VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: A moment when feeling safe disappears…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Belonging changed me when you are together with others who praise you. Memories alone are granted forever in a…
Belonging changed me when you are together with others who praise you. Memories alone are granted forever in a safe. Later when opened, it struck you like a lightning bult. A different place, a different region. The place where the eagle nests their home. Roaming around the field and coming across someone new. Not a predator, but just a human being. They were the two of them I came across. “Hey, how are you guys doing?” like my voice was as low as the sea. I felt the electrons have joined with the protons. Then I walked with them and babbled about each other like how you would make an introduction in every essay. In that day of time was just the beginning of its transformation. When I got to class, I came across him again. (Well it looks like I’m in the same class as him.) Me as so particles of the water boils around. The electric jolts were too high. I nervously wanted to be with him as a form of compounds. Then other electrons came because the protons were too high still. One named Tyson and Sam also another who were the new student I met Tyhuri. During class our teachers assigned us to be a part of a group project, and yet I saw them, ”Yo a-a-ron, how are you doing?”, I never heard of the joke even teachers find that hilarious. “ERR, sorry I didn’t really get the joke?”. As I was replying to Tyhuri as I giggled like a clown. They never explained it but, after I left for another primary school, I knew from other communities because I was spoiled to move to a new place (the most regret of my childhood). During that time as they came for a group project, I was wearing a mask trying to find in, but later I did enjoyed being with them. We later make jokes that made us laugh and my teachers would try to separate us, so we are not like a trumpet. Lunch time was Nostalgic, me and my friends were trying to make the deepest hole like a genius world record. With all fantasy’s made, memories were truly turned into dreams. Its was in that day the last year was really fun and we even called our self’s the Asian group because one was Vietnamese, another I think was Chinese, the new student which I had forgotten that was the new student and me Indonesian which I didn’t really clarify it if I was in that time because our ancestors where Chinese. New year new me, I was struck again. All of it was gone but, not too completely because eventually they were with my brother’s friend group. I was in year 2 and when I met my
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Protest is the Framework
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 97.5%: The Fever They Chose Not to See Enish Gupta The smell of chicken tikka filled the house, thick with spice and…
The Fever They Chose Not to See
Enish Gupta
The smell of chicken tikka filled the house, thick with spice and warmth, settling into the walls as laughter moved easily between bursts of FIFA commentary. Controllers clicked, voices overlapped, and everything felt contained, predictable, controlled, as if nothing could disrupt the rhythm of the night.
The interruption was small: a cough, then the soft, sudden sound of liquid hitting the floor. When we turned, my sister stood motionless, milk trailing from her mouth, her eyes unfocused as though the connection between sight and comprehension had briefly misfired. Someone reached for the thermometer, and the number blinked back, 37.3°C, precise, clinical, deceptively reassuring.
“Just a small fever,” they said.
But the body does not operate in isolated numbers. Beneath the surface, processes had already begun to shift, heat redistributing, signals accelerating, equilibrium destabilising in ways too subtle to measure in a single reading.
By 10 p.m., the television still flickered, but the room had changed. Conversations stalled halfway through, attention repeatedly pulled back to her. Her breathing had altered, each inhale arriving a fraction too late, as if the signal from brain to body was encountering resistance, slowed somewhere along the pathway.
When the sound came again, it was enough. I ran upstairs to find her sitting rigidly on the edge of the bed, her body held in tension, not at rest. Each breath seemed negotiated, drawn in with effort rather than ease.
“Mum,” I called. “Dad. Now.”
At the clinic, the space was engineered for order. Light reflected sharply off polished floors, chairs aligned in rows that dictated stillness, voices kept low as if volume itself might disrupt the system. Everything moved, but nothing accelerated. The room functioned like a system with inertia, designed to maintain its current state unless acted upon by a force large enough to disturb it.
We sat within it, becoming part of that stillness. My sister leaned against my mum, her weight shifting more heavily now, her breathing irregular in a way that demanded attention.
“She’s getting worse,” my mum said, stepping forward.
“We’ll call you,” the nurse replied, her gaze fixed on the screen.
VCE · Language Analysis
Language Analysis: ISSUE: Is the “tradwife” trend…
VCE Language Analysis essay scoring 95%: Katy Hall’s opinion piece, published in The Sydney Morning Herald (13 August 2024), challenges the widespread…
Katy Hall’s opinion piece, published in The Sydney Morning Herald (13 August 2024), challenges the widespread criticism of the “tradwife” trend, contending that such women should not be dismissed as regressive but understood as responding rationally to systemic inequities. Writing for a progressive, largely feminist Australian audience, Hall adopts a measured yet provocative tone to reframe the debate, arguing that the issue lies not in individual choices but in a flawed social and economic system that makes such choices appealing. Through a strategic progression of ideas, the integration of compelling statistics, and the use of evocative language and visuals, Hall positions readers to reconsider their assumptions and adopt a more empathetic perspective.
Hall initially seeks to legitimise the tradwife movement by emphasising its widespread popularity, noting that related TikTok trends have amassed “almost 10 billion views.” By foregrounding this statistic early in the piece, she frames the phenomenon as culturally significant rather than marginal, challenging any inclination among readers to dismiss it as trivial. This appeal to scale not only establishes relevance but also encourages readers to view the movement as reflective of broader societal sentiments. Furthermore, Hall’s description of these women as “celebrating stereotypically feminine activities” employs neutral, even slightly positive diction, which subtly destabilises the negative connotations often associated with such roles. Rather than outright endorsing these behaviours, Hall carefully balances her tone, allowing her to maintain credibility with a feminist audience while encouraging them to reconsider whether such choices are inherently oppressive. This reframing is reinforced when she characterises criticism of tradwives as a “knee-jerk reaction,” a dismissive phrase that undermines opposing viewpoints and positions critics as reactionary rather than thoughtful. In doing so, Hall guides readers toward a more reflective stance, suggesting that the issue requires deeper consideration than surface-level condemnation.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The challenge ahead Stimulus 1 ‘We…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: The challenge ahead[ma1] The noises of ‘fitting in’ drowned me. The BBQ felt like a chorus of forced…
The challenge ahead[ma1]
The noises of ‘fitting in’ drowned me. The BBQ felt like a chorus of forced laughter. Burgers were being flipped, and with every sizzle I fell deeper into a pit of despair.
