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10/14/2014 - We've returned to development mode. You might be skeptical. But, working hard to make 100words 2.0 finally a reality.
Featured Entries
May 8th, 2007
shingleton, my ninth grade history teacher, explained how a year was longer for a four-year-old than for, say, a sixty-year-old.

one year for a four-year-old was a quarter of his life; one year for the sixty-year-old was one-sixtieth of a life.

a quarter is a much smaller chunk of time than one-sixtieth.

it made sense.

shingle also had a map cart where three plants lived. one day i rode the map cart across the carpeted room, crashed, and dumped soil everywhere. i spent the remainder of class picking up dirt.

February 5th, 2005
That night I dreamt I knew her, I'd always known her. She was right there within my reach and yet, just an inch out of grasp. She shadowed me through grade school, through high school, through life. I felt her presence everywhere, this girl I couldn't see. Was she real or was she a want? Was she a lady or a fleeting image of unbearable, untouchable desire? I grew old in my dream. My hair became white and snaky. I died on a brisk, windy morning and she came to take me home. Her face led me back to awake.

May 18th, 2007
I don’t understand boredom, per se. I understand being uncomfortable at a given moment in my own skin. I understand the restlessness that accompanies the unwillingness to look deeper within, and despair’s obsession to escape the present moment where ‘lack of self-appreciation’ is poignant and present and unbearable. Of course this understanding only visited me when I became willing to sit still with what is and not give in to the compulsion to run. To not label escape boredom; find something to do, eat, sex, watch, read or other withdrawals from self. Boredom? Perhaps that’s just another name for escape.