This essay will explain one of the ideas I have, very dear to my heart now, that we could use the chemistry to solidify and ameliorate the plastics materials, in order to use them in many more applications than today they are. And that we could do so as per a new utility for our plastic waste widespread across the world.
*****
The solidified plastic component.
In the daily use of items made of metal—and often, around me, of that rust-proof metal that allows for longer service life and offers the properties associated with metals and alloys (specifically resistance to pressure or torsion—or, to put it another way, solidity, at least as far as I can observe)—a very simple thought occurred to me (which you might deem naive): many of these metal alloys, or metals rendered rust-proof through chemistry, could easily be replaced by other materials for the same purposes and with virtually the same utility—often, I believe, with even greater practical utility—and, from what information I gather, at a much lower cost! Specifically, they could be replaced by some of the plastic materials that modern chemistry enables us to create!
Indeed, given that we can now easily engineer very hard thermoplastics—producing materials like polycarbonates that are incredibly strong, rust-proof, and virtually impervious to water—and given that we can (or so I understand) readily make plastic materials that are nearly fireproof and highly heat-resistant, we have—easily and cheaply—a plastic component that could be molded for many applications usually reserved for “stainless metal”…
One could design components for door and window fittings. Interior and exterior cladding components—such as vehicle bodywork or fuselage sections—or even structural elements like armor plating and furniture (as is already common), and perhaps even machinery parts, such as engine components, drive shafts, or gears.
Also, a wide range of household tools—hammers, shovels, screwdrivers, kitchen mills, and many others.
And perhaps even structural or framing elements for construction?
The primary immediate benefit would likely be a reduction in production and assembly costs. Naturally, the chemical composition of such hard, durable plastic elements would need to be designed first; this would likely yield a range of formulas, allowing for the creation of materials ideally suited to specific applications.
An entrepreneur looking to cut production costs might well consider reclaiming plastic waste—melting and reprocessing it for this purpose. We are well aware of the vast quantities of plastic waste scattered across the globe or sitting in landfills. It was actually while discussing my project—using nets to capture plastic waste at river mouths—with friends that the idea struck me: we could easily derive new uses from this existing mass of composite plastic waste through minor modifications—specifically heating, adding chemical solutions, and employing processes such as the thermosetting of polycarbonate compositions (which could also be engineered to be fire-retardant).
This same approach could—perhaps for different purposes—be applied to various other materials, such as vitrified ceramics and, most notably, wood; after all, it is well understood that wood can relatively easily be made extremely hard and resistant to heat, fire, and wear. Today, there are stylish watches made of wood, featuring a lacquer finish that protects them from moisture and corrosion…
And if I mention here the processing of plastic materials—specifically to make them fire-resistant and exceptionally hard and durable through thermodynamic methods, notably in the form of “polycarbonates”—it is to reiterate a key point: plastic waste and scrap can be found all over the world. While not biodegradable in their raw state, once recovered and reprocessed—simply by melting them down and applying chemical treatments—they could provide a vast supply of potential industrial components or even manufactured tools of genuine commercial value.
This was my idea—admittedly very simple, and perhaps you might even consider it naive. It turns out that plastics—in the form of waste or scrap—are now deemed dangerous to our natural balance and the environment by scientists and environmental advocates alike. In my view, one could easily develop a business model based on reusing them for this purpose—one that would serve the cause of the environment while also delivering social and economic value.
Born in 1984 in Paris, France, Timothee Bordenave is a French author of fiction and essays, and a poet. He has published many books, about 25 to date, and his literary works have been translated in large parts to about 20 languages… He is also a visual artist, whose photographs and paintings have been shown in France and in various international locations.
He used to work directing libraries in Paris, and then nowadays he is a full time creative. Timothee Bordenave has received several awards and distinctions, from around the World.
Your mornings glow with freshness and moonlit embrace.
Your springs hold a calm no words can replace—
My homeland, your beauty is beyond compare.
No other land possesses such radiant delight,
Such gentle melodies and songs so bright.
Soft breezes whisper from horizons in flight—
My homeland, your splendor is beyond compare.
Your birds sing in harmony with the bakhshi’s tune,
Your summers and winters inspire hearts to bloom.
Your mountains hide precious blue stones in their womb—
My homeland, your value is beyond compare.
Inherited from our fathers through the years,
Treasured by our mothers, held ever dear.
