Sofya Maxnide
Bio
daydreamer not a night sleeper time traveler instead of a keeper beyond time yet always behind
Do I know who I am?
Stories (14/0)
Editing a ChatGPT Story
So I've never been into the Artificial Intelligence (AI) scene. My interactions inlcude Siri and products like iRobot. But this is not the same type of AI we as humanity are starting to interact with on the daily. Siri and iRobot are the type that are meant to follow orders, prompts, or a set of instructions and deliver an outcome. They are not meant to be subjective.
By Sofya Maxnideabout a year ago in 01
Dads of Disney
With Progressive’s new commercial “TV Dad” starring Reginald VelJohnson airing, my mind started to wonder about the contrasts between my real Dad and the TV Dads I grew up with. Parenting is an anomaly to everyone, but Dads are often both transparent and vague in their parenting ways, setting rules only to break them. I remember one night specifically in high school, Dad told me I couldn’t just eat the black olives that we saved for taco leftovers - I had to use them with the rest of the taco. Well, I come to find the next night the olives were missing from the refrigerator, and when I confronted him I received a “Sorry, I didn’t remember that.”
By Sofya Maxnideabout a year ago in Geeks
GLORY
While both parts of The Glory have been released and its storyline concluded, there is one part of the storyboard that viewers are still speculating about—that is, the mystery of the green shoes. Perhaps it is due to international language barriers that my research was unable to pull direct quotes from the writer, Kim Eun-sook, but according to Gabriela Silva, Kim asserts that there is no hidden symbolism of the shoes and that they merely "suited the personal color of the top of Yeon-jin’s feet."
By Sofya Maxnideabout a year ago in Geeks
FOOD: I want to feel hungry again
Food. Or. Sustenance. This is what I stuggle to define everyday. For my young life, food had been a necessity - something to cling to the walls of my stomach so it didn't sink in. This is the only time in my life where I felt hunger. That was when my staple diet consisted of two things - rice and beans. When I imigrated to the US, things took a change.
By Sofya Maxnideabout a year ago in Journal
If an Almond Could Feel
If an almond could feel it would be apathetic. I came to you brimming with expectations, with unexplained emotions. You were given to me, passed down through word of mouth, unusual in this era of internet connectivity. The two of us clashed unexpectedly in the first chapter. You were just a child, and I used to be, and yet I chastised you with blatant hypocrisy. Your first encounter with of bloodshed made me wince. I have known of bullying, but the horror stories never make it any less than what it is. Murder, at the first degree. The honesty you portrayed at such an age…I felt that. There was nothing else you could say, and yet they denied that. You were so inoccent to believe that they would listen. I never did. I read their faces and gave them what they wanted to hear. They called me a liar. It’s safer that way, and hurts them less. The truth is a burden to bear.
By Sofya Maxnideabout a year ago in Poets
To the TEA GIRL OF HUMMINGBIRD LANE
I found you at the public libary. I was looking for any Asian author. I am obsessed with Korea. You were sitting on the small book stand, a feature. I perused past my head tilted to the side to read the vertical names. That is how our faces met. Yours shrouded behind golden leaves and a sunset hue. Mine beneath plastic frames and a mask.
By Sofya Maxnideabout a year ago in Poets
to the dreamer
Lately, I've been having dreams - some come while I'm asleep. Its the faceless people that haunt me. I've been searching for affection. I know why but I run from it, still I yearn to feel the warmth of anothers touch. I want a hug but recieve handshakes.
By Sofya Maxnideabout a year ago in Poets
TP The Pandemic
Although this thought has been on my mind for several days, it is the first time I have sat down to write. Writing has a way of forcing the feelings you don’t want seen recorded for everyone to see; it stains the paper with the ink of your confessions. I thought a lot about how I wanted to present this. Would it be better read in a clinical manner, such as a journalist entry with facts and dates? Or rather a poem with literary figures and emotions paving the way for understanding. Maybe a fictional short story would better encompass it all. Whatever the writing style, you can figure it out. All I know is what I think. What I think, in the light of recent events, maybe controversial and therefore unpopular but it is my opinion.
By Sofya Maxnide4 years ago in Motivation
Whisp
I took this picture a couple of months ago, around Christmas in my dormitory. I had done my makeup, dressed rather nicely for a weekday, and had actually tried to tame my wild afro but I had absolutely nowhere to go. I sat in my room, working on this and that until I stood up and looked out the window. It was a regular day, students milling to and fro, not yet the time for evening activities but too late in the day to have any more classes. I don’t exactly remember the song that I was listening to, but I remember feeling the acute sense of nothingness. Looking out the window, I didn’t feel peace or contentedness, happiness or even sadness. I remember feeling out of place, without context, like I was floating in an endless sea of space. My phone snapped me out of my weird reverie, and after finishing my homework, I returned to the same place I had been just moments ago. Even after standing in the same place, and staring at the same place, I couldn’t bring back the same feeling, and for whatever reason it saddened me. So, I decided I would take a picture, to help distract me, because I knew that today I looked good. I stood at the window for over five minutes, constantly changing positions and postures. I had the camera on a self -timer, and I remember counting the seconds until the shutter clicked. I had the pose just right, the perfect frame and lighting, but I couldn’t re-create the face that I knew I was feeling inside. I changed the self-timer from the standard three seconds to ten seconds, but as I clicked the camera button, I lost track of the time, and then all of a sudden, I was back to that space miles away. A mere second may have gone by but in my shoes, you would have felt what you can only imagine to be the weight of the world, transferred to your shoulders from mine. Click! The shutter went off, the speed of the sound pulling me faster than I could have imagined out of the state I was in. I blinked a few times, and then looked at my phone. My first instinct was to delete it, my fingers were mere centimeters from the screen, ready to hit the retake button, but something in me decided to wait. So instead, I saved it. I continued for another five or so minutes taking pictures, but I knew in my heart I knew that none of them would work because I had already found the one; I just didn’t want to believe it. I dutifully edited it, using the warm tones of the room and highlighted my skin to glowing perfection, but it didn’t change the face. I posted it to Instagram and received many compliments and words of affirmation, but I didn’t read anything that I wanted to see. I showed a few select people in my everyday life here at college, they all admired it and praised it but again, not what I wanted to hear. Still to this day, looking at this picture only serves to give me mixed emotions. As an artist, I am proud of what I accomplished, but as the model I am scared by what I pulled out of myself. Because of the position the photo was taken, I’m not really sure if I’m smiling. If taken as a regular point and shoot frame, would it have been a different look? One that show relaxed but non-smiling lips, or would it have reflected the same hint of happiness I vaguely detect? Is the arm crossed in the manner of nonchalant or one marked by years of self-defensiveness? Or even worse, is it a self-hug stemmed from years of loneliness caused only by the misfortunes of one’s past mistakes. Do the eyes shine like glass from unshed tears, or are they just reflections of her fears in the past coming to haunt her in the future? I call this look a whisp, because it is the most delicate look that has ever surfaced on my face from graves, I buried deep. If it was but a famous picture like the Mona Lisa, I would ponder upon these thoughts and search for a conclusion but since it is about me, I only run from them.
By Sofya Maxnide4 years ago in Photography
