Have you thought this before?

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Being unique adds purpose to my life. It is something I relish. I like to express my individuality through my everyday life choices such as fashion, taste in reading material or my opinions. Even if I achieve no more than what I have today in some way I have changed, contributed and been involved in this universe. The knowledge that I have existed. Me, unique to everyone else. Leaving my unique fingerprint on earth lets me rest easy despite the thousands of unanswerable questions; including the major one: ‘what is the purpose of life?’

But a new thought now plays on my mind. What if no thought is unique.
Of the overwhelming number of people that have graced Earth there are many greater minds, older souls and wiser philosophers than myself. So why would any of my thoughts be different? Why would the same thought never crossed the mind of someone else? Just a quick glance on twitter confirms the number of people thinking exactly the same as me in response to breaking news or a TV programme and often they have articulated the pointed more wittily. At the end of the day the human mind is ultimately anatomically much the same, so I shouldn’t be too surprised.

I can accept that the genes coding for my eyes, my hair or my skin may be inherited from my ancestors and shared with my family. But each of my thoughts stripped of their originality leaves an eerie uneasy feeling. A sense of an evasion of my intellectual privacy and even a reconsideration of my purpose in life. What is the point of cultivating clones of unoriginal thoughts.

Human life does not standstill despite this as an alignment of new ideas, being in the right place at the right time allows advancements. So maybe this is where the originality stems from. Old perspectives but the amalgamation of different eras, past experiences and current circumstances. Should we find happiness in the originally of thoughts that arise from our day to day unique lives? Or maybe humans are integrally the same having all descended from Adam and Eve.

The irony: this is not a unique thought.

”If you can not do great things, do small things in a great way” – Napoleon Hill

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Have you thought this before?

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Being unique adds purpose to my life. It is something I relish. I like to express my individuality through my everyday life choices such as fashion, taste in reading material or my opinions. Even if I achieve no more than what I have today in some way I have changed, contributed and been involved in this universe. The knowledge that I have existed. Me, unique to everyone else. Leaving my unique fingerprint on earth lets me rest easy despite the thousands of unanswerable questions; including the major one: ‘what is the purpose of life?’

But a new thought now plays on my mind. What if no thought is unique.

Of the overwhelming number of people that have graced Earth there are many greater minds, older souls and wiser philosophers than myself. So why would any of my thoughts be different? Why would the same thought never crossed the mind of someone else? Just a quick glance on twitter confirms the number of people thinking exactly the same as me in response to breaking news or a TV programme and often they have articulated the pointed more wittily. At the end of the day the human mind is ultimately anatomically much the same, so I shouldn’t be too surprised.

I can accept that the genes coding for my eyes, my hair or my skin may be inherited from my ancestors and shared with my family. But each of my thoughts stripped of their originality leaves an eerie uneasy feeling. A sense of an evasion of my intellectual privacy and even a reconsideration of my purpose in life. What is the point of cultivating clones of unoriginal thoughts.

Human life does not standstill despite this as an alignment of new ideas, being in the right place at the right time allows advancements. So maybe this is where the originality stems from. Old perspectives but the amalgamation of different eras, past experiences and current circumstances. Should we find happiness in the originally of thoughts that arise from our day to day unique lives? Or maybe humans are integrally the same having all descended from Adam and Eve.

The irony: this is not a unique thought.

”If you can not do great things, do small things in a great way” – Napoleon Hill

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Our Favorite Books and Why We Love Them

The Daily Post

At Automattic, we have a plethora of book lovers. We love to read and we love to share. And today, we’re going to share books we’ve loved with you, in the hopes that you’ll return the favor and share your favorite books with us in the comments.

lorilooLori McLeese

The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion
Joan Didion allows us into her year after her husband, Gregory Dunne, died. I read this book once or twice a year, and it always brings tears, though I know the outcome. It’s not a romanticized love story, it’s a real love story, and it’s about those incredible, raw, numbing, forgetful moments you find yourself emerged in as grief washes over you.

My favorite passage:

Was it about faith or was it about grief?

Were faith and grief the same thing?