When we tell your history, every word grows sincere—
My homeland, your glory is beyond compare.
At dusk, diamond stars adorn the skies above,
By day, the golden sun shines with endless love.
Even heaven speaks of your beauty from above—
My homeland, your radiance is beyond compare.
I call your gardens a land of miracles untold,
Your mountains magnificent palaces of gold.
I kiss your sacred soil with reverence untold—
My homeland, your name is beyond compare.
My homeland! Your happiness is beyond compare.
Maxmatqulova Amira Alisherovna is an 11th-grade student at Secondary School No. 70 in Dehqonobod District, Qashqadaryo Region, Uzbekistan.
She is the author of the book Dream Notebook (Orzular daftari). In addition, she has contributed her creative works to the Long Live Our New Uzbekistan! (Yashna, Yangi O‘zbekistonim!) collection and several international anthologies.
She actively participates in various competitions and has achieved outstanding results. She is a recipient of the Governor’s Scholarship, a volunteer, and the Youth Leader of Dehqonobod District, playing an active role in the development and engagement of young people in her community.
Her main goal is to study journalism and become a professional who contributes to the development of society, as well as to become a recipient of the prestigious Zulfiya State Award. So far, she has won first place in the district stage of this competition.
Life Motto:
“Criticism, delays, and difficulties are the keys to success on the path toward achieving one’s dreams.”
Beyond Borders: Why the World Continues to Pay Attention to Maja Herman Sekulić
While sections of the Serbian media have often overlooked her achievements, the international literary community has continued to follow the career of Maja Herman Sekulić with sustained interest. For readers and critics far beyond the Balkans, her work has long belonged to a broader cultural conversation that transcends national boundaries.
A poet, novelist, essayist, translator, and scholar, Herman Sekulić occupies a rare position in contemporary Serbian literature. She is among the few living Serbian authors whose work has found readers across Europe, North America, and Asia, with novels translated into five languages and poetry published in twenty-eight. Her official title as a Dame/Knight of the Order of Saint Constantine reflects yet another dimension of the international recognition she has received.
Yet her influence extends well beyond her published books. Holding a Ph.D. from Princeton University, she has taught at several American universities while pursuing a career that bridges literature, philosophy, comparative culture, and translation. Her essays have been included in university curricula, and her translations of major theoretical works have helped introduce influential literary concepts to Serbian readers and scholars.
Her international engagements are equally notable. She serves as Vice President of the Academy of Ethics in India, which has nominated her twice for the Nobel Prize in Literature. She is a member of the World Academy of Art and Science, as well as a senator, ambassador, and member of the International Academy in Rome. Her cultural work has also earned her appointments as a three-time Ambassador of Poetry, Culture, and Goodwill under UNESCO patronage, together with the Nelson Mandela Peace Award.
Recognition has come from many parts of the world. In Italy and India, her literary achievements have been celebrated through numerous distinctions. In South Korea, her work has been translated and she was appointed Lifetime Vice President of the World Literature Association. Mexico has honored her among the leading figures of contemporary world culture. She has also been recognized as a Global Icon of Poetry, the Style Icon of Serbia of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, and one of the Fifty Unforgettable Women of Europe.
What distinguishes Herman Sekulić, however, is not simply the breadth of her résumé but the consistency of her intellectual independence. Throughout a career that has unfolded across cultures and continents, she has resisted the temptation to reshape her voice according to prevailing political or ideological expectations. Opportunities to embrace fashionable narratives or capitalize on personal history were available to her, yet she chose instead to remain committed to the autonomy of literature and the integrity of her own artistic vision.
At a time when public discourse increasingly rewards conformity and polarization, Herman Sekulić represents a different tradition—one that places literature above ideology and creative freedom above political convenience. Her career serves as a reminder that genuine cultural influence is rarely determined by the intensity of domestic media attention. Rather, it is measured by the enduring life of a writer’s work, its ability to cross languages and cultures, and its capacity to remain relevant across generations.
It is perhaps for this reason that, regardless of changing fashions or local controversies, Maja Herman Sekulić continues to command respect on the international literary stage. Her reputation today rests not on publicity, but on decades of scholarship, artistic achievement, and an unwavering commitment to intellectual and creative freedom.
