paglalako. “Taho! Taho!”

Umuwi si Mang Miguel dala ang pera na nakuha niya sa paglalako ng taho. Sasalubungin niya dapat ang anak ngunit siya’y nagulat ng padabog na isinara ni Norma ang pinto ng siya’y makauwi. .

“Ugh, nakakairita!” galit na sambit ni Norma.

“Bakit anak? Anong nangyari sa araw mo?” nag-aalalang tinanong ni Mang Miguel.

Sinamaan ng tingin ni Norma ang kanyang ama.

“Bakit?! Bakit ako nagdadabog?! Paano ako hindi magdadabog, hindi magagalit, kung hanggang ngayon, ganito pa rin ang ating bahay, ang aking mga damit, ang aking buhay? Sawang-sawa na ako maghirap! Hindi ko naman ginusto ‘to! Hindi ko ginusto na manlalako lang ng taho ang ama ko!”

Napayuko na lamang si Mang Miguel sa hiya sa mga sinabi ng kanyang anak.

Kinabukasan ay naglalako parin si Mang Miguel sa mga kapitbahay para maging sapat na ang kanyang ipon upang mabilhan ng sapatos si Norma kahit alam ang panganib na kapalit nito.

“Taho! Taho!”

Si Mang Miguel ay biglang nanghina at nahirapan huminga. Gayunpaman, dumiretso pa rin siya sa opisina ng kanyang anak dahil sa wakas, bitbit na niya ang sapatos na kanyang pinag-ipunan para kay Norma.

“Magandang umaga! Hinahanap ko lang ang aking anak na si Norma. Narito ho ba siya?” wika ni Mang Miguel sa isang sekretarya ng opisina.

“Saglit lang po, sir. Ipapatawag ko na po.”

Nakita ni Norma na naghihintay ang kanyang ama sa labas ng kanyang pinagtatrabahuan, ngunit hindi niya nilapitan ito dahil siya ay nahiya at naisip na baka makita siya ng kanyang mga kasamahan sa trabaho.

“Ma’am, inaantay na po kayo ng tatay niyo,” ipinaalam sa kanya.

“Nǰ” sigaw ni Mang Miguel.

“Huh? ‘Di ko ‘yan tatay,” tugon ni Norma at walang pag-aalinlangang nilampasan ang ama.

Nagulat si Mang Miguel sa sinabi ng anak at naisipang baka ayaw lamang niya mapahiya sa kanyang mga katrabaho.

“Ay, pasensya na po. Nagkamali lang pala ako ng tinawag. Iwan ko nalang dito ang aking ibibigay,” sabi ni Mang Miguel at umuwi na lamang.

Mabilis na dumaan ang araw at natapos na rin si Norma sa trabaho. Siya ay patagong pumunta ng lobby at kinuha ang iniwan ng tatay. Binuksan niya ang kahon at nagulat nang makitang may laman ng itong sapatos at nakatuping papel sa loob. Agad niyang binasa ang mensahe na iniwan ng kanyang ama.

“Pagpasensyahan mo anak at ito lang ang nakaya kong bilhin na sapatos. Pasensya na rin at ‘di nakapagtapos ng pag-aaral si itay, kaya’t ang paglalako ng taho na lamang ang naging aking kabuhayan. Patawad at hindi kita nabibilhan ng magagarang damit at makikinang na diamante na gusto mo. Naaalala mo pa ba ang gusali na ito nung bata ka pa? Habang naglalako tayo ng taho, sinabi mo sa’kin na gusto mo magtrabaho sa gusali na ito. Ngayon, anak, natupad mo na ang pangarap mo. Maraming salamat at napapasaya mo si Papa. Sana’y sa munting regalo na ito, napasaya rin kita. Mahal na mahal ka ni Papa.”

Agad umuwi si Norma habang naiyak.

“Itay! itay!!” malakas na tinawag ng anak habang humahagulgol.

“Taho! Taho! Taho

At sa unang pagkakataon, ang malakas na baritonong sigaw ng mahal na manlalako ng taho ay naputol at sinundan ng katahimikan. Bumagsak si Mang Miguel na walang kamalay-malay na nahawaan ng nakamamatay na Coronavirus.

