It’s been so long since I visit this page. I find it cool but there’s no time to waste. Lol just because it rhymes. And because I can see dots aka full stop in my sentences. Hahaha no link k bye.
i love dots. when a number of dots are joined, they make a line. just as life is. life is made up of small experiences which when joined together make a beautiful unique picture about us.
A small red dot in the middle of a sixty square foot canvas,
Dominated the space
Dwarfing any other piece of art that stood beside it.
There was nothing anyone could do but stare at its simplicity,
And wonder how anyone could make millions off one iota of detail.
The fire had consumed the original,
This was a forgery,
Yet the allure of fame was too great for it to have slipped through the proprietor’s hands.
What better to end a sentence with. Or perhaps to decorate your garments or footwear. You can see dots before your eyes sometimes. You should probably get that checked out though.
I see a dot at the end of a sentence, we call it a period. Dot is one of the Warner sisters in animaniac, I think she is pert. Dots on a dress appear quite lovely.
A single dot in my vision. Seeming transient, never staying one place. Ethereal. Like a ghost. I try to focus on it, but then everything goes blurry and lock on it is gone. It’s fuzzy. Suddenly a see it in one random spot in the peripheral of my vision.
The dot looked bigger now, rising above the horizon like a sun in a hurry. The noon light glinted off it, silver-gold. Once high in the air, the dot stopped rising, hovered a moment, then shot forward.
It’s coming toward me now, he thought. What the hell—no. It couldn’t be.
A whirring sound filled the air, and with a whoosh the small ball landed in his hand. Again.
A small point. Glimmer. Defining. It could be the end or the beginning. Part of the design or all of it. I like it. DOT. Small but huge depending on the size of your heart.
If you stand up very very close you can see all the dots. But then you lose perspective on the picture itself. It’s important to remember that while each individual dot is plays its part, it’s the whole picture that’s important.
When I attended primary school, our teacher always reminded us about the importance of placing a dot at the end of every sentence. What a difference that little mark makes.
spot was a dog of no particular distinguishing marks except for his multicolored splotch on his back. Thus his owner, Josh McLaggen, came up with that ever so original name, spot. And this is where his story begins.
Their form was still a shadowy dot on the horizon. We were at least three miles closer now, but still, no shape, no clear semblance of sympathetic life. Except the occasional spark of brilliant light whizzing up above the group, before stillness settled again.
I paused and leant forward with my rucksack as support to try to make sense of the shadows. There appeared to be movement amidst what my dry, aching eyes told me must be a group of them, six or seven maybe, and I held up my hand in a firm, clear wave. Maybe they waved back. If they were a ‘they’. Maybe I’d just caught sight of the billowing of a discarded bag.
I turned to the rest of the group, reacting as I realised they were looking at me a little warily. Waiting patiently for the next instruction. Mutely concerned.
I always used to think that one dot didn’t make a difference.
That the end of a sentence wasn’t defined by that little thing.
Because the end of a life isn’t defined by a dot either.
My grandma died last week.
Her grave doesn’t have a dot.
There she lies.
“Wife, mother, grandmother”
There’s no dot to finish that.
The end is inevitable.
The dot doesn’t define it.
it hurt me to see the dots of dirt on her face, after she’s been through so much. i reached up and brushed away what i could, but she knocked my hand away. she sat down, and stared at the fireplace in silence, and i watched her with a feeling that felt a lot like sadness, and pity, and all those horrible things people don’t talk about with company.
I looked at the dot on the ground. It was bright red and wet. Then I looked at my arm. It was scratched badly and bleeding. I ran to the bathroom to clean it off, and get all the blood off.
she steps, slowly, over the drainage grate. polka dot dress sways, flows and is moved by a gusty breeze. her perfume-y scent rises to my nostrils and I inhale. exhale, and she has gone.
The dot of blood spread across the room with the vibration of each step he took. He proved right the theory that we only see what we want to see and walked indistinctly through the place.