(The cultural supplement)
Van granica: zasto svet i dalje obraca pažnju na Maju Herman Sekulic
Uprkos čestom ignorisanju u delu domaćih medija, svet i dalje sa velikom pažnjom prati svaki korak Maje Herman Sekulić. Svetska književnost jednostavno ne može da zanemari autorku čiji opus, međunarodni ugled i kulturni doprinos prevazilaze nacionalne okvire. Nosilac je i viteške titule Reda Svetog Konstantina, što dodatno svedoči o međunarodnom ugledu koji uživa.
Maja Herman Sekulić ubraja se među najznačajnije savremene srpske autore, a jedna je od retkih živih književnica iz Srbije koja ima čitalačku publiku od Pariza i Rima do Nju Delhija i Njujorka. Dok mnogi autori ostaju prepoznati prvenstveno u regionalnim okvirima, njen književni rad već decenijama ostvaruje međunarodni odjek.
Ona nije samo književnica, već svojevrsna kulturna institucija. Doktor je filozofije sa Prinstona, predavala je na više američkih univerziteta i autorka je 33 knjige. Njeni romani prevedeni su na pet svetskih jezika, poezija na dvadeset osam, dok se njena esejistika proučava na pojedinim univerzitetskim katedrama. Kao prevodilac kapitalnih dela značajno je doprinela razvoju srpske književne teorije i uvođenju novih pojmova u domaću akademsku misao.
Potpredsednica je Akademije etike u Indiji, koja ju je dva puta nominovala za Nobelovu nagradu za književnost. Članica je Svetske akademije umetnosti i nauke, kao i senator, ambasador i član Internacionalne akademije u Rimu. Nosilac je i titula trostrukog ambasadora poezije, kulture i dobre volje pod pokroviteljstvom UNESCO-a, kao i međunarodne nagrade za mir „Nelson Mandela“.
Školovala se i živela u više zemalja sveta, članica je srpskog i američkog PEN-a, Srpskog književnog društva i Udruženja književnika Srbije, koje joj je dodelilo svoja najviša priznanja. Posebno je cenjena u Italiji i Indiji, gde je dobila brojne književne nagrade, dok je u Koreji prevedena i imenovana za doživotnu potpredsednicu Udruženja svetske književnosti. Iz Meksika su joj stigla priznanja koja je svrstavaju među velikane svetske kulture.
Proglašena je Globalnom ikonom poezije, Ikonom stila Srbije XX i XXI veka i jednom od pedeset nezaboravnih žena Evrope.
Od Evrope do Amerike, Maja Herman Sekulić simbolizuje slobodu stvaranja, traganje za lepotom i doslednost umetničkom integritetu, nezavisno od dnevne politike. Oni koji pokušavaju da njen doprinos svedu na lokalne okvire zanemaruju činjenicu da istinska umetnička vrednost nadilazi trenutne medijske i političke okolnosti. Kako je o njoj zapisao Josif Brodski, pleni lepotom svoje poezije i svog bića.
U vremenu kada se od umetnika i intelektualaca često očekuje da slede unapred zadate obrasce i dominantne narative, Maja Herman Sekulić ostala je dosledna sopstvenom putu. Mogla je da prihvati modele koji su joj bili ponuđeni na Zapadu, uključujući kritiku sopstvene zemlje ili poziciju žrtve, ali to nije učinila. Nije prihvatila ni ponude koje bi od nje zahtevale ideološko svrstavanje, niti je koristila tragičnu sudbinu svog oca kao sredstvo lične promocije. Umesto toga, izabrala je put stvaralačke slobode, ličnog integriteta i odgovornosti prema sopstvenom delu.
Njena karijera pokazuje da trajna književna vrednost ne zavisi od prolazne medijske pažnje, već od snage dela, međunarodnog priznanja i doslednosti sopstvenim principima.
Morning, the particular time of the day, reminds me of the things that I have not completed on the previous day. I feel guilty for not finishing up all the deeds that I have promised myself to do in due time. I feel anxious. I also feel happy for allowing myself to do the things that are not stranger and new. Making oneself introduced to the new things may take a huge amount of patience and enthusiasm. And here, I am resting on my sofa contemplating over the things that I have to make myself acquainted with. Sadly, the contagious flow of procrastination leaves me in such a state where the human beings become engrossed in the whirlpool of doubts and self- denial. The long black traces of procrastination entangle my body and transform my soul into its food. Is this overthinking? Am I doing it at present? By the way, what am I doing?