“Yo manky, how long has it been since you washed that pump cover?” Jarred chuckled pretentiously.
I laughed awkwardly at the mention of my newest nickname, instinctively pulling at the oversized sleeves of my hoodie, further retreating into its comfort. I’d always thought a pump cover was something you’d use to hide a nice physique, but jarred, in his usual fashion, had turned it into a mockery.
“Haha nice one dingus,” I said, my voice steady even as my skin crawled. It was the ultimate sacrifice—Jarred and the ‘friend group’s’ acceptance for my identity.
The want for acceptance had consumed me. I was in a constant state of reflection, continuously thinking about what my future held came to the forefront of my mind. The toxic environment of the group clouded my instincts. Over the years I had grown accustomed to such ‘banter’. Ater years of being singled out in the group I thought the challenge was over. “Maybe this time it’ll be better” I would often tell myself.
I was always proven wrong. Relentlessly, they would make fun of my body, my name, my hobbies and all I would do is simply retreat further into my shell of comfort — my pump cover hiding away from the challenges I needed to grow
I could feel a tear beginning to form in the corner of my eye, threatening to open the floodgates. That was until a hand landed on my shoulder. It wasn’t Jarred’s sweaty, unbecoming, entitled palm. It was warm, loving and understanding.
“You ready to head off, Mankaran?”
Leo’s hoodie pulled low as he ushered me towards the car. He could see me through the wall I put up for others. I didn’t answer, just nodded. Following him away from the condescending noises of ‘fitting in,’ I jumped into the car.
“They were laying it on pretty thick weren’t they today”
I sat their silently.
“Look, I know what’s going on.”
“I can tell your struggling—I just want you to know that in life these challenges are needed more than you think.”
“Think of them as bumps in the road as you drive to your destination.”
“You know them making fun of you isn’t about you right? — they think that if they highlight someone else’s insecurities, challenges, identity they’re able to shield their own deepest insecurities.”
“Little do they know that by doing so they just hide away from the things that’s gonna let them grow into the self-respecting, independent, successful individuals that they know they can be?”
“By hiding away and accepting what they think you’re all meant to be is the biggest betrayal you could make against yourself.”
“You think you’re the only punching bag in that group?”
“They used to do this to me as well—make fun of my body, my car, my parents, how poor I was, how rich I was.”
It took me a bit of time, but I realised that they’re doing this to not face the challenges that’ll actually make them grow”.
“Are you going to make the same mistake as them?”
“I... I’m not sure Leo.”
“I want to change but I’m scared”
“What if I leave this group and no one accepts me—at least here I’m invited to the hangouts…”
Leo let out a deep sigh.
“Look make a decision and be a man about it, either you change now and be the man you know you can be, or stay in this pile of shit where you know you’ll never grow”
“I’m going to be at the gym tomorrow at 5 AM. If your there just know it’s not going to be easy.”
“A diamond isn’t forged by being weak and impulsive, it’s made through hard work, courage, strength, and most importantly trust.”
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Fitting In
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: It's 1915. World War 1 had been raging for a year. Hundreds and thousands of proud men had enlisted for the…
It's 1915. World War 1 had been raging for a year. Hundreds and thousands of proud men had enlisted for the armed forces to fight for their nation. While these men were fighting in the depths of wet, muddy trenches a man back in the British homefront sat with his friend in a nearby pub.
“I'll be landing in France tomorrow,” his friend said. He had a small grin etched on his face.
“Good luck, mate,” the man said. Gosh, imagine how respected you would be if you were to fight for your country.
"It'll be quick. Spend a couple of months overseas, win the war and return as a stronger man,” his friend added.
The man found it hard to swallow his beer. Something about that statement didn't feel right. He knew his friend long enough to know he wasn't lying. It's just the statement that was fed to him. He didn't know why, but he felt embarrassed to say that the war wouldn’t end anytime soon. The government assured that the war would end in a couple months, but it's been a year now. Why was that promise not fulfilled?
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Origins Stimulus 1: ‘My body…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: 14 AUGUST 2023- Naee Shruaat (New Beginnings) I am writing this from 35,000 feet in the air, somewhere above…
14 AUGUST 2023- Naee Shruaat (New Beginnings)
I am writing this from 35,000 feet in the air, somewhere above the sea that separates everything I have ever known from everything I am about to become. The cabin lights are dimmed, Papa is asleep with his mouth open again, and Maa is reading the same page of her ‘Best Sites to visit in Australia’ magazine for the fourth time. Up until this point everything that I knew about Australia had come from episodes of Border Security, a weekly family ritual made complete with popcorn. Papa envisioned this boundless country as a welcome escape from the cramped city of Delhi.
For me, my entire reality had been transformed.
Before we left, pressed something into my hands in the dark of the early morning before the taxi arrived. A small, dented steel dabba, one of the old-fashioned ones she had since my father was born, with engraved patterns of the lotus, her favorite flower encased around the lid of the tin. The tin smelt of her kitchen. Of jeera tarka, burnt ghee and the one-of a kind sweetness of the beige paint on her walls.
