Here, staff writer Sydney Bradford beautifully illustrates lines of prose, entitled "Sentience."

Capitulate your comfort for confidence // The infinite filth of pity cannot claim you

We find our sense of identity in

a sense of others.

We feel this way because,

we learn this way because,

we love this way because.

Until we find a sense of

awareness we are

excluded from ourselves.

Our self who is a complexity

unknown to man himself,

Summarized by one word

that does not encapsulate the

tremor in which she goes -

Separate from the individual

and existing as one existence.

Upon unruly hours of

regret and inward onus

I can only note of my own dishonor,

To the self and to man

and to ourself as a sense.

Being as a woman,

I am not made for men, by men

I am not shipped from the address of your South Carolina home.

I am an affluent jungle in

The literary sense.

I am a cathedral,

where crowds have

gathered with prodding and feedback

for centuries -- pinning their theses on my chest with no request of their presence at all.

We are expected not to hear the

World around us.

To be mistaken of yourself

Immensely more than by others..

Avowals of right from wrong are

A warranted beginning.

Not only a sense of

self but a sense of time,

Who moves deftly and

Incomprehensibly at once.

article by: sydney bradford

visual by: sydney bradford



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