Long poem
Part 1
Every morning
I wake up
I feel the sudden rush of blood
Around my eyes
As if some fishes want to come out
Of my eyes
To make a room
In the adjacent areas of my nose.
My waterlogged nose fails to
Feel the pain that is engulfing
Half of my day,
In the evening, I seek
For the rest that may erase my agony;
Alas, it intensifies my ached body
That is unsurpassable.
I hope for that one thing
Peace-
Nothing else;
What do you expect from an ailing soul?
At noon, I open the window pane
To let the rain shower on my body,
Hundred years have passed
And I am looking at the lake;
Some migratory birds roam,
The fountain speaks
Like whistling wind;
Along with them, a voice appears
Like a grotesque shadow;
Seeing their movements, I wish
I can travel to future
To see if I am feeling the same,
Motionless,
Staring at the blank ceiling.
Once upon a time,
I drove an insect away
From my place
Like some house inhabitants do the same things
To some guests.
Nobody is staying there
More than one minute,
It is only me, God and my paper,
I am exchanging emotional words
Not a series of outburst,
A rendezvous,
Maybe,
Before I tranquilize my body
And pacify my eyes
At night.
Part 2
Opening up the drawer
Of her yellow room,
She takes out the revolver
To shoot at her head
To say adieu to all the blues
Imprinted on her body and mind,
She feels
She is possessed by an evil spirit
That disturbs her sleep,
It makes a pact with a venomous worm
That often tries to come out from her ears.
She is ready with her gun
To press the trigger,
A bird with a blue tail
Singing in her hall
Without knowing the next,
Her eyes meet her tail
A rain starts to fall.
The Morning breeze
Morning breeze is like
Some silenced sound
Emitting out from mouth
And then going back
To mouth
To act like a balm
On some unnamed bruises
Received from life.
It is unadulterated
Like the laugh of
The young ones
During morning
After their gigantic sleep
At night.
22. 12. 2022
A morning bird’s conversation with its bruised body
My body is a glass that holds my spirit. My body is not entirely broken and bruised. It is not smooth though it works like an ever enthusiastic teenager. Most of the time, I stand in front of the mirror to have dialogues with my body, to listen to what it wants to express. Secretly. Silently. Loudly. It has its voices. I cannot define its multiple voices that rise up like smoke, and get assimilated into air. I look at the reflection on the mirror. I look at my own selves, my own body. I try to own my body, but it is ungraspable. Yeah. I can touch my body; I can feel the pain, acne. I can sense the mood of my body.
Since childhood, I have a deep sense of inferiority complex that centres on body issues. My paradoxical mind makes me realize that my body is a fragile glass. In my blood, I start feeling the gush of insecurities. Insecurities of not being able to erase the bruises. I open the almirah and look at the stacks of it only to get vanquished by my own thoughts.
Without any shame and shyness, I can admit that sometimes, I carry on conversation with my body. It is like a page, and you are turning over the pages of the book. The book tries to capture your attention. Sometimes, it becomes successful. Sometimes, it does not. Attention is a fickle entity. It has wings so it flies away. But, my eyes are the ones that restore my attention for a long period of time. I blink. I look at my own eyelashes. Eyelashes are not big enough to be used as the cover of a hut. Surely, big enough to cover up my sadness, pain, coyness and happiness. The dark circles around my eyes make me compare between the stimulating, ever mysterious black hole and the unused well of my ancestral home. I carry on conversation with my eyelashes. It opens its petals only to give me vision. Life happens at the intersection of pause and action. Stillness fuels movement. Movement demands stillness. Similarly, my body seeks for it. Therefore, it takes rest. It takes rest for a while. In the meantime, it ponders over something like the length of my hair, smell of eyeballs. Having conversation with my own body does not make me feel guilty. It crosses miles after miles of fear and insecurity to pursue dialogues. I wait to get reply from my belly, navel. I believe that navel is the centre of the cosmos or the miniature of the entire world. It is spiral like the human existence. It is so spiral that it cannot unbind it. Unbinding this thing needs patience and time.
