If you want something done, do it yourself. That’s a motto I’ve known by heart for years now, ever since I decided I wanted to pursue my passion of writing for my life. 

Throughout my childhood, I’ve consumed a lot of fictional media involving mythology- whether that means explanations of godly pantheons, modern retellings of ancient fables and legends, or breathtaking combinations of both. I’ve read Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson and the Olympians, which I still fondly look back on because of how much writing inspiration it’s given me.

When I realized the brink of adulthood was approaching, the first thing I wanted to do was buy a cupcake.It wouldn’t be hard, in my current living arrangement. Since I live on a college campus, many stores, restaurants, and libraries are a short walk away from my dorm. One happens to be a place called Molly’s Cupcakes.

I don’t remember when my parents first got a membership for the Austin Public Library. I only knew that my father always brought along the plastic card when my siblings and I piled into the car for the fifteen-minute drive.

Last year, over the course of the summer, I became a deep fan of a band called AJR. Though I’d known a few of their songs since middle school, I had never delved deep into their music. I didn’t know how much I’d grow to love the subject matter they focused on, from the struggle to feel creative and unique, the struggle to keep up with fans’ ever-ballooning expectations of their music, the constant chaos and turmoil of the internet and content surplus, and so much more.

With every passing day, my memories of my childhood fade a little faster. It’s a thought that I wish could be an exaggeration, but with photos, documents, videos, and all other sorts of digital files keeping intricate records of my personality at every stage of life, I have proof that my life is far larger than I remember it being.

From peers, mentors, teachers, and friends, I've often gotten comments on how mature I am for my age. I'm logistical when delegating tasks or work, realistic when reflecting on my progress in mental and physical health, determined to fulfill a future career path, and very good at offering advice to those in personal conflicts.

first learned about visual art artificial intelligence programs about a year ago, when I discovered one by the name of Wombo Art online. It was a website that could take word prompts from a browser, combine it with an art style of choosing, and generate a picture based off of both. Though I was skeptical of how effective it’d be at first, I decided to try it out- and the very first prompt I ever put in was my own name, T-Wolf.

Throughout all my years of living, I’ve been taught that my family, my ancestors, and my people, are always by my side.

Some days, when all is too still for time, I can see my heartbeat.Usually it’s right over my chest, in the slight wave of the shirt I’m wearing. It’s almost like a ripple of water, the way the beat expands throughout the fabric, then settles again.

The mind can be imagined in many ways.For some, it is quite literally just the brain, talking, shouting, whispering to itself. A full house of rooms with different sets of memories. Infinite filing cabinets, ideas and information stored away in folders all across the cabinets.

There’s a certain dread that comes to me around this time of year.Autumn hardly seems to exist in the more southern states of America, seemingly lasting anywhere from one week to one month at best.

My home is soup.That’s not a metaphor, nor exaggeration. I do not live in a pot of broth, or eat it for every meal, but my home is still in soup. Specifically, the soup that my mother makes, simmering for hours in a large pot on the stove. It rolls off our Vietnamese tongues by practiced genes, and rolls back in by practiced appetites.

What do we leave behind when we die?Most wish to leave behind good memories for their loved ones, maybe a will of their possessions and wealth to back it up. Some want their work to extend beyond personal relationships, to a fame that lasts for ages. Fewer beg to be remembered for anything at all, whether it be for a heart of gold or an unforgivable deed.