Don’t become an adult.

#7: Write a compelling argument pushing the worst advice you’ve ever been given.

You know, there comes a time when a child fully grows into an adult, expected to carry the burdens of reality even when they aren’t fully prepared for it. This spells trouble, when you are crushed by the overwhelming expectations and have no tools against it.

So I say to you, don’t become an adult. There are absolutely no positives to become one, I say out of experience. As an adult, I have looked back so many times, jealousy has always overcome me whenever I see children and teenagers living a grand time, worry-free of bills and debt. I used to have those times, but only fleetingly as a child, and never again as an adult. I would never have the time again to playfully slide down in the playground, or to ride the swings vigorously.

But when I do, oh the stares! So much judgment from society! As a kid, you aren’t judged upon by your actions. Society would blame the mistakes on their parents (the adults), and believe that you were exempt from your mistakes because “You didn’t know any better”. You would never be able to excuse yourself so easily the moment you grow up, as if adults are suddenly meant to shed their childhood and bloom into an utterly boring human being (more like a robot, if you ask me). What joy does being an adult even bring?

It is so much easier not to become an adult, to retreat back into your childish features and never have anything to be expected of you ever again. Unfortunately, no such treatment currently exists, and all forms of ‘acting’ (reliving your childhood is never merely acting, I say) are condemned by the people around you. When it does, I will make sure to inform you, but for now, I strongly advise you to follow my lead and drop everything you’re doing.

Had a deadline due for tomorrow? Who cares! Need to have a meeting with your boss next week? Head to Hawaii instead! Be free of the shackles of responsibility, and live your life as you will it. There are far more advantages of living a free life, and if you think “Then who will do our work?” Don’t worry, there will always be someone else to do your work! But for the rest of your life, just sit back, relax, and don’t let any of your responsibilities bring you down into a boring shell of a human being. You deserve it.



#4: An Emotional Rollercoaster.

The smell of vomit and the taste of blood was all that he could sense now, nothing else was of interest to him, yet at the same time, everything else was what he wanted. “No,” he told himself, “I need to save him.”

He swayed forward, his lumbering leg digging itself into the ground, providing support for the rest of his body. His threw his other leg forward, then his other leg, and in this strange dance did he march onward. He disregarded the outstretched arms looking for refuge, shaking one off when a hand grasped his leg. The moans of demise resonated in his eardrums, “I can’t save you,” he announced, “I can’t save any of you.” In time, the arms began to drop, and he was allowed passage to march.

There, in the middle, he saw him, circled by his enemies. The dreadful monsters, a mob surrounding a little innocent boy who did nothing wrong. The legs that once felt like iron now became feathers, and he rushed towards the boy. He lifted his third arm up, the one made out of metal and filled with death, “Get away from him!” he shouted with empty threats, “Get away or I’ll kill you all!”

Gunfire erupted in a split second, with chaos overthrowing rationality on the battlefield. He didn’t know who shot who, he didn’t even know he had his finger on the trigger until he saw one of the men explode. His finger rested upon the trigger, as his arm flailed around from side to side, and he charged towards them with a roar. He watched as brains burst out of their cages, flying free into Heaven high above. The sand was painted with a dark shade of red, a coat of red from his enemies and of himself.

His knees weakened and his body failed him, yet he smiled as he fell into the red sand. Peace had regained his heart, a momentary silence of the maddening thoughts in his head before he would pass. It was over, it was finally over, and his smile was wide and genuine.

And the last thing he sees before he dies was the crumpled head of his little boy falling down.


He spies a sword on the table and wields it, sneaking away silently from the unknowing Dark Queen, one of the two who imprisoned him in this lonely castle. Sticking to the shadows like glue, he is a ninja, born and raised. His entire life depends on his sly escape.

The ninja slides into the Dark Queen’s sitting room and surveys his surrounding. Plush cushions litter the room, a welcoming sight for any tired ninja. An untrained one would have succumbed to the soft temptation, but not he, he is far too wise for such a trick.

Ah-ha, a trap! Out of the corner of his eyes, two spears are hidden between loving wool for him to fall into. But he knew better than to fall into that!

He takes a few steps back and then runs lightning speed towards the spear. Then, with mighty fervour, he jumps into the air with grace and power! It is close, so close, for the tips of the spears had almost scratched him, but he had accomplished the feat of a five-meter jump! Of course he had, he is an Olympic athlete by day, after all.

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Masks are worth a thousand words.

They say that a mask is temporary, the subject of a disappearing act.

But that’s a bit far from the truth, isn’t it?

What is a mask? With its intricacies and sequins, yet sometimes white and plain texture. Colors splashed carelessly and specifically on its facial features.

