opinion
February 2021 • tigertimesonline.com
The write ideas Sticky notes bring life to writer’s thoughts Prelude Pieces of my mind are bound to a bulletin board in my room. Slivers of my thoughts fold themselves up and cram into a small, round container on my night stand. It’s just a short, old table that barely stands on its own three legs, yet it holds the bits of my brain I empty onto it. Sometimes it’s just a song lyric that’s words unlocked a beautiful world in my head. Maybe it’s a shard of a person, a character that I haven’t yet brought to life on a bigger page, one whose fragments I can stick together someday just as the Post-it notes stick to the bulletin board. Post-it notes stack four high next to my bed, three more on my desk. I carry empty Post-it notes in my purse, crumpled at the bottom of the pocket where my phone usually goes, and a pen pokes up from the adjacent spot. Words come to my mind once in a blue moon, but not a literal blue moon, because my thoughts run faster than the lunar cycle, and the words get louder and demand to be written down and I’m in the middle of something but I stop. I brush past my phone and take out the Post-it notes and the pen. I smooth out the wrinkles in the paper. I uncap the pen. Words in the shape of chicken scratch adorn the square page, and I already strain to read them. I know it will be nearly impossible later. Nonetheless, I shove my musings back into my purse, put the pen away. Ink smudges the side of my right pinkie. The pen costs only a few cents, but it is still ink, and it will still stain the
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to beat senselessly at the brick, hoping it would fall on its own, but now I have fashioned a cure, collected dynamite to set at the base of the obstruction. The key to my unrestricted future lies in the thoughts of my past. I dump the Post-it notes from their container and I read. My heart beats words through my veins as I take them in. The creases in the paper begin to fray, threatening to dissolve along the folds even as the thoughts printed on them remain. A breath of fresh air rushes into my lungs at the sight of the words, the kind of wind that takes me and lifts me higher. I am not Icarus— I did not fly near the sun. I had only been falling. Once upon a time, inspiration had struck, and the real, tangible proof sprawls at my crossed legs. A moment had existed when the pulse in my ears drowned everything else out, drumming the beat to an epiphany, one I can listen to again once I have forgotten the melody.
a. elliott
paper for as long as I need it to. When I can’t remember the ideas that had once thundered above all others, I can resuscitate them. Leitmotif I am unmotivated, my imagination continues to fail me and I am unable to recall a singular thing that has made me feel the opposite. It is a disease, this wall in my mind keeping me from the words I crave. I used
Coda The Post-it notes are a reminder. They prompt me to remember that I am here and that I, even if it is not at that moment, am full. I am full of thoughts and feelings and life. Forgetfulness comes naturally, and if I’m not careful, every reverie I’ve ever loved will slip from my head. I don’t want to be alone with an idle mind. I let my thoughts bleed through the ink and onto the Post-it note, display the wound proudly on my wall. I want to be able to pick open the scab and dig for the bone, the deeper story I was meant to write, the one that goes on the bigger page. I don’t want to have just scars, faint remnants of my mind. I need my words, my fantasies, brought to life on the most immense pages possible, and I will grow it all from my Post-it notes. emma.allen@tigertimesonline.com
Legal pads symbolize senior’s purpose in life I keep two yellow legal pads in my backpack. One is for English class and the other is for Newspaper. I prefer them over typing in a document or writing on loose-leaf paper. I can keep all my thoughts in one place and access them when needed. The convenience of these inconspicuous yellow sheets of paper makes it that much easier to accomplish one of my life goals: to improve as a writer. I feel stares every time I pull one out to write; whether they’re real or imagined, my self-consciousness keeps me from looking up to find out. Let them stare, I think to myself. Everyone has a purpose and this is mine. This I realized one day while observing my parents. They’re each other’s foil; my mother is headstrong, restless and full of ambition while my father is complaisant, lax and “goes with the flow.” A tangible example of this is how my mom lives to work; she dreads the day age forces her to retire. My dad, on the other hand,
always hated to work; almost as soon as he turned 65, it was lights out for his job. One day, they were bickering as all married couples do. My mother was berating him as usual for sitting around on the Internet all day. Why doesn’t he continue working? Why doesn’t he read and write like he used to? Why doesn’t he do something useful? He patiently remarked, “Luz Mary, not everyone lives to work like you.” I used to think my dad’s overt contentedness was his prevailing flaw, that it made him lazy and that it meant his personality and ideals were inferior to my mom’s. However, hearing his retort made me reconsider my thoughts about him. Maybe he was right: his and mom’s differing ideals set them apart and make them individuals. It’s not a sin for him to pursue his own agenda and it doesn’t make him any less than my mother. I realized that people’s individuality comes from their values and their right to choose what to pursue in life.
From then on, I started thinking about my own life. What is my purpose? What do I want to get out of life? These bickering thoughts, always ringing in my ears, took my hand and walked me back to my roots: as a child, I had loved to read and write. It exalted me and filled me with rapture. These loud thoughts declared that I must honor my talent and passion. What will I do? Teach literature at a university? Write for a newspaper? Report on political happenings on a news channel or radio show? Every brand new page on my beloved yellow pads, crisp and inviting, cracks open the door to any of these possibilities. With every pen stroke, I lay my fingers along a door’s edge and peer nervously into the crack. Which one will I finally open? Now, as I plop myself into a desk, swiftly pull a legal pad out of my backpack, brilliant with yellow, and feel the daggers of judgmental stares shooting into my back, my timid and
trembling hands are clasped in a warm embrace as I remind myself not to be ashamed. Everyone has a purpose and this is mine. maria.rangel@tigertimesonline.com
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