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12:60 /1260-2/ Fri, 18 Jun 2021 16:27:33 +0000 /?p=4925
Picture of Vianica Arwen Britanico

Vianica Arwen Britanico

Author

Picture of Patrick Joseph Rodriquez

Patrick Joseph Rodriquez

Author

12:60

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4 o’clock at dawn

crack open the yolk of the sun

and bathe under the yellow stars.

mouth full of mint paste,

with butterflies fluttering in your hair

and flowers blushing on your cheeks

your eyes are the golden gates

of the garden blooming

inside your ribcage.

slice the oranges in two,

and squeeze the sweet clementine dew;

take a sip of citrus fruit and

8 o’clock in the morning

draw the curtains, shut the

blinds. don’t let the sun

inside these white walls, where

it’s vacant and empty and

the tongue tastes stale against

metal. like the aluminum ring

of canned coke, meeting chapped

lips and teeth, swallowing dyed

saccharine in gallons.

after eight, the buzz still pokes and pinches your

brain, your mind, but your heart—still—says,

i’m fine.

anyway, goodnight. . .

—you alright?

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The Girl with the Stars in Her Eyes /the-girl-with-the-stars-in-her-eyes/ Fri, 18 Jun 2021 16:24:52 +0000 /?p=4912
Picture of Vianica Arwen Britanico

Vianica Arwen Britanico

Author

Picture of Shaina Joy Fabian

Shaina Joy Fabian

Artist

The Girl with the Stars in Her Eyes

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There was a girl

with the stars in her eyes.

She lived in a world

that was poison in disguise.

They lied and they criticized,

but she still let them in.

She knew what was good,

then being good became a sin.

The girl wanted to live,

so Love gave her a blessing:

friends to help and guide her,

but she thought they were pretending.

So the girl wanted to leave,

and the world gave her a gift.

They gave her the razor,

but she turned her skin to paper wrists.

The waves crashed and brought her down

as the seas turned brutal and rough.

Tears overflowed and the clouds in her head

blinded her from seeing she was enough.

She longed to gaze at constellations

nurtured in the cobalt blue crib,

but she found that in climbing the mountain,

it was always easier to slip.

She took the final step,

and she sealed her fate.

She had nothing left to lose,

but her future went to waste.

She turns her head, then,

the girl with tears in her eyes.

She thought pain was the answer,

not knowing love could suffice.

He ran to the edge,

and the world seemed to stop.

But it was too late.

Time was still, then time was up.

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The Girl with the Stars in Her Eyes

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Picture of Vianica Arwen Britanico

Vianica Arwen Britanico

Author

Picture of Shaina Joy Fabian

Shaina Joy Fabian

Artist

The Girl with the Stars in Her Eyes

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There was a girl

with the stars in her eyes.

She lived in a world

that was poison in disguise.

They lied and they criticized,

but she still let them in.

She knew what was good,

then being good became a sin.

The girl wanted to live,

so Love gave her a blessing:

friends to help and guide her,

but she thought they were pretending.

So the girl wanted to leave,

and the world gave her a gift.

They gave her the razor,

but she turned her skin to paper wrists.

The waves crashed and brought her down

as the seas turned brutal and rough.

Tears overflowed and the clouds in her head

blinded her from seeing she was enough.

She longed to gaze at constellations

nurtured in the cobalt blue crib,

but she found that in climbing the mountain,

it was always easier to slip.

She took the final step,

and she sealed her fate.

She had nothing left to lose,

but her future went to waste.

She turns her head, then,

the girl with tears in her eyes.

She thought pain was the answer,

not knowing love could suffice.

He ran to the edge,

and the world seemed to stop.

But it was too late.

Time was still, then time was up.

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The Girl with the Stars in Her Eyes

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Wasted Throes /wasted-throes/ Thu, 20 May 2021 09:30:04 +0000 /?p=4473
Picture of Vianca Arwen Britanico

Vianca Arwen Britanico

Author

Picture of Felicity Joy Valdez

Felicity Joy Valdez

Artist

Wasted Throes

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We yearn for things we don’t have, 

not for the things that we can’t.

But I am a fool that even the gods up above

cannot retrieve the insanity they’ve sent.


Carve a smile on my heart, this bright red apple; 

trace the veins where flowers have bloomed.

Squeeze thy until it turns blue, it bursts purple, 

for the love not for me, I consumed.


Am I insane? Have I gone mad?

Possibly, certainly—yes.

But the problem is not with this head that I have,

but rather with this thing in my chest.


Your doe-eyes make it flutter and leap,

your sweet smile makes me too; 

you stab me and kick me (you will not let me sleep!)

But I admit, it was I who left you.


I remember the times I would romanticize: 

mornings, evenings, and noons.