I have my hand luggage, but didn’t dare to open it on the flight, as my dad thought it was a good idea to put me in the seat next to guy with a heavily nasalised accent.
I couldn’t get her picture out of my head. She had said nothing. She had just my wrist for a long time and looked at me the way old women in our lane look at the temple when they don’t have words for the prayer.
Delhi felt wrong to leave in August. The monsoon was at its most insistent form- gutters overflowing, the air thick and warm as breath. The final morning in, our lane Lajpat Nagar was already awake, the chai wallah’s cart, the neighbor’s pressure cooker, the sound of the cricket commentary leaking from radios from somewhere above us. I played cricket in the lane every evening since I was seven years old. It was my solace from the constant academic pressure built from the teachers with wooden sticks. Hitting a straight drive down the lane like Sachin would be my favorite part of the day.
I don’t know if they play cricket the same in Melbourne, but I suppose they don’t play it in lanes.
“Ting Tung”
The announcement said we would land in fourteen hours, fourteen hours until the world started again in a different language.
Signing off,
Arjun Mehta
Parishaniyaan 3rd October 2023 (Complications):
I have been trying to decide for three days whether to write this or not. Writing down would have made it permanent. But I think permanent is what it needs to be, so I remember exactly how I felt when I look back someday.
We were playing cricket at the school oval, during lunch. I had joined in the middle of a informal game, where the boys were using a hard leather ball, made of proper cork and the pitch is a length of mat rolled out on brown grass. It wasn’t the lane in Lajpat Nagar, but it was cricket, a game which had always sucked me in regardless of where it was being played, and it was the only thing that reminded me of home in a sense.
I was batting.
I played a cover drive that surprised them. I could tell in the way they went quietly for half a second. Then a pale white boy screamed at the top of his lungs,
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Framework: Transformation Your text…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: There goes a saying that “Cotton holds memory,”; the hundreds of threads woven over one another, meant to…
There goes a saying that “Cotton holds memory,”; the hundreds of threads woven over one another, meant to record the blemishes, absorbing burdens of dutiful hands that cook, clean and conform.
I, however, was stitched to forget.
Most of my days are spent swallowing thin red streaks of crushed chillies and plump turmeric rice spilt that stain the stone countertops. An argument would have ensued, if the “man of the house” ever bothered to set foot in the kitchen. But absence, I have learned, is its own kind of authority.
But I remember her.
Before that Mangalsutra (wedding thread) was tied tightly around her neck, before it settled heavier than the weight of motherhood she was made to carry. When the scent of colour drifted freely through the house, replaced now by the stench of tobacco and overboiled tea.
Her hands were smaller; grubbier too, sticky from melted ten-rupee Amul ice-creams, grit clinging to her palms from the hot dust she flung into the air playing gully cricket. A forbidden sport, though I never understood why. I assumed it was the grime she carried home, clothes stained and face beaming. But it wasn’t. It was the way she ran. The way she shouted. The way she forgot to be what was expected of her.
“Stop playing with the boys, come, I’ll teach you how to make chai for your future husband,” her mother called out, as though she’d inherited and accepted that sentence as a truth. For the wide-eyed girl who soon came running, the kitchen was not yet a place of duty, rather a place of trespass.
She halted mid-step, eyes snagging on an anomaly resting on the wooden coffee table. Paper. Thick, unlike the kind she was forced to trace her alphabet on. Beside it sat a small plastic box with the lid cracked open, the insides startling against the sepia fatigue of the room. Ignoring her brother’s name scribbled on the side, she snatched the precious commodities, slipping into the quiet, away from the buzz of Mumbai’s streets spilling through the wide-open doorway. With curiosity, she dipped her brush into a cup of water, then into blue, pausing before pressing onto the paper with unusually cautious fingers. The stream of colour danced in its own rhythm, with a freedom taught to be taboo.
“It’s moving!” she whispered to herself, beginning to plunge into the paints faster, each stroke less careful than the previous. She finally gained courage to attempt the red, but red was different. Her mother wore red sparingly, as if too much of it might be noticed, a fate no marriage was meant to desire. A rebellion bled across the paper unapologetically, bursting into blues to create bruised purples and infiltrating the yellows to form muddied oranges. Red was her favourite.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys - Growth
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: From the moment my brother was born, I guided his world like a constant sun. Although at times he could be…
From the moment my brother was born, I guided his world like a constant sun. Although at times he could be stubborn and mischievous, he could also be thoughtful and daring. I wasn’t some perfect person—not particularly inspiring or a charismatic personality—but I just wanted to provide the guiding light he needed to learn from the mistakes I had made, so he could evolve into someone better than I was.
April 5th, 2012: the day we were blessed with his birth. My parents had always nurtured the hope that we’d mature side by side, supporting each other through thick and thin. Throughout our early childhood, we were quite affectionate; from sleeping to eating, everything was done together. With his silky golden-brown hair and those pinchable cheeks, I still vividly remember the warm milk bottle resting against my leg as he sat on my lap. Our lives were symmetrical; we played the same sports, wore the same clothes, and hummed the same melodies. He was chasing the shadow of my childhood, walking the same trails I had illuminated for him.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: personal journeys title finding my place
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 92.5%: Kindergarten: The Sowing In the hazy nostalgia of kindergarten, I remember a time before the labels. I…
Kindergarten: The Sowing
In the hazy nostalgia of kindergarten, I remember a time before the labels. I remember the classroom as a seamless collective of sticky fingers and shared crayons; we were a group of four-year-olds who saw the world as a collaborative playground. In those days, there were no ranks and no "better thans." We were just a circle of friends holding hands during carpet time, our identities blurred into one happy, unmeasured mass. To us, every child in that room was an equal companion, and finding my place was as simple as finding a gap in the circle or a warm hand to hold. My "place" wasn’t a rank on a list; it was a space I naturally occupied within the whole.
