A Work in Progress

​Writing a paper can be a challenge. Being stumped from progressing can cause unwanted stress. The possibilities for writing can be infinite, but because of that, a single topic would be hard to choose from. Writing is an art form; authors can create masterpieces from the twenty-six letters of the English alphabet, rearranged to tell a story or describe a historical event. Using those twenty-six letters, anything can be created. Writing has been used everywhere to tell stories that people want to hold onto physically. Those literary works are important to human culture because it shows what has happened before as well as an example of diving into the mind of a historical figure. By describing a setting, authors can create a world of their own, where the limit of possibilities is the limit of their imagination. Writing can be expansive and can require devotion not many people have, or writing can also be a hassle to those who prefer other activities. Regardless of the situation, the end result will be the product of time an individual took to create what they thought would be adored, questioned, or even challenged. It is the author’s choice of what to write about and how to go about creating their literary manifestation. Because writing is an art, many authors can make an appealing draft to fit the interests of anyone. For example, a book can be adapted to a movie for those who prefer visual performances. It all begins with writing. From the reader’s perspective, the intentions of the author can be found and personified into a character. And with those characters come interactions with the setting or other characters created. Soon, a plot is created and the character may have to overcome a challenge. But that is not always the case because an author can make their work unique, for instance, there may not even be a character. Some works of literature are simply a setting of existence with no connection to a problematic world. Only a description can be found with an impending end to a story. It is all up to the author, who would perhaps want a questionable style with mystery and open ended creations. With the different topics and genres of writing comes the freedom to incorporate whatever clashes with your thought process. Writers can plan a story with the ending already established prior to the completion of the work, while others continue to pave their literature as they continue to formulate the story. The process of writing is also long and tedious and will indubitably result in time spent or wasted, depending on the attitude of the author. By maintaining a positive influence towards your writing, your effort and creativity will reflect such progress other than holding a negative and pessimistic view, where an unsatisfying piece will ultimately be created. The limitless ideas able to be used in making a prompt symbolize the infinite nature of our surroundings. With enough thought, anyone can bring their ideas into being from any method of writing. Although writing is not a universally enjoyed hobby, it opens a window of imagination like any other. A music composer may see notes on a measure as an author would see vocabulary in a prompt. The ability to bring anything imaginable to existence l is given to any person alive with the capability to think and process idea by themselves. The route taken in sharing or publishing a work of art changes depending on the goal and aspiration of the individual. Writing is not art, but it is an art. The way I see it, art itself is considered to depict visualizations through the use of images while writing is describing the said images. Both styles are arts because it requires a train of thought that relies on creativity to bring something to life. Writing, however, uses the words created from different languages to tell a story. The different colors reflect the words people can use to share experiences they have had with creativity. Historical texts had a different vocabulary than texts from today, but the authors were still able to create stories, wether it was for religious, political, or entertainment purposes. Stories were created for the general public. Vivid depictions of the life of a character from a book can leave the reader questioning the truth behind it. A slight caution of knowing the truth behind a story has always given us the ability to create endings and scenarios to compare yourself. This is why I am writing. I want to emphasize and encounter with what appears to be the product of existence. We saw it coming. I think the frequent earthquakes and solar flares were warnings of an impending apocalypse. The sun has reached its final moments and continued to shift the earths tectonic plates, spawning the tremors. It doesn't matter anymore. Its over. I look outside my window, watching everyone evacuate, but there is no escape. I don't know how I ended up here. The power went out 8 hours ago, including cars, watches, and of course, electricity. The emergency alarms couldn't make a sound. At approximately 8:00 am, guessing from the position of the sun, I heard an explosion that shook the planet, creating fissures. No one is coming for me. I accepted the fact that I'm alone. My life has consisted of me doing things for the benefit of those around me, prior to myself. All the shared experiences I've had with the people around me has brought me to this moment. I wish I can communicate with everyone I have ever known to thank them. I want to thank them for taking time out of their life to interact with me, regardless of the magnitude of conversation. Ha. Magnitude. I know its coming. Once the first initial tremor hit, I decided I don't want to die inside my house. I want to live as long as possible, and staying in any sort of building would result in its destruction, killing me in the process. My family is gone. They've been out of town in Miami for the past week. I had a sleepless night. I couldn't fall asleep. I didn't notice the power was out because it was already nighttime and I just laid in bed, attempting to fall asleep. When the sunlight poured into my room, I had an instinctive feeling that I knew something would happen . There was a stillness in the air. What would usually be a morning filled with the natural sounds of birds singing and trees rustling was replaced with an eerily quiet environment. I got dressed, ate a delicious fuji apple, my favorite apple. Then it happened. The convulsion shook my house, knocking it down. I immediately went outside, carrying just a notebook and a pen in my pocket. I left my keys inside, as well as my wallet and nonfunctioning phone. It was searing hot and wouldn't turn on, so I abandoned it. Navigating through the various fissures, I began walking to the beach. The ground was vibrating constantly, following smaller explosions that I believed to be the creation of another fissure. Everyone was running outside their houses, frantically trying to get into the useless cars and attempting to use a phone with no connection. Houses were leveled, some crushed under the local train tracks. The sun had been creating an odd shade in the sky, like a deep, colorful painting in the sky everyday for the past year, making a beautiful spectacle. But today, it was red. The sky no longer reflected the worlds' blue bodies of water, but instead the light of the dying sun cast a red hue above me. Upon reaching the beach, I turned around. The city behind me looked like a mountain range. Buildings collapsed. Fires raging. The once beautiful skyline disappeared, and left toppled skyscrapers.