Grandfather's story collection | 06 February 2017 15:40:10 PST
There was a boy who had anger issues. One day, the boy’s father told him to hammer a nail into the fence every time the boy felt very frustrated. On the first day, the boy hammered thirty-seven nails into the fence. He was very tired from hammering nails thirty-seven times, so the next day, he controlled his temper slightly better, and only hammered twenty nails into the fence. The third day, he only hammered fifteen nails into the fence. A few weeks passed, and eventually came the day when the boy didn’t need to hammer any nails into the fence. At that time, the boy’s father told him to remove the nails from the fence. Once the boy removed all the nails from the fence, there were lots and lots of holes in the fence. His father then told him: “You’ve learned to control your temper now, so you don’t need to hammer any more nails into the fence. But once you remove the nails, the damage in the fence cannot be removed. Your words cannot be taken back, either, and they will leave a scar forever, just like these nails, if you do not control them properly.”
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Grandfather's story collection | 30 January 2017 19:47:36 PST
Yesterday my grandpa told me a story: A father took his son to have lunch at a restaurant, and ordered two bowls of noodles. One bowl had an egg on top, and the other bowl had no egg on top. The father asked his son, “Which bowl of noodles do you want?” The son reaches for the bowl of noodles with the egg on top before his father even finishes asking, and gulps down the egg and noodles. The father does not say anything, and finishes his bowl of noodles. The son then realises that his father had two eggs – but the eggs were at the bottom of the bowl, so the son couldn’t see at first. The father said, “I let you pick first, and I know that you want the bowl with the egg on top. I am hoping, however, that you will learn to think of others and not just yourself first all the time.” The son ignores his father’s lesson and wishes he had chosen the bowl without the egg on top. A few days later, the father takes his son out for lunch again, and orders two bowls of noodles again – one with an egg on top, and one without. He asks his son to choose, and the son chooses the bowl of noodles without the egg on top. However, after searching through the entire bowl, the son does not find any eggs, and is extremely upset. At the end of the meal, his father said, “You are still being greedy and only thinking of yourself, hoping that you would get more eggs. Therefore you have not. You still have not learned the lesson.” The next time the father takes his son to lunch, upon being asked which bowl of noodles he preferred, the son responded, “You can pick first, father. I am okay with having either bowl.” The father selects a bowl and hands the other bowl to his son. Each had one egg in his bowl of noodles. I told my eight-year-old sister this story. I asked her which bowl of noodles she would choose. Her response: “I wouldn’t mind.” Then she added: “Actually, I don’t like eggs.” Les miracles qu’a été peint | 2 December 2015 21:05 PST There’s nothing special or beneficial about beauty, natural or not.
Yes – you’ve got a good number of cute guys following you around for a while. But it’s just for a while, and by definition, “for a while” usually doesn’t mean a long period of time. It probably lasts a few days, maybe up to a week, definitely no longer than one week. Why? Because harsh as it sounds, you’ll never be the only pretty girl out there, and there are numerous others that will always beat you in the beauty contests. It’s not fair? Life’s not fair. Well, there are certain parts of life that is fair. There is one fair game in life. You don’t get to choose your level of beauty, but you certainly get to choose your level of intelligence. Intelligence is mostly always a fair game. Its true beauty never truly fades, whereas it doesn’t take long for beauty to. If you’re playing the beauty game, it’s likely that you won’t ever land on a truly intelligent guy. Even if luck is on your side and you do end up landing on one, he won’t last time. It won’t be long before he wakes up and realises his mistake and moves on – indicating you should, too – theoretically, quite a miserable and pathetic way to learn your big life lesson on how life works. Les miracles qu’a été peint | 2 December 2015 20:21 PST Sunsets could summarize most of my life.
