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Creative Writing

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Literature

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Travel

Gender in Fairy Tales.


During a literary stylistics class, we were in the midst of conducting a transitivity analysis when my mind travelled to the construction of fairy tales and their conscious characterisation and fabrication of an explicit formula that is embedded within each story. Whilst studying for my undergraduate degree, I took two linguistic modules which heightened my awareness of the techniques that are used to manipulate us through the use of language. These modules enriched my reading experiences and were beneficial to my comprehension of information, I chose to take a linguistic module for my Masters, in hope of exploring this further.
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Liquefy - A Poem.


If my heart burst into pieces,
silver liquid would surge out.
It would churn and churn
itself into molten lava.
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Writing For Survival.


We write about the world in the way that we wish to see it. The world in which the villain loses and the hero triumphs. We want to live in the world where justice is prevalent and war is a rarity, in a world where the universe is called into order and the stars are always aligned. We fabricate the utopian world that we wish to live in through sentences and metaphors. We prefer this fiction over reality because we can always alter it, because we can heighten and magnify different facets. 
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Who Would Like This Twenty-Dollar Bill?


This is another excerpt from Paulo Coelho’s ‘Like the Flowing River,’ a compilation of thoughts and reflections.

Cassan Said Amer tells the story of a lecturer who began a seminar by holding up a twenty-dollar bill and asking: ‘Who would like this twenty-dollar bill?

Several hands went up, but the lecturer said: ‘Before I give it to you, I have to do something.
He screwed it up into a ball and said: ‘Who still wants this bill?
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The Kaleidoscopic Eye of a Writer.


Our lives emanate subtext. We see the world with great intensity where everything is magnified. 

We are always thinking, at every given moment, if even of nothing. 
We reflect and ponder, create and envision. We are always dreaming even as we live; we are in a constant state of reverie. Our thoughts travel further than the depths of this world; we often think a thousand thoughts at once. 

The line between reality and fiction is blurred, nothing is real; nothing is perpetual.

We analyse connotation, critique and admire. We perceive and experience emotions beneath the lines; observe everything from beyond the exterior. We caress boundaries, live on the margins of society and allow ourselves to be consumed by nature.
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Internet; Road To Ruin.


There is something alluring about the internet. It draws you in slowly, click by click, page by page, causing you to submit yourself to its hold until the day is over and you have nothing left to give. You eventually reside inside the screen, imprisoned by your own incessant compulsion.

Upon watching the opening ceremony of the Olympics and seeing the man behind the World Wide Web, I began to ponder about what our existence would have been like without the internet.

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Milligrams In My Head.


Our minds are multi-functional and can be used as a means to confine and liberate ourselves.

We have the capacity to convince them of anything; in fact they will believe everything that we tell them. If we reiterate a lie for long enough, our minds will eventually accept it
 as truth. 
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He Writes His Own Verse.


Sometimes there are decisions that are out of our hands, as if the judges have already reached a verdict prior to trial and the prisoner is left without a voice. In the end, the prisoner is the real victim, left to suffer in the silence of his own sin. 
(Image Source: here)
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Memories To Remember Ourselves.


I read a book this week about a woman losing her memory. She would wake up everyday and have to be reminded of who she was. A doctor suggested that she keep a journal to read every morning. As memories came back to her, she would note them down.
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Pebble, By Paulo Coelho.


This is an extract from Eleven Minutes by Paulo Coelho.

Today, while we were walking around the lake, along that strange road to Santiago, the man who was with me – a painter, with a life entirely different from mine – threw a pebble into the water. Small circles appeared where the pebble fell, which grew and grew until they touched a duck that happened to be passing and which had nothing to do with the pebble. Instead of being afraid of that unexpected wave, he decided to play with it. 
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