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Literature Text
Everyday I take the bus to school. It's not my favorite mode of transportation. It is tedious and uncomfortable. The bus makes frequent stops that jerk me away from whatever idle thoughts I'm having. But everyday, as the high-rise buildings flash by in bouts of light and shadow, the bus zips by a tiny little house.
It doesn't belong there. The house is in the bungalow style; all spread out and lazy. It is quaint, a gable style roof and all covered in ivy. But the thing that made me notice it is a little patch where the ivy has been cleared away and the cracked stucco underneath is showing. In this little patch, in a fanciful blue script, these words have been clearly transcribed: The Summer Serenity Wish House.
The First time I saw it I was positive I was mistaken. The second time confirmed it. Here in the middle of this wretched, smoggy city, there was this tiny bungalow so aptly named The Summer Serenity Wish House.
And so every morning, when I should be studying the things I forgot to study the night before, I wonder about this little house. What is its purpose? Why is it here of all places? Does anybody live there? Ever so cautiously my wonderings turn into pretending. I pretend it is a magic house: gateway to a different world, where wishes become reality. I pretend it is a safe house for the travelers of the galaxy. I pretend it is a haven where pretty girls laugh and braid each other's hair. I imagine there to be cats and dogs, and maybe a unicorn in the back yard. Sometimes I miss my stop.
This was how my mornings went, lost in this reverie, until one day the house wasn't there anymore. There was just an empty lot with a pile of rubble that could have been a wish house once upon a time. I actually cried, to the astonishment of the confused commuters around me. How could they not see? How could they not realize?
I like to think it has just moved on. That the city was finally getting to be too much so it packed its bags and headed west. The house probably went somewhere with wide-open spaces. Maybe on a mountain, or by the sea. The Summer Serenity Wish House.
It doesn't belong there. The house is in the bungalow style; all spread out and lazy. It is quaint, a gable style roof and all covered in ivy. But the thing that made me notice it is a little patch where the ivy has been cleared away and the cracked stucco underneath is showing. In this little patch, in a fanciful blue script, these words have been clearly transcribed: The Summer Serenity Wish House.
The First time I saw it I was positive I was mistaken. The second time confirmed it. Here in the middle of this wretched, smoggy city, there was this tiny bungalow so aptly named The Summer Serenity Wish House.
And so every morning, when I should be studying the things I forgot to study the night before, I wonder about this little house. What is its purpose? Why is it here of all places? Does anybody live there? Ever so cautiously my wonderings turn into pretending. I pretend it is a magic house: gateway to a different world, where wishes become reality. I pretend it is a safe house for the travelers of the galaxy. I pretend it is a haven where pretty girls laugh and braid each other's hair. I imagine there to be cats and dogs, and maybe a unicorn in the back yard. Sometimes I miss my stop.
This was how my mornings went, lost in this reverie, until one day the house wasn't there anymore. There was just an empty lot with a pile of rubble that could have been a wish house once upon a time. I actually cried, to the astonishment of the confused commuters around me. How could they not see? How could they not realize?
I like to think it has just moved on. That the city was finally getting to be too much so it packed its bags and headed west. The house probably went somewhere with wide-open spaces. Maybe on a mountain, or by the sea. The Summer Serenity Wish House.
Literature
crying tree
When theirs nothing to eat
I feed you sweets
When you cry if you hold me to your hart
I can feel your pluse.
Wehn your not near
I go to the crying tree
Waiting
Crying
Til your near me again
and the crying tree holds my hand
and helps me stand
the lonelyness.
Literature
The Journey
Beneath my skin, my veins pulse with desire
To know why I am here.
As I journey to find the answers to life,
I sail through the monotonous seas
That stretch forever beyond the horizon.
As my ship sails towards the dry land,
Mountains tower before me,
Filling me with both awe and intimidation.
But the mountains are eroding as time passes by,
Into merely fragments of what they once were.
I move my eyes and watch the glaciers
Melt slowly into rivers.
But even though they disappear,
They melt to provide water for all life on this planet.
You could say rivers are created by glaciers for a purpose.
I ponder those mountains and glac
Literature
Life
One day it's there, one day it's not
One day it's the most wonderful thing,
The next you'd wish for it to be over,
One day it's full of glee and bliss
The next it's hatred, sadness and depression
One week it's filled with discovery and news of finding a missing person alive,
the next it's pain and war
This is life itself. It goes up and down like a teeter-totter. It's great at some points and others it tips to disappointing and sad.
But those who have gone to war, to a place where bombs, murder and death lurk, waiting for them;
those who have spent months of researching a new cure, and test it just find that they failed and go back
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Comments10
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Hmmm, an intriguing and mysterious tale. And it is interesting how it essentially just says: there was a strange house, now it is gone. I guess the point is that, unlike many stories, this one doesn't have much action and, instead of focusing on people, it focuses on an inanimate object. It sort of has this aura of "Let's escape the every-day". My favourite part was probably the speculations of what could the house could be.