Dots of light covered her skin, a painting produced by the sun filtering through our dusty blinds. Her eyes, sleepy, heavy, and blue gazed up at me. “Thank you,” she murmured.
this plane we’re slightly removed
it’s a pain when it’s all unglued
it’s true in this space we sit stoic
is it life when we hardly move
this dot a spot as the past plots
the future of then and never was and goings to be
it’s a laugh
a spec of dust
are we.
I’d recognize that handwriting anywhere. The lazy slant of the letters, the unruly squiggle used to dot the “i”. It was her handwriting. Without a doubt.
Billy passed me in the hallway. I didn’t take notice to what he was doing, or where he was going, I had somewhere to be. As I reached near my destination I looked back and only saw a dot of what used to Billy,
Sometimes, when I am in deep conversation, I can visualize the sentences coming out of our mouths. This can be somewhat troublesome depending on the topic. Once a sensitive subject arises, the moment where the other is waiting for a response, the line of periods suddenly appear. They taunt me to say something back and slowly get closer and closer the longer I wait to respond. The words race through my mind but never escape my lips. How can a speed bump through life become more of a tidal wave, crushing all that I care about. Sadly, the tidal wave is me and there is no stopping my self destructiveness. Those periods in which end a sentence may be the shadow that haunts me, where ever I go.
The dot on the wall makes me ache inside. It’s not just any dot after all but one of blood, or even more precisely, the blood of my mother. One of the last drops she shed before she died here in this room. It’s irrational, I know, but it feels like one of the only things I have left of her.
I quietly tapped my pencil on my desk. The blank sheet of paper in front of me would not go away; would not be replaced by something worthwhile. It was just…blank. Furiously, I told myself that I would write something. I gritted my teeth and pressed the pencil to the paper. But all I managed to write was a dot.
Dot com. The internet has taken over my brain. All I see when I picture letters is an array of black on white; squiggly lines and dots and hashes that make up the infinite universe that is coding. My eyes swim with nothing but data.
When people think about art, they imagine splashes of vibrant colour, a canvas scribbled with fascinating drawings, a spark of imagination.
But when I think about art, I imagine something different, something that may not seem art at all.
A dot.
dot matrix dottie dot, polka polk, polka dot dress silk and flowing on your legs like water over swimming tubes, calamity in the waves, polka surprise, danger torpid flank. dot.
“Don’t do that”
“Why not?”
“Just…please?”
He sighed. This is how it always went. They were just one move away from winning, as usual. One step away from their dreams.
“I just…it’s not time.”
“When will it be time?”
She was silent.
“I just don’t want us to be…” he turned and looked away. Behind them the setting sun was barely a dot in the sky. It could have easily been mistake for a lesser star.
He looked around them. Taking in the blackness that was their world. Behind them, the dot that was the sun, ahead of them a doorway of brilliant emerald. Between the two; void.
He looked back to her. He was about to say something wise and poetic about the two of them and the world and not wanting them to end up being one in the same; voids. But the look in her eyes as she stared at him, the way she clenched his hand.
“Okay,” he said. “Not yet.”
They walked past the emerald lining that would have been their future. They walked into the void and continued down the road that was their history; their past.
“there,”
she said, jabbing her finger onto the map.
“let’s go there. let’s just get away from here.”
I didn’t even bother to ask her where we were going,
or even question why we were doing this in the first place.
I just put the car into drive, and we were gone.
Well, I think that this time, the array of doubts that she is considering is nothing in comparison to the single dot of doubt she had just before getting smacked in the face with flour.
It’s been so long since I visit this page. I find it cool but there’s no time to waste. Lol just because it rhymes. And because I can see dots aka full stop in my sentences. Hahaha no link k bye.
i love dots. when a number of dots are joined, they make a line. just as life is. life is made up of small experiences which when joined together make a beautiful unique picture about us.
Dot, dot, dot. Similar to an ellipses in our conversation; it can continue, it can end. You hold those breathes ever so quietly. Will you continue?