You were, undoubtedly, a big part of my life.

I’m sorry I left yours so soon.


But her doe-eyes make you so happy, you leap.

Her sweet smile makes you too.

And after a while, the truth began to seep.

After a while, it damaged my tune.


I send my regards to you and your light.

I’m afraid I’ve wasted my throes.

I hope that you may finally be satisfied

as my true feelings are finally shown.


The world became dull once again for me; 

I didn’t get to hear the song of the birds.

The night was quiet, and the light was then free

as my song sang its last words.


I yearned for something I don’t have

—something that I can’t.

For I am a man of which even the gods here above

cannot fix this thing inside my chest.

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The Dawning Sun /the-dawning-sun/ Tue, 11 May 2021 09:00:28 +0000 /?p=4469
Picture of  Justine Tiffany A. Moraño

Justine Tiffany A. Moraño

Author & Artist

The Dawning Sun

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When all lost its hope

And the Earth seemed bleak

When all cannot cope,

Warriors become weak,

And despair takes hold

A cry in the distance is heard

Murder of the innocent is seen

Like the sacrifice of Apollo’s herd

Blood stains the ground of the scene

And grief looms in the void

Yet Hope is good to men

Bravery and Liberty are just

Fair are they today and in the end,

The suffering is a must,

Yet goodness is always rewarded

Have courage, my brethren!

For the light is in heaven

Goodness and charity,

Honesty and generosity,

Mercy and forgiveness

All are the guides to the path of the Light

So open your hearts

And let your minds take its might

Stand up and do your part

Trust that darkness yields to purifying Light.

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Friday Afternoons /friday-afternoons/ Thu, 06 May 2021 09:00:28 +0000 /?p=4291
Picture of Raison Sophia L. Manuel

Raison Sophia L. Manuel

Author

Friday Afternoons

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It’s a Friday afternoon. 


A hot, blistering Friday afternoon. You’d just woken up from a strange dream, the strangest you’ve ever had from your daily after-school naps. You swear you just felt the cold gunmetal against your cheek and smelled the rising fetor of mud. You shake the thought away as you wipe the beads of sweat on your forehead and rub the sleep off your eyes.


Your eyes soon focus on the sky’s shifting colors, from a pale blue to rich orange, as you tune out the loud and guttery sputters of your surely overheating electric fan set on its highest level. Your eyes leave the scene of finely spun clouds over clementine canvas as they drift to the steel gray fan. You watch its plastic blades rotate over and over again, and you wonder if it would ever spin out and combust in revulsion for being condemned to the same, sickening routine. 

You close your eyes and let out a heavy exhale, which was mostly unheard with the fan’s distressed wailing, as you begin to question the weight and grief you are feeling. Several thoughts began to brew in your head—answers to why, more questions of what—but all were put to a pause as a soft chime rang in the air. 

The screen of your smartphone lit up with a notification—an invite to open it up and once again be sucked into the seemingly endless depths of the internet. Nevermind that you’ve been on it for the past eight hours, leaving you with strained eyes and a terrible posture. You ignore the ache of your eyes and wait in eager anticipation to see the image sent to your class’s group chat. 

A new date; a deadline. 

Then, a few more pings resound signaling the flood of reactions and questions your classmates have about the new project. Once again, quiet and utter aloneness, with the constant, wailful mockery of your electric fan as your companion, now joined by the rustles from the beginnings of a small basketball scrimmage. You rub your cheeks in frustration as tears begin to sprout at the corner of your eyes. 

In another time, another dimension

It’s the same hot, blistering Friday afternoon. Instead of being alone in your room with your companions confined into little rectangles, you are in a classroom, sitting on your familiar armchair, laughing as one of your classmates cracks a joke. There were messy doodles on the margins of your notebook, and your hand was stained with blue ink. Your skin was beginning to itch because of your cardigan’s fabric, but you paid it no mind as you continued with your productive chatter. 

In that afternoon, the air was somewhat cold, but everything felt as warm as comfort, a great good feeling to have on your chest. This other afternoon feels like a memory that you longed for so badly that you can almost feel it on your skin, by the very tips of your fingers. You long for another simple afternoon like this, even just once this year. 

In this moment

Reality gradually seeps in and you return to the hot, blistering Friday afternoon you began with. And in this afternoon, and all afternoons like this, you are left with dwindling strength. You stare at the dizzying blades again before you turn the fan off. You let out a tired smile. Along with dusk was your rest, for tomorrow is another day and you have to be strong.

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