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      <image:title>poetry &amp; prose - for the: bubble fairy - in honor of this image along with the caption my mum posted in 2013 bye-bye bubble fairy</image:title>
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    <loc>https://www.youthinkimquiet.com/poetry-prose/god</loc>
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    <lastmod>2024-10-09</lastmod>
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      <image:title>poetry &amp; prose - the shooting star - water serpents, gustav klimpt</image:title>
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    <loc>https://www.youthinkimquiet.com/poetry-prose/category/adoration</loc>
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  <url>
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    <lastmod>2025-08-15</lastmod>
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    <loc>https://www.youthinkimquiet.com/essays-articles/memory</loc>
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    <lastmod>2025-08-15</lastmod>
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  <url>
    <loc>https://www.youthinkimquiet.com/essays-articles/i-hope-youll-forgive-me</loc>
    <changefreq>monthly</changefreq>
    <priority>0.5</priority>
    <lastmod>2025-06-30</lastmod>
    <image:image>
      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/65ba068537399e06dfb6ddf7/6380db52-c98d-4bf8-a203-594ade52f7f1/IMG_3695.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>essays &amp; articles - i hope you’ll forgive me for writing - i hope you’ll forgive me for telling you i am not excited to be alone any more than i am not excited to be with other people; neutrality is hard to attain but when you’re there, you’re there. you’ve felt the fear, you’ve climbed the mountain, you’re looking down at the view and you’re thinking, “that’s a view.” god, it’s nauseating.</image:title>
      <image:caption>when i cannot find anything to say i write about how angry i am to have nothing to say, and then suddenly it appears on the page; waking passion. it’s fucking brilliant to love it and i love it. knowing i have something special is considerably like sex, and as i move into my source of admiration and admission it tells me to lean in deeper, to really feel it, to just go all the way now we’re so close don’t you love it? oh, yeah, love it. and when i’m waking up from the dream-induced-nightmare, i remember all the great authors i’ve read and i remember that none of them were me, that they all did something different and complete and full-scale and they all sort of did nothing equally. does my desperation make me that much more unlikely for it? be it that buzzing success? i am hopeful to watch the watchers, those watchers that say ‘that’s going to be me!’ and ‘i’m telling you guys, i’m going to make it’. and i laugh. i laugh and laugh. i just love to hate on those things, because i love to say that could never be me. i love to tell you all how i am bigger and better than telling you i will be successful, that i will have it, gauge my audience’s eyes out and make them feel my crystal ball; make them say things like, “when i look into your future, i see love”. that turns me on. your affection, your praise, your enormous vulnerable hesitation to tell me i’ll be anything but good is mouth-watering.</image:caption>
    </image:image>
    <image:image>
      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/65ba068537399e06dfb6ddf7/a69803fa-bafb-4e29-a425-98044b48030d/IMG_3680.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>essays &amp; articles - i hope you’ll forgive me for writing - at the end of the day, i know nothing of success. i know something of pity and fantasy and obsession and grace and trying, but they are small words. they are written over and over. i watch my list unfold in front of me and it has good and bad, it has naughty and nice. it has: started a blog, published a book, had my poetry published, breed content, love writing &amp; do it always, be a writer. it has whit, actually. i’m prepared to sacrifice a great deal of things i think are important, conceptual or not, in order for people to tell me i’m good at what i do, and that there’s a reason i’m doing it. i’m hopeful they’ll tell me soon enough, “you’re lucky. you chose right. you made it.” and i live in fear others will do what i can’t not out of ambition, but out of luck. i am horrified at the idea of other people who want it as badly as i do. i am horrified of getting to the end of my passion and holding my hands up and looking at them and not being sure. i am very afraid i will one day not be sure of what up until that point, i have lived with as truth, not fiction or hope or sensitive revelation, but an honest and apologetic discovery of myself. that i can write, that i am a good writer, that i am good at it, that i am not mean or selfish or depraved, that it is just what my hands do. that i am washed clean by my greed, by a talent which walks the earth waiting to inhabit any body and it has asked for mine, that it is all right; i will do my best, that i am ready for a life i am wading through half a heart of rot and famine for. this is all worth it; this is all worth it; this is all what i wish for. all i wish for is to be on the nice list, to be told it’s true. it’s all true. it’s all true; you’re not a liar.</image:title>