A small red dot in the middle of a sixty square foot canvas,
Dominated the space
Dwarfing any other piece of art that stood beside it.
There was nothing anyone could do but stare at its simplicity,
And wonder how anyone could make millions off one iota of detail.
The fire had consumed the original,
This was a forgery,
Yet the allure of fame was too great for it to have slipped through the proprietor’s hands.
What better to end a sentence with. Or perhaps to decorate your garments or footwear. You can see dots before your eyes sometimes. You should probably get that checked out though.
I see a dot at the end of a sentence, we call it a period. Dot is one of the Warner sisters in animaniac, I think she is pert. Dots on a dress appear quite lovely.
A single dot in my vision. Seeming transient, never staying one place. Ethereal. Like a ghost. I try to focus on it, but then everything goes blurry and lock on it is gone. It’s fuzzy. Suddenly a see it in one random spot in the peripheral of my vision.
The spec. It gets larger. Oh, dear. That spec is now a dot. Faster and faster, here it comes. SPLAT! On my head. Ouch.
Egg drop experiments are not safe to walk through.
The dot looked bigger now, rising above the horizon like a sun in a hurry. The noon light glinted off it, silver-gold. Once high in the air, the dot stopped rising, hovered a moment, then shot forward.
It’s coming toward me now, he thought. What the hell—no. It couldn’t be.
A whirring sound filled the air, and with a whoosh the small ball landed in his hand. Again.
A small point. Glimmer. Defining. It could be the end or the beginning. Part of the design or all of it. I like it. DOT. Small but huge depending on the size of your heart.
If you stand up very very close you can see all the dots. But then you lose perspective on the picture itself. It’s important to remember that while each individual dot is plays its part, it’s the whole picture that’s important.
When I attended primary school, our teacher always reminded us about the importance of placing a dot at the end of every sentence. What a difference that little mark makes.
spot was a dog of no particular distinguishing marks except for his multicolored splotch on his back. Thus his owner, Josh McLaggen, came up with that ever so original name, spot. And this is where his story begins.
started walking down the street. I feel the rhythm of my body carrying me and ordering my feet. left right left right. one two three four.
Their form was still a shadowy dot on the horizon. We were at least three miles closer now, but still, no shape, no clear semblance of sympathetic life. Except the occasional spark of brilliant light whizzing up above the group, before stillness settled again.
I paused and leant forward with my rucksack as support to try to make sense of the shadows. There appeared to be movement amidst what my dry, aching eyes told me must be a group of them, six or seven maybe, and I held up my hand in a firm, clear wave. Maybe they waved back. If they were a ‘they’. Maybe I’d just caught sight of the billowing of a discarded bag.
I turned to the rest of the group, reacting as I realised they were looking at me a little warily. Waiting patiently for the next instruction. Mutely concerned.
I always used to think that one dot didn’t make a difference.
That the end of a sentence wasn’t defined by that little thing.
Because the end of a life isn’t defined by a dot either.
My grandma died last week.
Her grave doesn’t have a dot.
There she lies.
“Wife, mother, grandmother”
There’s no dot to finish that.
The end is inevitable.
The dot doesn’t define it.
it hurt me to see the dots of dirt on her face, after she’s been through so much. i reached up and brushed away what i could, but she knocked my hand away. she sat down, and stared at the fireplace in silence, and i watched her with a feeling that felt a lot like sadness, and pity, and all those horrible things people don’t talk about with company.
The shameless dot: a teetering tittle, a definitive period. Or even the salacious ellipsis…
The shameless dot: a teetering tittle, a conclusive period.
I looked at the dot on the ground. It was bright red and wet. Then I looked at my arm. It was scratched badly and bleeding. I ran to the bathroom to clean it off, and get all the blood off.
What’s down there Daddy?
People, child.
What’s people? They just look like dots.
Well, they are.
she steps, slowly, over the drainage grate. polka dot dress sways, flows and is moved by a gusty breeze. her perfume-y scent rises to my nostrils and I inhale. exhale, and she has gone.