I remember the day the stickers were introduced. My teacher smiled warmly as she moved through the room, pressing tiny, shimmering icons onto our shirts. Some were gold, some were silver, and some shirts remained bare. At the time, I didn't feel an intoxicating rush, and I didn't feel superior.We didn't understand the hierarchy yet; we were just happy little kids, still laughing at the same jokes and sharing the same blue crayons. To us, the stickers were just pretty decorations, not labels. I remained oblivious to the way we were indoctrinated. I didn't recognize it then, but my teacher was quietly planting the seeds of competition, initiating a social order that would eventually consume our identities. It was our first lesson in learning that our worth was no longer something we possessedwithin ourselves, but something we calculated by measuring the distance between our success and our peers.
Primary School: Taking Root
By primary school, the system was no longer hidden; it was deliberate and structured.
In those early years, my curiosity remained an open door. I was a child who lived in the "why," seeing the world as a vast, shimmering horizon of possibility. A new fact felt like a secret I had just uncovered. To me, finding my place meant standing at the edge of that horizon and realizing that the world was an open landscape with so much to learn that my own growth felt infinite. I felt whole simply because I was curious, a small girl with a library card and an infinite appetite for knowledge. My roots were touching the earth, and I was growing toward my own light.
But as the years went on, that horizon began to shrink. I was becoming a loose thread in someone else’s design, pulled away from my own wonder and woven into a pattern of measurement I never asked for.
I still remember the day we were sorted into reading groups. Each one of us assigned colour that everyone understood but no one said aloud.
“Yellow group,” the teacher said.
I felt a subtle drop in my chest, a sudden hollowing realization that my friends were in Green: the "smart" group. I didn't fully grasp why these random colours mattered to everyone else, and yet I felt my intrinsic curiosity, the pure, innocent hunger to just know, began to wither. I felt an invisible wall grow, brick by invisible brick. Suddenly, I was no longer an equal, but a label that dictated how I was seen by my teachers and eventually, myself. My joy was traded for a feverish need for validation; I stopped learning to satisfy my mind and started learning to satisfy the scale.
That quiet jealousy wasn't just about wanting to be in another group. It was the beginning of comparison becoming something I internalised. Something I grew to obsess over.
And it wasn't just confined to school.
“You should be more like your cousin; she always listens to her mother.”
“Your friend is so much more studious than you.”
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Time well spent Stimulus: Play…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: Eyes on the conductor, lips pressed on the mouthpiece. He raises his arms, ready to unleash an avalanche of…
Eyes on the conductor, lips pressed on the mouthpiece. He raises his arms, ready to unleash an avalanche of noise. Up. The moment, although it must only be a couple of seconds, seems to stretch indefinitely. Down. With that, the ensemble begins, time now warps to 128 bpm, the speed of the piece. I count the bars, focused on that grotesque, terrifying, nightmarish number… 28. My solo. My terror has no impact on the music as we continue barreling toward that dreaded numeral. It’s inescapable, and unforgiving.
I rise, breathe in, and begin my solo. Staccato. I fly up and down the scales at speed. Each note shorter. Rising higher. More air. Quick Fingers. Louder. Then at the peak, the tension is released with a decrescendo, and the piece then slows to a smoother, more connected and flowing legato. Each long note expands throughout the ornate theatre, filling the space and bathing the audience in the trumpet’s rich and resonant sound. Although slow, this portion is meticulous, one wrong valve and it's all thrown out of tune. I trudge through each drawn out phrase, each rest a respite for me to regain my breath only to lose it within the ne- WATCH OUT!!!
I stroll into the small rehearsal room, years of practice has taught me to prepare early, especially when a solo is involved. I grab my pencil from my ear and I read the music, ready to annotate. The piece formulates in my head as I read as I get my bearings. My solo begins quickly, continues slowly and… yikes. I circle and mark bar 42, it was an octave leap, and I know after countless performances it is the exact thing that would slip me up. The echoes of every embarrassing memory I’ve had whilst performing are imparted on that simple marking.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: personal journeys title finding my place
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 95%: Kindergarten- The Sowing In the hazy nostalgia of kindergarten, I remember a time before the labels. I remember…
Kindergarten- The Sowing
In the hazy nostalgia of kindergarten, I remember a time before the labels. I remember the classroom as a seamless collective of sticky fingers and shared crayons; we were a group of four-year-olds who saw the world as a collaborative playground. There were no ranks and no "better thans." We were just a circle of friends, holding hands during carpet time, our identities blurred into one happy, unmeasured mass. To us, every child in that room was an equal companion. In those days, finding my place was as simple as finding a gap in the circle or a warm hand to hold.
I remember the day the stickers were introduced. My teacher smiled warmly as she pressed tiny shimmering icons onto our shirts, gold for some, silver for others, while some remained bare. At the time, I didn't feel an intoxicating rush, and I didn't feel superior. I didn't recognize it then, but my teacher was quietly initiating a social order that would eventually consume our identities. She was planting the seeds of a competition that we wouldn't learn to escape for decades. It was our first lesson in learning that our worth was no longer something we possessed within ourselves, but something we calculated by measuring the distance between our success and our peers.
In that brightly coloured room, filled with blu-sticks and crayon drawings, we were still the same, still equal. We were still just children, sharing crayons and laughing at the same jokes, oblivious to the fact that these sticker weren't decorations, but ranks.