You can start conversation with your newly acquired body on shape, colour that become the reason behind the act of stigmatizing, belittling and shaming. But, you are wordless at that time. You start mumbling. When you grow up, you look at it as God’s gift. You become less harsh on your body, but you carry on your conversation. Maybe, you want answers. Why thin? Why skinny bones? Why long eyelashes? Why brown pupils? Just why and why. You float in the pool of why(s) and what(s) and you cannot fathom its depth. You have shark like teeth that can destroy your own body. Thoughts are like sharks with sharp teeth. It engulfs itself if you think too much. It will do destruction on the bodies. You stop pondering over the things that feel you fragile. You let yourself float. You free yourself from the clutches of ‘what if’ and ‘could have been.’ You roll your eyes. Rain of blood comes down from your forehead. It is a mode of self- destruction. Rain of blood is the extreme outcome of anxiety. You stop stressing and give your eyes a rest. You cry. Your skin starts glowing.
Body is just like the tree. If you water it, it will grow. It will outstretch its branches. Nerves are like the thin, very thin branches of the trees. They intertwine with each other, and create a sculpture inside your body. Even, your body is the sculpture. The end product. Who is the sculptor of your body? The symmetrical lines, the asymmetrical curves, the toes- all construct your shape.
The 24 years old promises herself that she will overcome her fears, insecurities. Little by little. One by one. Otherwise, my body will not grow. I am the one who can allow my body to grow. I stand and look at my image. Image of what? Obviously, images of my body.
17.03.2023
A town girl’s adventure of mind: Seeking refuge and freedom in the morning
It is the not the story of my paternal aunty who finds a deepest friendship with the trees. Her morning starts with the act of nurturing the plants. It is the story of all the aunties, uncles who find refuge in the mid of the plants. Being an oxymoronic soul by nature, I always wonder what will be my exact refuge, an unbreakable bond, a shelter with warmth and charms. If my adventurous attitude seeks for the temperament of the city, my soul demands symphony, a pure bliss and aesthetics. When people ask me about my favourite tourist spots, unfortunately, I can’t answer. My mind blocks my brain for a moment to reciprocate. I know that deep down, I am like water. Always moving, changing shapes and feelings depending on the container. Be it an earthen pot or a plastic water bottle. Am I situational? Do I rely on my instincts and the circumstances? Should I be blamed? Refuge is a feeling; refuge can be the things. Writing, gardening, cooking, travelling, paintings- anything that shuts down the cacophony of the world becomes my refuge. It is something that unearths the melody and drags it out of the noise. Germination happens when everything is at stake. Everything is in the chaos.
I live in a bright town that never fails to hype me up and calm me down when necessity arises. Her love for flowers is synomous to her love for stitching. She does embroidery on the clothes making beautiful figures, shapes of flowers and animals. She weaves her poetic worlds of animal and bird images. Birds are not born to be tamed. They are born to be free. Free from the onslaught of the paws. Paws of chains, barriers of sadness and gloominess. They fly, fall, flap their wings and stutter all along.
Gardening is also like stitching. In both cases, one utilizes one’s hands to give life to something. To live and to feel enliven in a dead world seems to be the hardest act. Her activity makes me question regarding the bond between humans and the world. A city dweller may look for peace in the vanishing appearance of the mild clouds. A village entity may find solace in the surroundings or in the sparkling lights of the city life. Why such misplacement? Is it displacement, misplacement or mismatch? Or something else? It is profound, solemn as gravity pulls us down. In my childhood, I used to look at the sky. Some elders say when you look at the sky, you pray and you find yourself in the lap of the constellation of stars. Maybe, that was my refuge. It is my refuge or something I lack control of. It becomes your blood. You become its veins.
Miraculously, I am penning down my feelings on a morning of my country’s Independence Day. I am 25. What does independence mean? To be free or to feel free? How ironical! How tantalizing! A human body holds spirit within it. A human body is a life. From this life, another life comes out. It is almost like the transmission of lives, transfer of energy. The same human body becomes free when the burning flame called life or the sensation of life gets silent. It is the freeing of the body. The physical freedom. When does mind feel the sense of freedom? I was in corona fever in 2021. My whole body was in acute pain. To release the pain, I painted some pictures. My refuge was in colours. I was in exile but I drew the cityscapes, desert and a scenario. Mostly non-figurative. I channelled my emotions, released my sensation through the hues, and I felt the sense of freedom crawling all over my body. Sometimes, I wonder at my mind’s travels. I am not an escapist.