Is it just a mask? Not really, it’s art.

And art tells a story of a thousand words, doesn’t it?

Each and every mask you have speaks about your story, and new ones will grow as a facet of yourself as you walk on. It will be a part of you, a part of your mosaic.

Your mosaic will be different, a single glass in the whole puzzle will change. It will turn a light red, and will only grow darker each time you put on your mask, no longer temporary.

But how will it turn out as a whole piece? Will it clash with the blue or will it sit comfortably with the orange?

You decide.

It’s hard being the youngest,

When your family’s in mourning and you’re still a kid, at least, and I’ll tell you why.

Because you’re expected to cheer them up and you have to hide your sadness.

When people come to offer their condolences, they will tell your parents, “Stay strong, it’s God’s will.”

Then they’ll tell you, “Stay strong for your parents, you have to be their happiness.”

You have to force yourself to act cheerful, to distract them from their own depression. But at the same time, you can’t cry. If you cry, they’ll be worried about you and they’ll go further into depression. And you can’t have that, you don’t want to see them cry.

You have to know when they’ll cry, when their eyebrows come together on scrunched up faces. Then you have to hug them and tell sweet nothings.

You have to act strong, like nothing’s wrong. You can’t tell them anything, or they’ll worry they’re not good parents. You can’t let them in, you can’t let anyone in.

The only one you can rely on is the locked, empty room.

You can’t be beaten down, you have to stand up and walk in your spot.

You won’t be angry, you won’t be frustrated, you won’t smother yourself.

You’ll just be tired from your charade.


I wonder why everyone’s obsessed with it, I mean, why isn’t the cold deemed as precious as heat?

The Sahara Desert can kill you, you know.

Psychologically, I’ve read that liking warmth is natural for human beings because you need it to survive, rather than being oblivious of the freezing temperatures. So I guess feeling warm after doing something good is your body’s reward system; it urges you to do more good.

But man, being scientific kinda kills the romance of it. And this is a really academically-minded person talking.

In a way, you do need warmth to survive. You need the warmth of the people around you, whether for a benevolent or malevolent intention. You can’t close up and subject yourself to the cold wind all the time. It doesn’t work like that.

Otherwise, you’d be dropping dead of hypothermia.

Contrast of Elements

“They must listen to me!” he shouted, “They must bow to me as their ruler!”

“Such coarse actions mean noting, brother of mine,” she replied in a soothing voice, “We must embrace them with care, not harshness.”

“Foolish, naive girl,” he shook his head with disappointment, stretching his arms out dangerously, “What is greatness for if not presented to the common flesh? What is heat if not to warm? To burn?”

“Cool yourself man, before you wreck havoc upon the innocent life.”

“Nay!” he spat, the small flicker of light growing at his feet, “It will not be my fault if the innocent do not run once I arrive.”

“Cool yourself,” she warned calmly, “lest you want me to force it on you.”

He grinned and took her advice, dimming considerably before he continued, “Do not sit on such a high horse, sister, your ass will sore.”

She scoffed, “Hypocrite, learn your own wisdom before you impart it on others.”

“Yet I am not the one to threaten their own kin.”

“Kin you may be, but we are nothing alike.”

“Nay,” he laughed scornfully, “You are far more terrifying when provoked. My thanks for bringing it to my attention.”

“Hypocrite,” she tutted, “Once again.”

“You take lives when your innocent earth rouses you,” he licked, vaporising her tendril, “I take lives when daredevils rouse me.”

“Do not call me a murderer and stoop me down so low to your level,” she hissed, a wave rising overhead, “I say, take back your accusation.”

“What tall legs your mount has, dear sister!”

She rose high, bits of sand flowing towards her innards. She was strong, and just as impenetrable as a wall. The deafening roar echoed as she crashed down on him, enveloping him with blue as his very existence is snuffed out forever.

To know and to believe are two very different things.

I know that there’s something out there for me, but I don’t believe that. At least, not in a religious faith.

I know that this will end in me scrunching up paper and throwing it against the sturdy wood in a fit of rage. The stencilled words deceive and torment me, as the white shavings of wood are abused and frowned upon by myself. The letters form illegible slanders, words only to humiliate and deprecate. The A takes on a clown’s frown, with the O as its big, black honking noe. The rest of the lines and curves serve as the clown’s home and toys, the B serves as the circus tent, the P as its juggling recital, and the S as the crowd.

The onlooking children peer at me from the small and wobbly hilltop of white balls, and they leer with overflowing curiosity. They ask their mothers if I will be an act in the show, but the women reply no, it is merely a statue of failure. They would ask what failure was if the two-legged lion hadn’t roared, missing its rear from the half-written q.
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