Memories are like sunsets. They’re so beautiful it could pain one, yet magnificent and unique in every facet. There is none other like each one. Sunsets at the very beginning aren’t that noticeable and awing. The beginning isn’t the beautiful and magical oil painting on canvas that the full sunset is later in the evening. It’s barely perceptible, and one has to have a keen eye to observe such a tiny miracle in the not-yet-pink sky. Memories eventually fade as sunsets do. Ultimately, all that is left is a distant blur of colours as of a faded sunset. Hardly does every memory last forever, as sunsets, no matter how unique or awing it was at the moment. Only, and unfortunately quite rarely, does a true memory last, as does the one true, honest, and beautiful sunset that ceases to fade from memory. One would not notice how beautiful and valuable a memory is at first, as a just-starting-to-set-sunset. At full sunset, the true beauty, glory, and magnificence is displayed for both sides – both sides of the horizon. Only then is the memory’s true value revealed to both involved. But one will not learn to truly appreciate and value the memory until, like a sunset, it has faded from view, from the horizons, from the world, from reality – long and far gone into the foggy distant. And then, once gone forever, it will come back, as yet even more beautiful, more awing, more inspirational. As does a sunset, a memory will shimmer even more radiantly in beauty and glory until it has vanished from the world, only to live solely in one’s regretful mind and soul, forever lost and faded from reality. Only in the depths of sorrow will the sunset’s glow continue to radiant and sparkle with true and remarkable beauty, love, and magnificence – but mostly regret and nostalgia. Les miracles qu’a été peint | 1 December 2015 21:08 PST You know what I hate about getting into a warm shower? That I’d eventually have to get out – into the cold. You know what I hate about sweet memories? That they eventually end, and simply remain a small fragment of a past to be forgotten. You know what I hate about friends who fall for you and that you fall for? That they will eventually ditch you. You know what I hate about life? That it will eventually have to end. These are perfect examples using the word “hate” and illustrating clarification. And the only valid response would be, to let it end happily, triumphantly, and unregretfully.
Les miracles qu’a été peint | 12 October 2015 15:48 Why do we speak? Words come tumbling out of our mouths all the time, wherever, whenever, whatever … and sometimes, not for the better.
We learn to speak since we were born, most of our first words being “Mama,” of some sort. Most common reason: because we want something. We compliment because we want to please someone. We talk to others because we want to make friends … and don’t want to be alone. We say certain things because we want to satisfy someone. We ask for things because … well, that one’s pretty straight forward. Why do you speak? If we’re just wanting something and therefore speak, isn’t speaking a waste of time and spit? Isn’t writing a form of speaking (on paper), and therefore useless as well and a mere waste of paper? Maybe not. Unless, you ramble when you write like this. Not if you do so for my purpose. I talk so I can speak to myself, and speaking to myself is the most entertaining story ever written (or spoken). Therefore, these words aren’t a waste for I am simply communicating to myself on paper. Les miracles qu’a été peint | 7 October 2015 20:48 PDT What is the difference between age six and seven? Not much …
There isn’t much memorable about a girl who just turned seven whining over what dessert was or crying for not having her way. But there is something memorable about a six-year-old bringing tissues to you and patting you on the back when you’re crying your eyeballs out, and when you embrace her tightly because you’re blinking back tears, the seven-year-old pats you reassuringly and says, “Don’t cry, little one,” even though she’s seven and I’m fourteen. “Are you crying?” she asked me, leaning all the way back to stare up at me. “No,” I said, smiling, genuinely. Les miracles qu’a été peint | 21 August 2015 21:03 PDT A looming fate inching nearer, gnawing at the jagged edges of an eaten, chewed heart. An intense but invisible nightmare overpowering the strong and replacing strength with weakness. A bubble of an inner enemy unseen, blocking the last escape and sealing the walls into solid concrete. An illusion of reality – blurring truths to be discovered.
A girl sitting inside, amidst a settling fog of the past, a falling, sinking past to be forgotten and lost and forever thrown away … A girl breathing inside, a tingling scent of the future dancing amidst the gloom, a promise – improvement, sunshine, escape, salvation … A girl looking inside, eyes closed, seeing the rest of the globe unfold before her within the bubble, a magnifying glass against a small, tiny world of little hopes and promises, for the present … A small doorknob, shining in the distance, beckoning with a promise, an escape at last … The girl stands up, eyes closed, striding steadily and afloat, hovering within the bubble … Something soft but solid smashes against the girl’s face, and she sees a solid wall without opening her eyes, the way to salvation blocked once again. The girl sinks back into the heart of the bubble, thinking and lost in thought … The girl saw herself walking out of the bubble. She was free, at last, to roam the world as she pleased. Sunlight shone down on her face for the first time in eternity. She walked right into the beautiful daylight – and she started fading. The sunlight disappeared, and she faced a tall door with a single brass doorknob. Tentatively, she reached up to turn the knob – The brass doorknob turned, and the door opened. Cautiously, the girl walked through. Before her, in the distance, stood a shut window. The girl approached the window carefully. A bright blue sky lied on