In the meantime, some dewdrops start melting into the bright light of the morning.
The Seller
Part:2
To rejection, failures and sadness (2022-2023)
Like the sellers, I go from door to door of different publishing houses, presses to submit my works and to make alife. Sometimes, I have to taste my own failures- my failed creations.
Every day is not a good day. I open the mails. The opening lines of those mails start with ‘thank you’ and ‘regret to inform you.’ ‘Thank you’ sounds like the consolation prize, a balm to the wounds that I receive from negative mails. And the negative mails make me aware of my own insecurities and the very replaceable nature of the human beings on the earth. This is for everyone who is like me, like the sellers. They create, submit, cry, fall, submit, create… strive…breathe…
A poem to self: How to respond to the rejection mails
Shedding off tears
Is a big thing
That I can do
By killing my eyes;
If I cannot find gems in my rotten tears
I cannot find strength,
Energy dies to come out
From the ashes of its previous selves.
Blank spaces, delete button know the pain
Of the words that I dare to erase;
From reading lines to reading exclamation signs
My soul goes for a shift
Shift from hope to faith
Like a pilgrimage
To find truth, beauty and solace
And to turn it into sublimity.
Rejection mails are like sand
The more I hold on its sadness
The more it slips through my hands,
It makes me forgetful
Of what I have done and what I can do,
I can paint a heart better
Weave the pieces into a whole
Only to bring back the spark
Around my eyes
Around my brows.
A fine morning comes
After the dark clouds,
Likewise,
Praise resides
In the apparently sorry words;
If I read failures
As bruises,
Not as death,
Not as pause,
I can see
How the words change
And the miracle happens.
11.11.2022
Sadness for rejection
Feeling is a strange word
Like my false skin,
Wherever I go
I have to sense
My feelings
To know –
Do I exist?
Is it only my shadow?
Beware of the dubious nature
Of existence,
One day, you feel –
You are flying,
The other days make you land
Into a place
Embroidered with
Skeletons.
Fear not my soul,
Rather make your art
To meet rejection
To meet acceptance
To let life happen
And let it encounter with
The journey of purgation.
Passage of Rejections
It was a morning of October when she was observing her creations. She was learning how to utter, pronounce words. Deep down, she knew the importance of practice, perseverance and having afine mind to realizewhere to stress and where to stop.
To give a stress on a word is to highlight solely on its significance and meaning. Ironically, it fuels her craft, sincerity and passion for creation. She knows that life is a harsh place and maintaining one’s creative journey for long is not an easy task. It is God’s gift. Fortunate are the ones who keep their burning passion alive. And one has to undergo the process of rejection to meet success, to taste the aroma of life, the melody of music and the rhythmic sound of the world.
She often remembers her days of rejections and failures. Still now, she faces failures. She imagines herself as a rock in order to digest the sharp attack of rusty storm. After storm, there will be a rainbow.
Maybe.
04.01.2023
To misery
When my soul is going through the tunnel of failures,
My eyes look for the light at the end of the tunnels.
Like success, like miracle
It appears.
Excellence comes like the whistling of wind
Or like a rainbow
After the monochromatic drizzle.
My eyes cannot bear the burden of excessive light
When my soul can find
A rhythm in the cacophony of failures.
Alas! Life’s tumultuous agony
That can neither be possessed
Nor be freed
Can only be kept
Under the sky of faith
Sky of doubt
Or in denial;
A soul, in a circus,
Is guided by the parents
And starts walking on a tightrope.
How many steps does a caterpillar take
To fly like a butterfly
To taste a bit of joy?
Alas!
Here, I, forget to count
The minutes that I take to live a fullest life.
O misery, O failures
Don’t chain my body with high magnitude,
I like a snail
Drag my head out of my body
I may get smashed by the cobalt blue of the stormy sky.
Then again,
The light will shine.
