I don’t, and you’ve made me furious, Daily Prompt

Daily writing prompt
Do you have a quote you live your life by or think of often?

Literature Wednesday continues 🙂

Well, now you’ve irritated a quite patient and understanding me, Daily Prompt. Are you proud of yourself?

I’ve read too many books, mostly fictional, but there are quite a lot from other fields. It never really occurred to me to split them into quotes and worship these thoughts, torn away from the whole, later. Because I’ve learned from the wholeness, and I’ve learned to think with my own head.

Sure, I sometimes quote different authors, but I did it while writing my diploma, and I do it sometimes while writing posts where I used different notions or methods unique or borrowed from a certain author. I also can use a quote or two in conversation, and then it is natural. But still, I don’t worship them and don’t make these quotes something ultimately sacred.

These are just thoughts, sometimes wise, sometimes brilliant, but they aren’t here for praising them, they are meant for us to learn from them. I get it that people like when their own thoughts match the ones produced by the minds of famous people, that it makes these thoughts closer to absolute truth, but it is not my approach at all, sorry. I prefer thinking with my own head, and I appreciate when people do the same.

What makes me furious, though, is not excessive quoting, but the wrong quoting, when the thoughts are attributed to the wrong author. And what sets me ablaze is the fact that people try to win my attention by sending them, along with these images of morning coffees, kissing angels, passing kindness to 40 more people…

Seriously, I ardently hate that because by doing that (and I’m perfectly aware of that) you are saving your time and energy, and treating me in a generic way, exactly the same as you treat another 50 people on the other end of the internet. In most cases, I just stop answering that because I don’t know what I can say so I don’t offend this person.

One of my highest values is authenticity, so if anyone wishes to be my friend, I expect that person to be authentic, speak with their own words, express their own thoughts, and write or tell me: ‘Hey, how are you’, instead of these coffees and gifs because I want to be just as authentic and real in return.

Thank you for reading this! 🙂

Forlorn Town’s Mysteries (Short Story)

Literature Wednesday is here, so, as promised…

DISCLAIMER: the events and the characters mentioned in this story are the product of the author’s imagination, partly inspired by a family trip.

Forlorn cities, towns, and villages, you preserve the history, the very spirit of authentic life before globalization unified it all in unrecognizable masses. The uniqueness of each place is so earnestly and strikingly breathtaking; these places still have their souls.

As it was in this case: no traffic, no crowded streets, no identical distant, glimmering buildings forged from glass and metal, only short, squatted red brick and wooden ones… Their boarded windows resembled firmly shut eyes, as if these houses were sleeping, waiting for the old tenants to return eventually under their leaky roofs. The 19th-century air is mingled with ’80s nostalgia, together weaving an atmosphere of sweet longing and suspense.

Old cars and decrepit shops were gaping at us with their dark windows, plaster stone angels on the corners of the antique buildings would probably fly away if not for broken wings or limbs. The playgrounds were iron and rusty, but to our surprise, we noticed a couple of kids hanging out there. They didn’t play or climb anything though; they were sitting and watching us intently with their large solemn eyes. These children were like little guardians of a dark mystery buried deep in the heart of this town, and their task was to keep an eye on us, making sure we wouldn’t discover more than allowed.

It was an uncanny thought, but my chaotic, ever-active mind soon jumped to feeling bewitched again by the slow pace and the intricate charm of this place. Historic houses, antique lives, enchanting ruins – all these things heightened my inspiration. The nostalgic wind carried the delightful fragrance of the cherry blossoms, playfully tearing their petals, and thus creating the pearly blizzard so reminiscent of the winter snow.

The ruins are the most charming when adorned with fresh flowers and greenery, for what is this scenery if not the love embrace of life and death?

Continue reading “Forlorn Town’s Mysteries (Short Story)”

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