There are three things you need to know before you read this.

1. I am a constant worrier

2. I always try to think of new stories to write

3. My inner voice is my best friend and worst enemy at the same time

Whenever I invision my brain, I can't get a clear picture of it. I can picture what a brain looks like, but pinning down the inside of mine is a struggle. I'm bouncing around between thoughts. Between praises and insults. One minute, I'll be working on a WIP, and the next, I'll start a whole new project because an idea hurled itself around my mind.

I see my thoughts in a mix of pictures and words. Some of my thoughts work better in sentences like story ideas or names. Others are vivid scenes for a WIP or even something new.

But I can't seem to put my thoughts in categories to save for later. They're a jumbled mess, and I always get ideas at the wrong time. Too many instances, I get the perfect twist for my WIP when I'm listening in to my teacher in class and forget it by the time I got to write.

I can't keep my thoughts together when I'm in a panic. If I try to calm myself down, my inner voice is being negative or unreasonable. Too many emotions at one time jumble my thoughts even more and everything looks like a train wreck.

My brain is a factory with an efficient creating system but an inefficient organizing system.

People often say that art is a reflection of the soul. Then what is a soul when the art is torn and unfinished? Maybe I'll never know, I don't know as much as I claim to be smart. I mean— I'm supposed to be smart. I make good grades, and I'm told I'm gifted,but I always seem to have more questions than answers. My own brain is a mystery, and I'm the one in control of it.

Either way, I made my way towards the train tracks with my questions in tow. Keeping my eyes on the ground, I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my faded blue jeans. I thank every higher power that it was a free dress down day. In the distance, I heard rolling thunder. I groaned for what felt like hours. Reaching for a hood, I realized I was wearing my leather jacket, which didn't have a hood.

"Well, that's just great!"

Shaking my head, I picked up the pace, trying to get home before the storm. Rainbow beat down on my skin as I pounded past the train tracks. Running like a bat out of hell, I flipped out my phone to text my mother. She was worried. Of course she was. I'm running home with only a heavy school bag and a torn leather jacket on me. My glasses were blotted with rain, clouding my vision. I stopped in my tracks and wiped my glasses.

"Isn't New Jersey weather just divine," I mumbled with scorn. As I picked up my walk, I ran into a sign.

Road Work Ahead

Shaking my head, I changed directions. Impulsively, I turned around to see why the road was closed. Construction workers drove large trucks hauling off wood and giant balls of steel. Sharp directions were being hollered in all directions. A new house was being made. A better house. A house I could never live in because of our unjust world. The house was elegant and angelic. It was marble like the sculptures of ancient Greece. There were large posts like the doors looking like the pillars of Heavan.

Its beauty brought me envy. I could never have the luxury of the renter. The world wouldn't allow it. I put my head in my hands. It shouldn't be a big deal. It was just the devils last chance to make me hate what I have. I was grateful for what I had. My family, my accomplishments, my health...

I let my thoughts wander aside entered my house.

"I'm home!" My mom rushed over to me. She bombarded me with questions, and I felt my mind grow weary. I felt like a zombie as I changed out of my damp clothes.

"What took you so long!?" I turned around sheepishly.

"Uhhh I—"

"Because she walks like a snail! No, wait! Even the snail is faster than her!"

I rolled my eyes at my brother's intervention.

"I was walking normally until the rain started. I didn't know it was supposed to rain, and people were working on the streets I usually cross."

Sometimes, I wonder how my brother and I haven't gone crazy around each other— I mean, more than we already are. We're about as alike as fire and ice are in personality. There's something poetically cliché about having a quiet but intelligent oldest daughter and a sociable and intelligent younger son. Praised for the same reason, but seen in different lights. Something gnawed at me, and I guess it showed on my face.

"What's wrong," asked my mother.

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me! I see it on your face." She looked at me with annoyance while I frantically shook my head.

She let me be after that. I fumbled to the corner between my bed and desk. Sliding down, my mind filtered out only one question.

What went wrong?

Again, I had no answers. The future was supposed to be good, they said. High school was supposed to be our golden years. All the awards, straight A's, they couldn't be for nothing. Right?

Still, no answers.

