Oxygen Plant

  Just like everyone else my youth felt robbed. Nights were long and days always seemed to never end, I was always impatiently waiting for the dismissal of the bell, telling us all to go. Then I would fill up my evenings with sports, enough to be truly tired at night. The weekends would serve as an optimistic glimpse into the adult world, a place where all young people would meet up and interact with what we considered maturity. We idolized it, by partying, living out hazy stories, spending time with friends and talking to every new slightly interesting person we could. Hoping to understand more and more every time, glimpsing into the life of others slowly peeling back all the layers of their personality until we realized that after all they are just people.  I grew up in a time where people still had the chance to detach from the technological illness of our phones, but by the time I reached adult age I was fully aware of the impact it had done to us and would continue to do....

I had something. I was drunk walking in my empty suburb at night, cars passing by at random intervals, all going at the same speed, 40 km/h. No(w), no, now I’m back home trying to recollect my memories, trying to get them down in words. Music playing into my left ear too lazy to take the earphone out. Messing with my ability to concentrate. My writing style is getting old I need to phase it out. Through the late night, the writer tries to dissociate from the way he expresses himself through words it proves to be quite challenging. I write these words but it’s kinda hard to change the way I write makes me think of high school, the fucked up way of  forming direct phrases. My french low-key mixes in with the way I try to tell stuff. My text writing style also interferes cause I text like real quick as simple as possible tryna rush through the sentences. The writing style gets old  because the way it is written is from the  same perspective every single time. This ...

The bottom of the pond is slightly shallow, not much is growing there at the moment, nevertheless the Salmon seems like he's enjoying himself. He learns about his environment, finally becoming aware of it as he begins to understand how the simple things work. He figures out what he prefers, *aquatic plants or grasses*, he figures out multiple different ways to get back to his favorite spot in the pond, *around the rock or pass the shiny spots*, and even what to do when unexpected predators come around, *hiding in the muck while staying silent*. Eventually, the Salmon knows what to do in every situation, yet he feels as if he doesn't know enough. The pond feels small, yet he doesn't know anything outside it, he feels himself longing for something he does not understand, something he doesn't even have the knowledge to figure out in order to be aware of what is missing. Salmon is left feeling unworthy, yet he knows all there is about his known environment, which to him is ...