Primary school- Taking Root
By primary school, the system was no longer hidden; it was deliberate, structured.
In those early years, my curiosity was an open door. I was a child who lived in the "why," seeing the world as a vast, shimmering horizon of possibility. I loved the way a new fact felt like a secret I had just uncovered, and I would spend hours lost in the library, chasing my own wonder through the pages of books. To me, finding my place didn’t mean finding my rank; it meant standing at the edge of the horizon and realizing that the world is an open landscape with so much to learn. I felt whole simply because I was curious. I didn't feel the need to be better than anyone else; I was content to stand fully in who I was, a small girl with a library card and an infinite appetite for knowledge. My roots were touching the earth, and I was growing toward my own light.
But as the years went on, that horizon began to shrink. I didn't realize it then, but I was becoming a loose thread in someone else’s design, being pulled away from my own wonder and woven into a pattern of measurement I never asked for.
I still remember the day we were sorted into our reading groups. My heart pounded as my teacher called out our names. One by one, each of us was assigned a colour that everyone understood, but no one said aloud.
“Yellow group,” she said.
At the time, I didn't fully grasp why these random colours mattered to everyone else, and yet I felt my intrinsic curiosity, the pure, innocent hunger to just know, began to wither. I felt an invisible wall grow, brick by invisible brick. I felt a subtle drop in my chest, realizing my friends were in green: the 'smart' group. Suddenly, I was no longer their equal, but someone below them, defined by a label I didn't choose that dictated the help I received and how I was seen by my teachers, my friends, and eventually, myself. For the first time, I felt that being curious was no longer enough, I had to be perfect to be seen. My joy was traded for a feverish need for validation, and I stopped learning to satisfy my mind and started learning to satisfy the scale.
That quiet jealousy wasn't just about wanting to be in another group. It was the beginning of comparison becoming something I internalised. Something I grew to obsess over.
And it wasn't just confined to school.
“You should be more like your cousin; she always listens to her mother.”
“Your friend is so much more studious than you.”
At first, these comments were confusing, but over time, the message became a permanent fixture in my mind: who I was alone wasn’t the standard. I was no longer a curious child exploring a world of wonder; I was a data point being measured against a pattern of perfection that I could never quite reach. I was always being placed somewhere on an invisible scale, and I realized that in this "design," my only way to be "enough" was to be "more" than the person next to me. I was no longer the girl standing on a hilltop; I was a shadow searching for light, not the light of discovery, but the flickering light of comparative superiority. I was no longer finding my place through discovery; I was fighting for my place on a leaderboard.
High School- The Overgrowth
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Country speaks If we listened to the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Memoir #2 Country Speaks by Aisha Harris If we listened to the land, what would it say? 2 years ago I woke up…
Memoir #2 Country Speaks
by Aisha Harris
If we listened to the land, what would it say?
2 years ago I woke up to the worst news of my life. News I never imagined of hearing. The words that changed the way our small town functions.
"It was Lauchlon," my Dad blubbers. Simple words, some that without any context may leave a person puzzled.
The night before, while watching the news at the dinner table, a headline popped up that caught the family’s interest. "Desperate search for teenage boy swept off rocks at Bridgewater blowholes," Bridgewater was 10 minutes away from our house. I had just finished a 3 hour shift straight after school and, while the headline caught my attention I focused more heavily on the potatoes on my plate.
My dad, an ex-fisherman, spoke about the poor boy who had been caught by the high tide in the rockiest part of the coast. It was a week before Christmas and for some reason some of the coldest, wildest weather we had had in months.
"Poor boy," we all agreed. I finished my food and unknowingly enjoyed my last night of comfort. That quickly ended the next morning when I heard the blubbering words of my father.
That "poor boy" was just 15 years old. He had turned 15 four days before he became an irretrievable part of our country.
Needless to say Lauchlon was never found. The boy who I grew up calling my brother was now nothing more than fragments encaptured by our local waters.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Overcoming Challenge
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: The year: 2008. The global economy eviscerated. In China, the fissures of financial collapse created chasms in…
The year: 2008.
The global economy eviscerated. In China, the fissures of financial collapse created chasms in cities already strained by inequality and overpopulation. Survival turned to arithmetic: what could be afforded – and what could not.
I could not be afforded.
Adopted young – placed into careful Australian hands by a system that valued stability over continuity, that measured a child’s future in resources rather than roots. My parents: older, white, well-meaning, benign. Their love was not in question. It arrived consistently, in packed lunches and school pickups and the quiet hum of a house that always had enough. But love, however generous, cannot restore what was severed before memory begins. They gave what they knew how to give. What they could not give was the thread that connected me to the inheritance my face continued to advertise
That absence had no name, for a long time. It simply sat beside me, loyal and uninvited.
*
It was the start of the Lunar New Year.
Usually, in Asian culture, children gratefully receive red pockets. Red pockets are like the white equivalent of receiving money in a birthday card – thin envelopes that carry the faint scent of paper and promise. Except, instead of wilfully ignoring the money that slips from a birthday card (to avoid appearing greedy), red pockets are offered with ceremony. Elegantly folded. Deliberately placed into waiting hands. You are expected to acknowledge what is gifted.
They are saturated with meaning – wealth, prosperity, fortune – the opulence of choice. Five dollars became footy cards, a party bag of chips or even an entire Happy Meal. Five dollars back then was endless possibility.
Except, mine never came.
I rode my bolstered blue bike to school that morning, tyres humming against the pavement, unaware that the day would calcify into something I would spend years trying to interpret. On the astroturf, all the Asian kids had clustered into tight constellations. In their hands, I saw red. I didn't know what it was. What it meant. What ritual I was witnessing. But they were smiling — so wide. So white. So, blinding.