My questions were interrupted by a blaring and horn and wheezes. A '57 Chevy pulled into the driveway across the street. It was as blue as the ocean and looked as polluted as one. Vintage, but not old enough to be considered antique. Something about it lured me like an anglerfish to its prey. Was it the color? Was it the fact it was still used? Or was it its look that resembled a broken person. Vibrant but dented, clinging to its last resort. Its sputters were cries of help and oil stains resembled dried tears I'm the dim light.

Whatever it was, I couldn't make it let me go.

This side of my skin only layers

It shows the story of my kin

A story that can't be shown by numbers on paper

It shows my family history, in virtue and in sin

This side of my skin is gold

Youthful and hard to hold

First soft like grains turned to flour

Then calloused in an hour

But even as my skin frays

This story on the side of my skin will stay

The fifth Alice was a girl around fifteen years of age

Songs spewing from her mind outside world's cage

Inspiration was something she could always find

In every corner of her brilliant mind

Then Alice, looked for stories in Wonderland

But nothing went as she had planned

Alice had not once thought of those green with envy

Only looking ahead to accomplish all her dreams

So while the girl in purple walked down the path of red

They jumped to steal her stories and to cut off her own head

Five are alive.

Out of thirteen people, only five of us were left. My head spun as blue stretched out as far as the eye could see. Everything felt heavy, and my vision blurred.

"We should have taken another route," my mate groaned. I felt my head bobble. Everyone was doubled over each other, nauseous and limp.

The waves seemed like they crashed louder than they were. My ears buzzed with the long gone screams of the rest of the crew. I tried to push it out of my mind. Everything was gone. Our crew. Our ship. Our supplies. Everything. All we had left was this lifeboat and the few scraps of food in our hands. I was alive, but I could barely feel it. Death tinged through my body even if life had not let its grip loose yet.

We were stuck in the vast void of blue. The salt in the air closed up my lungs.

"What's that," a faint voice explained. My head instinctively went up.

Land.

Admittedly, I can enjoy this trope when it's done well but most of the time, it's not. The enemies to lovers trope can be a well-written trop about forgiveness and recovery but when it is done in media it is boiled down to: punch then kiss five seconds afterwards. Enemies to lovers is a trope, that needs time to build on the characters. They should hate each other, then slowly grow to like each other and finally become lovers. In many pieces of media, the middle part of that is skipped. The characters alternate between the first and the last parts. For example, in "Shera and the Princess of Power", Catra and Adora's relationship Arc feels very rushed into the plot, even if the show went on for five seasons. There wasn't a lot of buildup into WHY they should be seen as romantic. In the show, they would be fighting to the death and their romantic feelings aren't shown until the finale of season five. Shera isn't the only victim of this, and this isn't an attack on the show. This is just what happens in many enemies to lovers stories, they forget "to lovers". Enemies to lovers can be done right, but often times, in eagerness to write the well-loved trope, many forget how much buildup it needs. It can take a long time for people to forgive someone for doing something wrong and I don't like it when Enemies to Lovers gloss over that to make two people get together.

I hesitate

I take a shaky breath as he waits

Papers of answers fill my mind as I contemplate

"My writing is an impulse"

The words bring up the speed of my pulse

I look up, expecting him to look repulsed

Instead he tilts his head for me to finish

I continue my deliverance

"My writing is a resistance

To my own regrets

To the world

To my own mind

My writing is a hive for the words I could never say to my own spite

Because all the words I could never say are the beginning ideas for what I will write"

Deep in the rock formations of Africa lives the Klipspringer (Oreotragus Oreotragus). It has a nimble figure that allows it to be quick and sure-footed. The Klipspringer is a type of dwarf antelope. It is about 2 feet (0.6 meters) tall with six inch short, spiky horns. It weighs on average 22-40 pounds (10-18 kilograms). Its fur coat is stiff and can be a variety of colors such as brown or olive green. The Klipspringer's hooves let it jump 10-12 feet in the air and land securely on the small rocks that it lives by. Its diet consists of flowers, fruits, and lichen. To communicate, especially when predators are in sight, the Klipspringer whistles to other members as a way to alert them. The Klipspringer is am interesting animal that deserves more recognition.

Source: https://animals.sandiegozoo.org/animals/klipspringer