the other side and chirping birds flew across. She stopped, and unlatched the wooden frame, and climbed through. She kept walking straight through the blankness of fog and blur, not knowing where the route would end, the path to salvation. The air was damp and heavy, and the girl had to bend down to keep walking. She stopped in front of a huge brick wall. The brick wall loomed menacingly before the girl, and the girl stood back to observe it carefully, another obstacle in her path to salvation. She discovered a crack in the brick wall, barely large enough for her to crawl through. A mouse hole just left for her to crawl through. Without thinking, the girl crawled through the mouse hole. On the other side, a blinding light deafened her eyes and she shielded them from the intensity. As she peered through her fingers, she saw the walls of her bubble all around her. She closed her eyes again and saw herself walk through a different path. The girl walked through the bubble and was blocked by a large door with a copper doorknob. She stopped to ponder whether to open the door. She stared at the copper doorknob, then reluctantly turned away from it. The girl kicked and punched at the big door, crying for it to let her out. She finally leaned back against the heavy door, and started to cry. There was no way out. Suddenly the girl caught sight of something beneath the door. A note had slid itself underneath the big door, and the girl instantly reached to snatch the note. The note started sliding away to the other unknown side of the door. The girl stopped, her fingers too plump to fit through the crack beneath the door. She peered underneath. She couldn’t see. She pounded her fists angrily against the door, wanting to be let out … The girl saw herself in her bubble again, and closed her eyes once again. She felt herself walk through the bubble. She turned back to glance at her former home in the distance, floating as if asking her to go back to where she belonged. The girl shook her head ever so slightly and hovered across, seeing light at the end of the path. It was salvation. The girl broke into a sprint for the shimmering radiance she saw. As she started to step through the light, something hard struck her face. The girl stared up to see a wooden door blocking her view. It had shut right in her face. The girl pounded tearfully against the door, begging to be set free, to see daylight and her salvation … A light shines through the other side, and the girl looks up to see a glowing window. She slowly walks towards the window, and sees a different light peering through. After contemplating, the girl slowly turns her back to the window and walks back to the closed door. She tries at its golden doorknob but it wouldn’t budge. The girl slumps against the wooden door and starts crying. A faint glow beckons from below, and the girl sees a crack in the solid wall beside the window, a mouse hole. The girl carefully walks to the mouse hold and bends down to peer through it. She can’t tell, but there is a strange, mysterious radiance shimmering through from the other side. After a while, the girl turns back around and faces the closed door. She stares and stares at the closed wooden door. The girl suddenly sees a bubble, a bubble she is trapped in, with a closed door and an open window and glowing mouse hole, circling around her and mocking her with their mysteriousness and secrets and unknown promises, containing her destiny and fate. The girl opens her eyes for the first time, seeing the window and mouse hole as a path to salvation, perhaps a different path, but a promising path. A thousand years of living torment in a nightmare, ruled by fear and ignorance; battling an inner enemy of fear that turned strength into weakness; a seemingly last escape door shut and sealed, with a different route in place … A soaring thought, beating through the blue sky, strong as the wind; paper airplanes flying, through the wind and beyond; a reality of illusions, an existence a mere imagination; a thousand distant memories lost, in the wind, in the past, in the present, in the future – where the last escape lies. Les miracles qu’a été peint | 14 August 2015 18:35 PDT Meet my sister: the best representation of six-year-olds. What time is it? Time-to-annoy-my-big-sister-time. I’m thirsty? Milk! Translate: Your name has now changed to milk and your sole task at hand is to go fetch milk from the fridge and pour out three quarters exactly into my cup. I’m bored? You better let me watch TV right this second or I’m eating chocolate – you pick …
But when you’re all in seriously big, big trouble? I’ll cry with you for hours straight for as long as you do – and then when you’re done, can we get some Jamba Juice? Les miracles qu’a été peint | 27 July 2015 21:11 PDT THIS IS WHY WE ARE CHILDREN – powered by endless unpractical dreams and nurtured with stubborn optimism and constant hopes. We are children because nothing can bring us down – we are unstoppable, we are always shooting for the brightest star and biggest dreams. We are children because we are driven by a boundless desire to be what be truly want and nothing can get in the way of it.
And adults – this is why you can’t lock us up like your pets. You can cage us, but we’re bound to escape because our soaring dreams and blind, bright optimism help us break free – it’s why we can’t be caged. And your words of discouragement or good will – whatever it is – won’t stop us, won’t ever end our persistent path of strong dreaming. We are unstoppable because we believe. The childish hopes of better tomorrows never cease, and the most ridiculous dreams and wishes never die, the hopes that one day will be “the day” – a perfect day of paradise will never fade … We are children because whatever kind of words attempting to drag us back to reality will fail miserably. Don’t even bother to try – we’re living examples of souls set free from the cruel and merciless grasp of bitter old reality. |
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