Were we unusually dependent on one another the summer we swam and…

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Dreams of green

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Here I lie and I feel alone.
In this house of four people.
Here I lie and I am alone.
I may as well be in the Arctic.
Cold, bracing, painful.
Life wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Life should be easy like a bird gliding through the sky, way up above the shallow ground.
Somehow they just know how to fly.
I always imagined a successful life.
Full of happiness and ease.
Stumbling onto luck after passing patches grassy trees.
But life is not so.
Rather the grassless lands of the Arctic.
Treacherous, slippery, cold.
Like the kind of snow that your feet sink into.
Or the ice that breaks beneath your feet.
But I still hope for grassy planes.
I still search for what I think exists.
Maybe it is all a mirage.
Maybe I am staring into an abyss.

Are we lost in a cyberworld?

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The artificial electronic light that emits from small handheld devices hypnotises millions of people worldwide every minute. We turn to the artificial light like flowers to the sun, soaking in the rays from an intangible cyberworld. In a trance-like state we stare at our screens losing track of time, losing track of the physical world. Instead we live life through a screen.
What was meant to connect us with the world could actually be distancing ourselves further from our own lives.

I completely understand the benefits of connecting one edge of the world to another in milliseconds. We are now more aware of injustice, disease and suffering elsewhere and this allows the opportunity for humanity to unite and help in any way possible. However I also understand the dangers of the internet – of getting lost in a web of faceless interactions and people encroaching on others privacy.

Increasingly more of life operates quite through a screen including socialising, ordering groceries and playing Playstation games with friends from the comfort of separate homes. Despite this, we can’t live through a screen.

Ever taken a picture of something but found the digital image didn’t do real life justice? No angle, flash or Instagram filter could capture the moment in it’s perfection. That’s because life is better without the screen.

So let the revolution begin! Put down your phone, your laptop, your i-pad and relish the world. Awaken all your senses. Savour that breath of air, look out the window and really see the world.
We are blessed to be alive right at this moment. Live it in the moment. (No screen necessary).

The orange raincoat

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Splish Splosh splash rain hit against the windows. The rain drops landed on the window, darted along the glass and raced after each other to reach the other side. Plump clouds loomed ominously above the houses of Beaulieu drive, holding within them gallons of water that would pour down over Beaulieu drive.
Cars whooshed by causing puddles of muddy water to spray onto an unfortunate unsuspecting passersby. The Passerby who had until that moment had successfully weaved between rain puddles to escape dry. Umbrellas were drawn and aimed toward the sky. Pedestrians battled against the wind and the torrent of oncoming umbrellas. But the umbrella was a poor shelter against the downpour and a even poorer contender against the gusts of wind that ambushed, conquered and overthrew the umbrella shield.

Dressed head to toe in grey everyone looked grey and glum. Grey suits, grey boots, grey umbrellas and grey expressions. All except one person. All except one child. Kat Clarke.
Equipped with wellingtons the puddles on Beaulieu drive were treacherous swamps that ran deep in the depths of the Congo. Kat Clarke waded knee deep through the swamps bravely and stealthily so as not to wake the sleeping crocodiles.
Armed with an orange raincoat the raindrops were arrows fired from the bows of enemies hidden in the sky. Kat Clarke swerved and dived, faster than lightening. The arrows bounced off the magical orange raincoat. But This was not any ordinary magical raincoat. It was an impenetrable armour gifted to Kat Clarke from the wise man that lived on the Himalayas near Asda. The wise man commended Kat Clarke for her leopard like speed and agility.
And lastly the umbrella. Borrowed from Kat Clarke’s Japanese neighbour, the umbrella served as a Japanese samurai sword. So precise the sword could split even a raindrop in half; so sharp the blade could slice through pavement like cheese.
With this samurai sword Kat Clarke would protect her tribe that marched on her land. This land was passed down from Kat Clarke’s ancestors and equipped with the undefeated trio of rainwear she would guard it.
Kat Clarke stood at the highest point of her land and scanned the horizon for approaching enemies.

‘Kat Clarke! I will not tell you one more time! Get down from the drive’s wall and come inside!’
It was the call for dinner. The tribe were safe for the time being and so Kat Clarke retreated into her home.

Confessions of a 10 year old jewel thief.

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I will spare you the finer details such as the weather, the location, the year. What is undeniably important is the confession.
I, Kat Clarke, am a thief. Not a petty thief. A jewel thief.
The owner of said jewel is, or more accurately was, Annabelle Bonafante.