Slowly, one by one, they opened those crimson envelopes, extracting slips of colour: green, yellow, red. It took some time to realise what it was.
Money.
Stacks of it.
Hundreds of dollars – in cold cash.
My jaw dropped.
I stood there, suspended, the noise of the schoolyard dissolving into a distant hum, wondering how something so small could carry so much vibrance.
Someone turned and asked, almost casually: "Where is your red pocket?"
My hands mirrored my silence.
That is when it embraced me: Slowly and coldly.
Disassociation.
I had been adopted out of one world and into another, and in the translation, something had been lost without ceremony. Assimilated into Western tradition before I had any say in the matter, I had been diluted. ‘Whitewashed’, as they would come to call it. My lunches were plain sandwiches, bread so white it dissolved into the paper towel beneath it. The final irony: My surname – ‘Jackson’ - about as pale as it gets in Australia (discounting the Jackson Five). The confusion of teachers the first time they called my name, bewildered when an Asian face (instead of a freckled boy) answered "here" in an unmistakably Aussie accent - that confusion, forever inscribed into my memory.
That inscription only deepened as I struggled at school. Friends coined me "fasian" - failed Asian - laughing as if humour softened the blow. I laughed with them, masking my sorrow behind a persona of affected insouciance. Correcting them felt laborious. Explaining myself felt like pleading for legitimacy.
And no one wants to plead.
VCE · Language Analysis
Language Analysis: read a article and do an analysis of…
VCE Language Analysis essay scoring 82.5%: Every generation of students has been accused of taking shortcuts. From handwritten notes passed under desks…
Every generation of students has been accused of taking shortcuts. From handwritten notes passed under desks to copying homework before class, the fear that young people are avoiding real thinking is nothing new. Today, that fear has a new name: artificial intelligence.
It is easy to look at a student using AI to generate an essay and assume the worst—that they are disengaged, lazy, or unwilling to think for themselves. But this assumption may say more about our expectations than about students’ actual abilities. Many students are not replacing their thinking; they are reshaping how they approach it.
In classrooms across the country, students are using AI tools to brainstorm ideas, clarify difficult concepts, and experiment with different ways of expressing their thoughts. Rather than staring at a blank page, they are engaging in a process that is more interactive and immediate. For some, this lowers the barrier to participation and builds confidence.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Play to win
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 95%: The clock’s ticking blares like a siren in my head. I sit hovering over the board, fingers wavering above the…
The clock’s ticking blares like a siren in my head. I sit hovering over the board, fingers wavering above the knight, my hand trembling as if one wrong move may break something far more fragile than just the game. Across from me, my opponent sits still, giving nothing away, as though the clock bends in his favour. I remind myself I’m here to win, that’s the rule, that’s the whole point. Isn’t it?
From the moment I was shown how to move a piece, from the moment my old man would hover over our game board telling me to “think ahead, Eli. Always think ahead,” everything has been about winning. Win pieces. Win the position. Win the game. Win the respect. Win. Win. Win.
Now I’m here in the final game for the title that everyone has told me will define my future. My fingers inch closer to the knight. I pull them back. I’m winning, and I know I am. I’ve played this position hundreds of times, drilled into me by my coach with a single mantra: ‘Control the centre, calculate deeper than your opponent, build pressure’. I can already see it; the knight takes the pawn, the bishop forced back, the queen slides across, check, check, then checkmate. Clean. Precise. Inevitable. So why am I freezing up now?
I glance at my opponent, his grin reminiscent of my father’s smile when we used to play. I was young, sitting at the kitchen table across from Dad. The board was raggedy, a missing pawn replaced by a coin, and the rook was chipped. He smiled, glaring at me. “You’re thinking too hard”. But I want to win; I need to win. “Is that why you play? To win?” Back then, the question didn’t make sense. Of course, that’s why I played; everyone wants to win. But is that the goal?
The clock continues hammering its rhythm into my head. My opponent shifts slightly, still saying nothing. I force myself to calculate again, dive deeper, apply more pressure. The variations branch out in my mind, each one leading somewhere sharper, more decisive. Somewhere final.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: This is a section B personal journey's…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: There is a prevailing misconception that a belief or intention in one’s own self defines their identity;…
There is a prevailing misconception that a belief or intention in one’s own self defines their identity; however, in reality, it is only a steppingstone to the consistent habits which form a stable sense of self. In a world most commonly associated with self-actualization, it is easy to claim values and aspirations without inserting them into daily life; however, identity is not shaped by what we want to do but what we repeatedly do on a daily basis in our lives. Each action, no matter how small, even if atomic, leads to a gradual accumulation of behaviors that solidify into character, reinforcing how an identity is proactively crafted through a progression of habits, rather than being passively discovered. One example is through the American author and activist
VCE · Language Analysis
Language Analysis: The weight of love “No! I’ve got a…
VCE Language Analysis essay scoring 75%: In my creative piece “The Weight of Love,” I interrogate the confronting ethical dilemma between personal…
In my creative piece “The Weight of Love,” I interrogate the confronting ethical dilemma between personal safety and humanitarian ethics. This is explored through the lens of a father’s last message to an adolescent son, tailored around a “moral paradox”. My piece is written in order to resonate with individuals who’ve faced an ultimatum with no safe venture out. By leveraging juxtaposition, imagery and suspense, the father’s death serves as the beginning of a new quest rather than the end of an old one.
