The Start of the Art

 Embarrassment is always one of the emotions that seems to be considered when one decides to run from a designated number of troubles and trials that confront one in the face of redemption. Redemption can have many forms, and nothing outsmarts the option of choosing none above all. Doing something can cause more harm than doing nothing. Sitting still like a duck, as they say, may provide you with nowhere to go as you may head yourself deep into a tunnel of nostalgic personal interference and have a way without one’s own shoulders keeping their heads up to not lean to one side. Anisa isn’t blind. She has options, but she can’t see them. How can someone light a fire inside a tunnel that is filled with oil up to the very tip of the striking fear that holds like an everlasting brilliance? How can someone not turn away from such horrific instruments?

Is resisting the urge to leave this very tunnel an easier option than staying inside? All these questions seem answerable, and in which they can be, yet seem to be generally ridiculed by the public. Live life the way it should be. Would redeeming this inside everyone’s lives really embellish this whole concept of life? This again, derives all the way back to our topic about embarrassment. Embarrassment is nothing near the idea of being humiliated in front of your best of friends by uttering a misinterpreted word. It is much more complicated. Too complicated that explaining here in this particular line of text may prove impossible. But please, do say so yourself, what exactly creates embarrassment?

If that last question has been left unanswered, then I suggest you don’t bring much forward just as Anisa hasn’t. Anisa, a classic highschool student who wishes nothing but to live the normal life everyone dreams of. Normal? What’s normal? What exactly do we reason with to bring our repeating choices of chronological disadvantages to surge forward in life? Anisa won’t and can’t find the answers to these questions, just like you can’t. While reading this book, you may feel that nothing here relates to you. Everything is normal for you. Everything is perfect for you. Life can’t seem to change its direction to ruin your life. But being forthright, that won’t be of any use in the future. Nothing in this world is normal, since the only thing normal about normality is the fact that we’ve given it a name. But perhaps giving something a name isn’t real as well. They could just be figurative representations and seemingly useful qualifications to seem as if we are more knowledgeable about a particular subject or person.

Anisa digs all day to find this. She digs up water and she digs up fresh new coins of entangled satisfaction, and cleaning the coin will be the only option to reveal this particular course of trickery. In time, we will see that nothing comes of this pathetic attempt but a brass coin covered in yellow paint.

Now this all shouldn’t discern someone from the way they live. After all, the course of life is nothing me nor Anisa can chart. Everything is up to you. But you have yet to see the proficient introduction that we as modern citizens of men under the sun should be able to provide. Walking by from time to time, becoming more and more captured from the shuttering clicks of the teacher’s ruler onto the desk. This teacher is very conscious of our minds, she wakes us up, yells at us to turn in our assignments. She hands us exams we aren’t supposed to learn, and challenge ourselves in ways that even our own parents have yet to question. This is the start of the art.