      <image:caption>and sure, lies are one thing. lying down and feeling the grass and being thankful you are not a blade, you do not have thoughts of becoming earth and you do not have feelings of rotating a hundred times around the universe to remember what infinity looks like; it’s narrow. eternity’s a narrow scope of horror and compassion, bundled into a package. are you willing? it’s coming either way.</image:caption>
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    <lastmod>2024-12-31</lastmod>
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  <url>
    <loc>https://www.youthinkimquiet.com/essays-articles/the-seven-deadly-sins</loc>
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    <lastmod>2024-11-17</lastmod>
    <image:image>
      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/65ba068537399e06dfb6ddf7/fdc94f46-135d-4ee1-ad1e-8b6665af46d7/800px-Tableau_de_mission_-Fran%C3%A7ois-Marie_Balanant_tableau_1-.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>essays &amp; articles - deduction of sin ; pride, greed, &amp;amp; envy - image by François-Marie Balanant (1862-1930)</image:title>
      <image:caption>formally originating from the roman catholic church, the latin language gave the earliest written definition to the conception of the ‘seven deadly sins’, and what we now typically think of them as: pride, greed, wrath, envy, lust, gluttony, and sloth. earliest ideas of the then eight ‘capital vices’ were developed in early christian monasticism teachings by various monks and the more notable ‘desert fathers’ during 4th century Egypt. after the original, unrefined ideas had been brought into the roman empire sometime during the 6th century, the cardinal sins were then formally articulated and established in the church by ‘saint gregory the great’, the sixty-forth bishop in rome. he is also the man responsible for the ‘Gregorian mission’, in which he seeked to convert the majority of pagan Anglo-Saxons into christianity. his ideas of the more discerning and enlightened cardinal sins spread around europe with his successful ‘reign’ in the church, becoming crucial to the foundation of Christianity. he revised what was then eight (and had been originally nine) deadly sins to the seven we are familiar with now, with of course a few more specifications in latin translation; the official language of the roman catholic church continues to be latin, more specifically Ecclesiastical Latin. to read a more detailed and skillful account on the historical context of the seven deadly sins, i highly recommend this article by new world encyclopedia: https://www.newworldencyclopedia.org/entry/Seven_Deadly_Sins.</image:caption>
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    <loc>https://www.youthinkimquiet.com/essays-articles/home-sick-ness</loc>
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    <lastmod>2024-10-27</lastmod>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/65ba068537399e06dfb6ddf7/581e673f-1cc8-4521-b13f-1f0ec8ca2417/IMG_2052.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>essays &amp; articles - homesickness, dealing with absence - the view outside of my bedroom window</image:title>
      <image:caption>in the evening, i gawk out in a watchful silence, and pray speedily for the end of the day, talking only to vastness, and hope that the next will spare me of any more of my own vertical madness. but each day i wake to find it is only more difficult than yesterday, as it slows and bores me, dulls and maddens me; reminds me of life and it’s like i am in that horrible story about the man who plays music for the dead in the inferno—i cannot remember the philosopher—and they all cry in anguish for they are so desolated by the reminder of life and it’s beauty, their horror for spending it foolishly, and it’s like i am the idiot at the end of his own book, watching death approaching as he counts the seconds, preferring it, however grotesquely, to acknowledging life in all of it’s terrifying persistent beauty; i cannot remember now what dostoevsky’s point was. is it that we are all born blind of our rejection or is it that we are cursed never fully to open our eyes until we cannot? no more life.</image:caption>
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  <url>
    <loc>https://www.youthinkimquiet.com/essays-articles/category/homesickness</loc>
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  </url>
  <url>
    <loc>https://www.youthinkimquiet.com/essays-articles/category/reflection</loc>
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    <loc>https://www.youthinkimquiet.com/essays-articles/category/belief</loc>
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    <loc>https://www.youthinkimquiet.com/essays-articles/category/prose-esque</loc>
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    <loc>https://www.youthinkimquiet.com/essays-articles/category/religion</loc>
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    <lastmod>2025-01-13</lastmod>
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