The dot of blood spread across the room with the vibration of each step he took. He proved right the theory that we only see what we want to see and walked indistinctly through the place.
Dots of light covered her skin, a painting produced by the sun filtering through our dusty blinds. Her eyes, sleepy, heavy, and blue gazed up at me. “Thank you,” she murmured.
this plane we’re slightly removed
it’s a pain when it’s all unglued
it’s true in this space we sit stoic
is it life when we hardly move
this dot a spot as the past plots
the future of then and never was and goings to be
it’s a laugh
a spec of dust
are we.
I’d recognize that handwriting anywhere. The lazy slant of the letters, the unruly squiggle used to dot the “i”. It was her handwriting. Without a doubt.
Billy passed me in the hallway. I didn’t take notice to what he was doing, or where he was going, I had somewhere to be. As I reached near my destination I looked back and only saw a dot of what used to Billy,
Sometimes, when I am in deep conversation, I can visualize the sentences coming out of our mouths. This can be somewhat troublesome depending on the topic. Once a sensitive subject arises, the moment where the other is waiting for a response, the line of periods suddenly appear. They taunt me to say something back and slowly get closer and closer the longer I wait to respond. The words race through my mind but never escape my lips. How can a speed bump through life become more of a tidal wave, crushing all that I care about. Sadly, the tidal wave is me and there is no stopping my self destructiveness. Those periods in which end a sentence may be the shadow that haunts me, where ever I go.
The dot on the wall makes me ache inside. It’s not just any dot after all but one of blood, or even more precisely, the blood of my mother. One of the last drops she shed before she died here in this room. It’s irrational, I know, but it feels like one of the only things I have left of her.
which never ends
I quietly tapped my pencil on my desk. The blank sheet of paper in front of me would not go away; would not be replaced by something worthwhile. It was just…blank. Furiously, I told myself that I would write something. I gritted my teeth and pressed the pencil to the paper. But all I managed to write was a dot.
forget me not
even though I’m just a dot
I have feelings
Dot com. The internet has taken over my brain. All I see when I picture letters is an array of black on white; squiggly lines and dots and hashes that make up the infinite universe that is coding. My eyes swim with nothing but data.
When people think about art, they imagine splashes of vibrant colour, a canvas scribbled with fascinating drawings, a spark of imagination.
But when I think about art, I imagine something different, something that may not seem art at all.
A dot.
dot matrix dottie dot, polka polk, polka dot dress silk and flowing on your legs like water over swimming tubes, calamity in the waves, polka surprise, danger torpid flank. dot.
“Don’t do that”
“Why not?”
“Just…please?”
He sighed. This is how it always went. They were just one move away from winning, as usual. One step away from their dreams.
“I just…it’s not time.”
“When will it be time?”
She was silent.
“I just don’t want us to be…” he turned and looked away. Behind them the setting sun was barely a dot in the sky. It could have easily been mistake for a lesser star.
He looked around them. Taking in the blackness that was their world. Behind them, the dot that was the sun, ahead of them a doorway of brilliant emerald. Between the two; void.
He looked back to her. He was about to say something wise and poetic about the two of them and the world and not wanting them to end up being one in the same; voids. But the look in her eyes as she stared at him, the way she clenched his hand.
“Okay,” he said. “Not yet.”
They walked past the emerald lining that would have been their future. They walked into the void and continued down the road that was their history; their past.
“there,”
she said, jabbing her finger onto the map.
“let’s go there. let’s just get away from here.”
I didn’t even bother to ask her where we were going,
or even question why we were doing this in the first place.
I just put the car into drive, and we were gone.
Dot. Split. Splat. Splot. Goes my heart when you are around. Your dots connect to make my smile and they form a perfect shape.
Blood dotted the page, the dark red liquid dripping from the boy’s wrist. His final words written on the paper.
Well, I think that this time, the array of doubts that she is considering is nothing in comparison to the single dot of doubt she had just before getting smacked in the face with flour.