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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
March 21, 2014
The Danger of Untold Stories by Synesthi is a perfect meeting of prose and poetic language brought to life through a gentle yet persistent and persuasive language, giving it a moving didactic tilt. A true work of genius. Very well done.
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Suggested by 91816119
Literature Text
I believe in words. I believe in voices, the unique cries of human beings as they pour their soul out into the sky. But most of all, I believe in stories.
Stories, be they written or spoken or painted onto the walls of caves, reaffirm our humanity. They give us back our own heartbeat, that dull pulse of blood, but more than that they give us our minds. They let us reach back and see where we’ve been, what we felt, what we believed. They form a mirror, let us see who we are, who we were.
And I believe that everyone has a story that deserves to be heard. But more and more I’m seeing that only some stories get told. You have books for children fully admitting that people have different bodies…but where is the admission of different minds? Why do no main characters have mental illness, or attention deficit, autism or dyslexia? Where are the movies about synesthetes, those with OCD, those battling depression?
This is not just a problem of children’s literature, it extends across all literature, all media. That crucial world of our inner landscapes, if deemed inferior, atypical, is all too often silenced. And this silence rings loud in the ears of those individuals who find their stories untold. It tells them that their unique set of experiences, the entire world they gather in their hands and eyes and ears, is nothing worthy of hearing or seeing. It prolongs the silence and the suffering of those who battle with their own struggles with no ear or eye to turn to, forcing them back into the shadows and robbing them of their dignity.
But we all have minds and we all live out our own stories. We all have voices worthy of being heard. It is time we start letting them be told.
Stories, be they written or spoken or painted onto the walls of caves, reaffirm our humanity. They give us back our own heartbeat, that dull pulse of blood, but more than that they give us our minds. They let us reach back and see where we’ve been, what we felt, what we believed. They form a mirror, let us see who we are, who we were.
And I believe that everyone has a story that deserves to be heard. But more and more I’m seeing that only some stories get told. You have books for children fully admitting that people have different bodies…but where is the admission of different minds? Why do no main characters have mental illness, or attention deficit, autism or dyslexia? Where are the movies about synesthetes, those with OCD, those battling depression?
This is not just a problem of children’s literature, it extends across all literature, all media. That crucial world of our inner landscapes, if deemed inferior, atypical, is all too often silenced. And this silence rings loud in the ears of those individuals who find their stories untold. It tells them that their unique set of experiences, the entire world they gather in their hands and eyes and ears, is nothing worthy of hearing or seeing. It prolongs the silence and the suffering of those who battle with their own struggles with no ear or eye to turn to, forcing them back into the shadows and robbing them of their dignity.
But we all have minds and we all live out our own stories. We all have voices worthy of being heard. It is time we start letting them be told.
Literature
Broken
Something in my brain
I am told
is broken, dysfunctional. It leaves me inept
when left to deal with language unspoken,
the intricacies of smiles,
the unclear line between malice and mirth.
It may have been the shot
given by the doctor
meant to protect but somehow doing harm,
and ignoring
the Hippocratic oath.
Or so say my parents, their organization,
so they may be exonerated.
They liken me to
Ted Bundy, H. H. Holmes,
and Einstein. Because a sometimes-flat
affect is
abnormal,
and it makes people uncomfortable.
Especially when it is not maintained.
At times I am too broken to understand
and sometimes I am not broken enough
because my pu
Literature
Accept your Candle, Weep for the Stars
A light I see, far off in the distance. It's a star, I told myself.
No other thought surpassed it, I want to reach it.
I struggle in the darkness, slowly heading for it, not knowing, not thinking.
I know this is what I want. I want the star.
It gets brighter, I can feel its warm touch, though I'm far from it.
Joy overwhelms my soul, I'm so close, so close to
my star. It's my star and nothing else matters.
I reach with my fingers, to touch it.
A candle. A lowly candle, my thoughts shattered.
This is not what I wanted. It's not my star.
I blink, and blink again, I see clearly. Up above.
There are hundreds, no millions of stars.
Why
Literature
It Is In The Doing
I know what she thinks I do in the bathroom when I take a little too long,
when I'm a little too quiet.
After all, I'm a healthy teenager with access to the internet, what else could I be doing?
She knocks on the door and asks, "Hey, what are you doing?"
Smile, my dear reader.
Chuckle a little.
Sometimes she's right.
But sometimes... Sometimes I'm on the floor or pressed hard against the wall, my heart a little too fast, my breath a little too quick... my chest a little too tight as I try to keep the sound of steadily falling tears from echoing beyond the door. As I try to keep pretences to the outside world that I do not cry, that noth
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This is my submission for the 120 Seconds contest.
The competition can be found over at DrippingWords 's account in her journal and at burdenedhearts.deviantart.com.
Audio recording at vocaroo.com/i/s14vOnAPOngL
© 2014 - 2024 Synesthi
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I'd read them all.