Guest /
Oct 8, 2012 #1
Prompt: You just threw a message in a bottle out to sea. What was that message?
Words affect everyone, every day, but I feel as though they touch me more than
most. I see the beauty in words beyond their meaning. They are finite and untouchable,
unlike anything else. If one sheet of paper tucked inside a bottle were to represent me,
the words on that paper would have to be the absolute perfect ones. A message in a
bottle can float along at sea for decades and remain perfectly intact. It is possible that my
bottle would not be found a century or more -if ever -so my words would need to have
the strength to span thecrippling force that is time. I would write the most powerful
works I know:
We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skiesï
The Heroism we recite
Would be a daily thing,
Did not ourselves the Cubits warp
For fear to be a Kingï
This poem is by Emily Dickinson. I adore this work for the flow of the individual
words, but also for the strength in the meaning of it. This particular work appeals to me
more so than anything else, because it is the essence of who I am. I dream of being the
best I can be when I get my chance to rise, whenever that day comes. Those words,
written next tomy own, would connectme to Dickinson, and also carry my words across
to some future reader. Dickinson's work, at least, will never be forgotten, and, while I
can never hope to compare mine to hers, it would still mean the worldto me for
something of mine to be next to hers, floating at sea. Underneath her work, I would put
my own:
The mighty and weak alike shall fade,
Our breaths on this earth are numbered.
My body may grow cold and withered,
But my soulï
My soul is stone.
These words, too, are representative of me. I hope that, even after my time on this earth
is up, that I can leave something behind. I pour my soul into everything I do, so even
after my body failsmany years from now, my soul will remain in my work.
Time has a way of hindering us all, but I dream of breaching those borders. By putting
both my work and Emily Dickinson's onto a sheet of paper and tossing it to sea connects
me to the past, through her, and also to the future whenever my bottle is found. I would
not put my name anywhere on the paper, because I wouldn't want those works to be
lessened by a name claiming them. Words do not belong to the author, but to every
person they touch.
Words affect everyone, every day, but I feel as though they touch me more than
most. I see the beauty in words beyond their meaning. They are finite and untouchable,
unlike anything else. If one sheet of paper tucked inside a bottle were to represent me,
the words on that paper would have to be the absolute perfect ones. A message in a
bottle can float along at sea for decades and remain perfectly intact. It is possible that my
bottle would not be found a century or more -if ever -so my words would need to have
the strength to span thecrippling force that is time. I would write the most powerful
works I know:
We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skiesï
The Heroism we recite
Would be a daily thing,
Did not ourselves the Cubits warp
For fear to be a Kingï
This poem is by Emily Dickinson. I adore this work for the flow of the individual
words, but also for the strength in the meaning of it. This particular work appeals to me
more so than anything else, because it is the essence of who I am. I dream of being the
best I can be when I get my chance to rise, whenever that day comes. Those words,
written next tomy own, would connectme to Dickinson, and also carry my words across
to some future reader. Dickinson's work, at least, will never be forgotten, and, while I
can never hope to compare mine to hers, it would still mean the worldto me for
something of mine to be next to hers, floating at sea. Underneath her work, I would put
my own:
The mighty and weak alike shall fade,
Our breaths on this earth are numbered.
My body may grow cold and withered,
But my soulï
My soul is stone.
These words, too, are representative of me. I hope that, even after my time on this earth
is up, that I can leave something behind. I pour my soul into everything I do, so even
after my body failsmany years from now, my soul will remain in my work.
Time has a way of hindering us all, but I dream of breaching those borders. By putting
both my work and Emily Dickinson's onto a sheet of paper and tossing it to sea connects
me to the past, through her, and also to the future whenever my bottle is found. I would
not put my name anywhere on the paper, because I wouldn't want those works to be
lessened by a name claiming them. Words do not belong to the author, but to every
person they touch.