The avarice of modern-day pharmaceuticals is a key pillar in my narrative. Through portrayals of “maintenance-based revenue models” and “lucrative model”, the deceitfulness of such conglomerates is epitomised; in doing so, I denounce the ethics of such establishments. This corporate coldness is juxtaposed with the family life Clark lives in my story. Carefully rendering the domesticity of Clark, my text elucidates the true nature of implications associated with current-day corporate bodies, warning the readers of the insidious ramifications these entities have on one’s life.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Writing about play
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: We are all born onto different playing fields. Different pieces, different advantages. Some enter a field…
We are all born onto different playing fields. Different pieces, different advantages. Some enter a field painted emerald green, referees already on a payroll, every power-up handed over before they are even aware they are playing. A world of colour and open moves, where the obstacles have already been cleared by someone else's hands. Others are relegated to a field where the grass is already dying, scored deep with the losses of those who came before, inheriting a board already tilted against them. No power-ups. Pieces cracked before the first move is made. But strip away the circumstances and everyone is still playing the same game, tethered by the same rules. A game that takes more than it gives. A game nobody wins.
We just don't know that yet.
So we play the side-quests instead. The career ladders, the property portfolios, the curated families, the reputation carefully constructed over decades. We convince ourselves that if we collect enough trophies we can override the system, that the scoreboard is the point, that winning the smaller games adds up to something real. We treat accumulation like armour. We mistake motion for progress. We are not wrong that the game has rules. We are wrong about which game we are playing.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: frame work: personal journey
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: The mirror always made me hesitate. Every morning in our Melbourne house, I stood before it with a handful of…
The mirror always made me hesitate.
Every morning in our Melbourne house, I stood before it with a handful of silver pins between my lips, folding black fabric over my hair while the heater coughed tired breaths into the room. Outside, the street was still wet from overnight rain. The neighbour’s magpies called from the powerlines. Somewhere down the hall, Mum was already in the kitchen, the scent of cardamom tea creeping beneath my bedroom door.
I knew this room better than any place in the world—the chipped white desk, the VCE notes taped to the wall, the faint crack in the ceiling shaped like a river. Yet some mornings I still felt like a guest in my own life.
I tucked one side of my hijab beneath my chin and pinned it into place. Too loose, and it slipped. Too tight, and it felt like armour.
At school, people asked questions they thought were harmless.
Do you wear that at home too?
Do your parents make you?
Aren’t you hot in summer?
Sometimes they asked kindly. Sometimes they asked with the same curiosity people use at zoos. I learnt to answer with a smile polished smooth from repetition. I became a walking explanation, a footnote attached to myself.
Too Afghan outside my front door.
Too different in a place that called itself multicultural while still staring a second too long.
I leaned closer to the mirror, checking the symmetry of my pins, as if a perfectly wrapped scarf could somehow protect me from the cold Melbourne stares. I was looking for a version of myself that finally made sense.
I thought I would find her six thousand miles away.
Pakistan waited in my imagination like a missing puzzle piece. Though my family was Afghan, years of displacement had threaded Pakistan through our history. It was where my parents had spent years before Australia, where cousins still lived, where Dari, Urdu and laughter tangled across phone calls. In my mind, it has become more than a country. It was an answer.
That afternoon, I slid my passport into my backpack and touched its stiff navy cover.
Australia, embossed in gold.
A promise, I thought.
Somewhere on the other side of the ocean, there was a version of me that fit.
Now, thirty thousand feet above the clouds, that same passport sat heavy in my lap.
The cabin lights were dimmed. Most passengers slept with mouths open, necks bent at impossible angles. A baby cried somewhere near the back before surrendering to exhaustion. Through the scratched airplane window, the sky was black and endless, the stars looking close enough to reach.
I traced the gold crest with my thumb—the kangaroo and emu—and wondered how strange it was that this little book was the only thing proving I belonged to the soil I had just left.
In the window reflection, I could see two versions of myself layered together: my face in the dark glass, and beyond it, nothing but sky.
Australian passport.
Afghan daughter.
Hijab pinned neatly under my chin.
I was suspended in the and of my identity.
Not there. Not here.
The engines hummed with a steadiness I envied. They knew exactly where they were going.
I imagined arrival like a movie scene: stepping into heat and noise and familiarity, into a place where no one would ask where I was really from. A place where my scarf would disappear into the crowd instead of announcing itself. A place where I would stop translating myself.
Mum stirred beside me and adjusted the blanket over her knees.
“Try to sleep,” she whispered.
I nodded, though sleep was impossible. Hope rarely rests.
The bazaar was louder than any memory could prepare me for.
Vendors called over one another in a dozen accents. Motorbikes threaded through impossible gaps. Fabric stalls spilled sequins and silk into the laneways. The air smelled of frying oil, dust, coriander, diesel and sun-warmed concrete. Somewhere, a radio played an old love song warped by static.
VCE · Text Response
Text Response: ‘…our ship pitches wildly, cannot lift her…
VCE Text Response essay scoring 85%: In the wake of the devastating Peloponnesian War and the radical scepticism of Protagoras's, dictum "man is the…
In the wake of the devastating Peloponnesian War and the radical scepticism of Protagoras's, dictum "man is the measure of all things," Sophocles’ Oedipus the King presents a society gripped by fear and suffering, revealing the volatile nature of life. Sophocles suggests that human life is inherently precarious, arguing that neither political stability nor logic can withstand the weight of divine will. Sophocles exposes the volatility of political status, even those with substantial authority remain vulnerable to sudden and total collapse. Further, the playwright critiques the character's excessive hubris in their decision making, suggesting that a reliance on personal logic can result in spiritual blindness. Finally, Sophocles depicts the tragic ending as a reminder that humans cannot escape their own fate and destiny.
