At some point, the unreliable become reliable.
And the unpredictable become predictable.
And the misunderstood become understandable.
And the beautiful and the terrible both become bearable.

other people's words, part 2

As the title indicates, I didn't write this. I don't know how to write anymore. A student I've never met wrote it. And it reminded me that it's good to be here and it hits the nail on the head and I really want to share it.

'A few miles in the opposite direction away from the sparkling shores of the Mediterranean Sea is a farm like village place called Dosemealti. The smell of goats and dead rabbits consume this place. But deep within this jungle, somewhere as far as DC15's final stop lays something special, treasure. Rare gems from all parts of the globe, stretching out from countries as distant as Papa New Guinea or Mozambique to local gems from Turkey can be found here. Where could this place be? Yes, you've guessed it! ANTALYA INTERNATIONAL UNIVERSITY!'

other people's words

one boy grew up different from the rest
without the insides of his chest
he didn't know how
he was blessed

asaf avidan

O, cat.

I've been thinking a lot lately about people and animals that are now dead. Not in a depressing way, but in a pleasant way. I must have been about eleven when I wrote my first message to Taco. I was sure that if I wrote in big. bright enough letters, she'd be able to not only see the words on the page, but make meaning out of them, too. And be able to pick up the marker and respond. Hi, Taco, I wrote. How are you? Are you okay? Do you like me? I love you.

I was pretty sure she wouldn't respond if I sat there watching and waiting, so I left the marker, uncapped of course, and the piece of paper sitting right in front of her on the windowsill. When I glanced back on my way out, she was staring intently at the marker, figuring out with all her might, I assumed, how to respond to such an intriguing inquiry into her life. The moment she'd been waiting for. I was a little nervous about what she'd say, but I really wanted to know if she, my beloved fat cat, actually liked me. While I wandered around outside, I imagined all the things she was writing, tediously, marker clamped between teeth, on the paper.
I like you, I guess. Whatever. Just don't pull my tail anymore. I hate that.

I used to get Taco to come out from under the bed so I could play or cuddle with her by pulling her out by the tail. By the time I was eleven, I had stopped doing that and I still feel bad about it. The little stupid things that somehow end up bothering you for the rest of your life. It's weird to think that I once did something cruel to an animal that I loved, or any animal. But I probably did something worse somewhere back in the early days. It just doesn't stick out in my memory.

I gave Taco nearly an hour. I wanted to make sure she had plenty of time to respond fully, but I also wanted to hold on to the little bit of magic I felt when I pictured her reading my message, thinking about it, and writing a response. Somewhere in the maturing part of my mind, in the part that was becoming more aware of reality and less attuned to magic, I knew that cats can't read. And they can't write. I didn't want to have to accept that.

When I returned, I immediately saw that the paper was exactly where I had left it on the windowsill, but Taco was nowhere to be seen. My heart sank a little. BUT! I realized, heart perking back up, the marker had also disappeared. I ran to the paper to see what she had written. Maybe it was bad news that she didn't want to have to watch me react to. I stared at the paper for a while, accepting things I didn't want to accept. Under the bed nearby, Taco snoozed off the activity of batting the marker across the room instead of answering my sincere questions. Maybe she dreamt of freedom. Maybe she dreamt of her kitten days. Maybe she dreamt of nothing at all.