Now that is said. I will divulge.
Annabelle is my polar opposite. She has soft golden hair that tickles her waist, glassy blue eyes and skin as fair and smooth as china plates. From this description she sounds like a doll. I sometimes think she behaves like a doll too.
I on the other hand am the yin to her yang. My hair is muddy brown and cut undesirably short by my mother who has deemed it unsalvageable. My skin is always tanned from playing outside and I have far too many freckles scattered all over my face. My brother, when he was furious with me, described me to look like a speckled egg in a boys wig. This is a despairingly accurate description.

It was last Friday that I stole the jewel.
I bet you are wondering what jewels a ten year old may own.
The jewels were a selection of beautiful glass squares, vibrant in colour, wicked in nature. They were set in a majestic royal blue box with gold trimmings.
Annabelle had brought them in to our school for Friday’s show and tell. She told the room of school children they were given to her by her parents when she swam one length of the pool for the first time.

When the bell rang for break Annabelle was ushered outside leaving the jewels alone and unprotected.
I took a closer look. They glinted at me purple, gold, silver, bronze, blue, red, green and colours I didn’t even know existed. They whispered encouragingly and before I knew it one perfect shard was safely hidden in my book bag and there was no backtracking.
The rest of the school day dragged on. My palms were sweaty. I felt nauseated. I could not concentrate. Even if I tried I could not return the piece of glass back to it’s family, back to it’s rightful owner. I willed for the bell to ring for home time so I could escape.

Finally I made it home. And I waited. I waited for the phone to ring. I waited for the explosion of voices. I braced myself for the repercussions to hit. But it never happened.
Not that day, not the next. Not even the week after.
Perhaps Annabelle and her parents did not notice. Perhaps they did not care.

I stowed the shard beneath a lose floorboard under a rug. Every few hours I return to the floorboard and steal a glance. Marvel at its beauty and carefully polish the shard’s silky surface with my father’s handkerchief.
I had every intention of returning the shard back to Annabelle but her lack of fuss made me change my mind.
I felt sad that the other shards were most likely left alone. Probably in an expensive mahogany cupboard left untouched, unappreciated and forgotten. The missing shard unnoticed.
I refused to let this shard have the same fate. So there Annabelle bonafante’s shard lies, under a floorboard in my home.

And that is how I became the jewel thief.

Bonfire night: Bonfire burn, bonfire crackle

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Bonfire burn, bonfire crackle
restrained within its rubble shackles.
Flames stretch, flames Grasp
Scorch and burn all in its clasp.
The air chokes on clouds of smoke
Encircled by an ashen cloak.
Sparklers sizzle
White hot they fizzle.

Bonfire burn, bonfire crackle
See that firework hear it cackle
Screech and howl
An unearthly growl.
Up above colours fly
Lighting up a starless sky.
Ash will rain from the clouds
Beware you, in the crowd.IMG_1390-0.JPG

Metamorphosis

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Some days I can’t shake this feeling off, no, it is a compulsion.
On those days I feel like a million marbles are bouncing within my veins
Causing me to vibrate from within like a hummingbird.
I have grown impatient with this cage made of my own skin.
My body feels like a vessel that I must break out from.
Then I will rise like a phoenix from the incarcerated encasing that entraps me.
I can’t find the words, actions or picture to express myself.
I can’t even comprehend what I am feeling.
What I am compelled to do.
Yet I feel I may burst from anticipation.
I do not understand how I will be released but I battle inwardly.
Against myself.

We hope for change as change holds hope.

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I always hear the phrase ‘People do not like change.’ But I disagree. I love change! At least a change for the better or at the very least, it’s equivalent.

Humans have sought change throughout existence. Our ingrained curiosity and imagination is how we discovered electricity, aeroplanes, medications and even fashion. These inventions have changed each and everyone of our lives.

Change is essential for development but change is also vital to adapt, evolve and survive. It is the crux for the survival of the fittest.

Change can be a platform for bad as much as it is for progress, therefore we can use change as a comparator; as we do not always know if we have found our prime unless we make a change.

If tomorrow took the form of a symbol it would be a question mark. That question mark, that blank canvas, allows our imagination to run amok and dream up any change possible or not.

It is the concept of change that drives humankind (despite many aversion). Essentially change and hope reside hand in hand.

We hope for change as change holds hope.