18.10.2023
India
(Note: It is a short e-collection of my writings and paintings. In my piece, I have shared a glimpse of my mind, surroundings and places and have tried to depict how the geographical locals influence my mind. The cultural, spatial differences and the colours of India also create the different kind of sensibilities in my psyche. Being an inhabitant of this vast country, it becomes impossible for me to travel physically and so, I travel through my mind. Time is an interesting thing that makes me do certain things. In this case, it is the morning of an Asian country)
Dawning was a beautiful thing with a strong stem resembling the green sea. At the reversal was hope, growing atop a bed of moss. Every week on the 5th day rain would fall nurturing our seed. Humming a sweet soft melody, summoning its colors. Every 5th day, whenever the sprinkles started our roots would grow instantaneously. Wafting the memories of summer rainfall. Consistency, the lofty petals blooming with future, yet no direction. Rising with a lively brown and blue dye seducing all admirers. The loop presenting comfort. During the 3rd cycle the rain was sparse and barely showered. Hungering, we waited. Fuming with pride vowing to be magnificent. In the next cycle the blessing returned. After completion however our plant remained untouched, frozen in progress. On routine the rain returned a 5th time. The hum reduced to whisper, the droplets sliding off petals. Colors starting to fade. Desperation and distress creeping in. At the 6th run. Silence introduced itself, filling in the soil. Submerging the glow within me. Petals shrinking in remorse. On the 7th cycle I stood by and watched the rain fall as hard as it ever did. Melancholy hovering. Envy running through my dry roots. Wondering, when did I outgrow the rain?
The Mic Flashbacks of how the lights glared at me as my muscles fought for air brush past me. Waves of eyes and cheers disorienting me. Wait, how did I get here? I ponder for a moment before I’m brought back. “Neidy.” My body awakens. My limbs tingle with anticipation. “Do you need the mic?” I nod my head vertically as I step forward, my fingers slowly embracing the cold mechanical device. I suddenly remembered how I got here. 3 weeks prior Rosalia, a classmate approached me with a proposal. “Neidy let’s perform at the school multicultural festival this year!” We are 6th graders. I have never done a performance before. I have no talent. “No.” “Aww, please why not? This is our last year at this school.” She insisted. “I don’t have anything to show.” That is only part of my excuse. Truth is I’m not fully confident in my English speaking skills since I had just moved to Seattle a couple years ago.Who would want to see a performance from a Spanish accent heavy immigrant kid anyway? She smiles sinisterly. “If I find you, say a poem, to read in front of everyone, would you do it?” I stare at her. I give her a small smile and nod my head. Rosalia picked a short poem, thank God. I spent weeks practicing and memorizing that poem in a language I was still mastering. My first time on a platform like this, what if they don’t like me? Well it’s too late to back out now. My presence was seen however my voice was unheard. My voice and my body shake as I begin. “Hi, my name is Neidy Avila Ramirez, I am a 6th grader and I will be reading a poem called Central America in my heart, by Oscar Gonzales. On this voyage into the deep communion of solitude I’ve casually come to know. the old and withered costumes of the sea. I’ve walked carefully through the colors of copper. when the dusk has already conjured the last prayer of the day. Through seasonal doorways I’ve called upon the twilight ghosts arched in the corners of the narrow cobblestone streets. I’ve let my lips evade the necessary verses to find the ending phrase for the afternoon. I’ve disarmed the elusive equity of the night to conceive an intimate verse from its fortified mysteries. I’ve cast aside the grieving songs of my twilight as the sky envelops the enamored vestments of the night. I’ve done and undone so many things in search of you.” My heart is running from my chest. The air has left me again. I stare into the crowd upon my final words.They deflect my doubts as rolling mountains of admiration and cheer follow, causing me to cover my ears for protection. I slowly place the mic back on its original stand then struggle making my way down the steps. “You did great!” Rosalia cheers. “Thanks!” I respond breathlessly. “Would you do it again?” That’s a good question. My knees were locked the entire performance, and i think I stopped breathing a couple times, yet there was something so exhilarating and empowering to voice what I had spent weeks practicing. Who knew they’d react like that. Would I be crazy to chase that feeling again? I suppress the thought. I inhaled deeply. “Maybe.”
Where I am from
I am from juicy soft mangos and oil drenched plantains masking the air. Where remnants of past civilizations and African slaves linger. Where each ocean crash tells a secret. I’m from cold, wet rain and mountains, where the sky roars of anger. Where “opportunity” and reality clash. I am from burden, responsibility and accountability. With the lights burning my skin and the cameras forever rolling. I am from bundles of hardworking souls. “Fight for change or it’ll never happen”. Witnessing the molding of future generations. I am from twisted coily black thick hair. The kind to entrap its invaders. Defensive. I am from a place of knowledge, offering comfort and vast history. A hideout from the world.