Sophocles demonstrates that even the most celebrated positions of authority offer no protection against the uncertain nature of life. In the prologue, the Priest establishes the 'ship' metaphor, warning that Thebes "pitches wildly" and "cannot lift her head" from the "red waves of death." Through this vivid personification of the dying city, Sophocles suggests that the plague is not a political problem to be solved, but a divine upheaval. Whilst the protagonist stands at the peak of his political influence, the imagery of the sinking ship riding the "red waves of death" immediately undermines his authority. To a 5th century Athenian audience with a heavy reliance on their powerful navy, the imagery would have been particularly visceral and therefore Sophocles suggests that even the most skilled "pilot" is subordinate against divine power. Moreover, Oedipus’ defeat of the Sphinx is framed through the motif of "standing," as he is praised for having “set [Thebes] on [its] feet," establishing himself as a figure of immense authority. However, Sophocles employs dramatic irony here; Oedipus 'standing' is physically and metaphorically temporary, foreshadowing his eventual tragic downfall. Sophocles thus reveals humans' abilities are inferior to divine intervention, implying that the very brilliance that once 'saved' Thebes acts as a catalyst from which Oedipus must inevitably fall. Furthermore, The Chorus’s final reflection in the Exodos encapsulates the play’s warning on human fragility, noting that the man who once "solved the famous riddle with his brilliance" has now been "overwhelmed" by a "black sea of terror." This dramatic shift from reverence to pity serves to contrast his former glory with his current misery, highlighting how quickly authority can collapse. Sophocles hereby reveals that no human status is ever guaranteed and illustrates how erratic and destructive the nature of life can be. Overall, Sophocles utilizes the catastrophic fall of a seemingly invincible leader to warn his Athenian audience that the 'ship' of human life is forever at the mercy to divine intervention and to recognise and respect the Delphic Maxim 'Know thyself.'
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Writing about protest
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: How to be a force of change Published by Forbes April 29, 2026 Charlotte Dane, an instagram influencer and…
How to be a force of change
Published by Forbes
April 29, 2026
Charlotte Dane, an instagram influencer and activist provides an insight into her encounter with a stranger in need and how she used her power to not only help the stranger, but to also change the conditions for millions more.
“I was an activist, yes. But more than that I was an influencer, the activist part was more a front, a way to get followers. People could believe in me, believe that I could help the world and stand up for what was right, and so they would follow me. I was sent packages and given brand deals simply for agreeing. I went along with it for the longest time, but it was only when someone truly needed my help did I finally believe it too, believe I could make a change.
I started out my influencer career in early 2020. Initially I posted whatever was trending at the time, and my followers loved it. I really needed the money and at that point I truly was willing to do anything to get it…and social media, well that was the easiest way. I needed to save up to afford my own place. My platform grew fast, as the years passed my following count doubled, as more and more brands reached out. They all said the same thing.
”I had a certain look, like I could make change.”
Maybe it was because I looked like Greta Thunberg, or maybe they were just trying to make me rebrand myself to fit their brand identities better. Either way, it worked. I rebranded as a social media activist, I started online protests for various issues, only supported ethical businesses and started boycotting other brands…sort of.
I think it was around late 2023 when I received a package from a brand that had reached out. I had heard they weren’t the most ethical or environmentally friendly, but they had offered to send me free clothes. So obviously I made an exception. Typically I’d film an ‘unboxing video’ or ‘try on video’ to show the clothes to my followers. This time the brand requested a live video as they gained more traction from followers.
Soon the package arrived. I set up my camera and began filming. I ripped open the bag and begun showing the clothes. I pulled out a shirt from the bag and showed it to the camera as normal. I went to throw it beside me, then there it was. A sharp corner within the fabric. Searching through the it, I couldn’t find anything abnormal. Then there it was, one small white corner amidst the deep blue fabric. I tried to pull it out from beneath the seam. Failed. I was determined to get it out, grabbing my scissors, I started to cut each thread. All the while still broadcasting to my fans. I reached into the lining, only to pull out a large piece of paper, rolled up. A modern day message in a bottle.
The letter read:
“Dear Customer,
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: 'Time well spent' Stimulus 1…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 97.5%: Time well spent I want to play with you. I want to play with you in every stupid, brilliant way possible. I…
Time well spent
I want to play with you.
I want to play with you in every stupid, brilliant way possible. I want to drag you to every arcade that still has flickering neon signs and sticky floors, pouring coins into machines until our pockets are empty and our laughter turns hoarse. Just bring the next game, the next ridiculous challenge — no, don’t tell us the rules; let us figure it out as we go, inventing them badly and breaking them better.
Let’s climb the big old oak tree in the park at dusk even though we’re both too old for it, bark scraping our palms, leaves tangled in our hair, daring each other to go one branch higher. We invent ridiculous rules for tag that change every thirty seconds. Hide and seek in the city at midnight — you disappear into the bright chaos of the laneways and I’ll still find you because I can hear your laugh from three blocks away.
Play the game as well as you can and that's what you're judged
I want to build blanket forts with you in the living room when it’s raining outside. Proper ones — fairy lights strung across, too many pillows, a playlist that makes no sense. We’ll declare it our kingdom and make up laws that only last until someone needs the bathroom. Then we’ll tear it all down at 2 a.m. and start again because the first version wasn’t quite right.
Let’s get lost in a second-hand bookstore and play the game where we only speak in titles we pull off the shelves. Let’s play tourists in our own city — terrible photos, exaggerated accents, asking strangers for directions we don’t need. Let’s play poker with matchsticks and imaginary millions. Let’s crank the music so loud the neighbours bang on the wall and we just turn it up and dance like idiots until we can’t breathe.
Hey — do you still play like a kid when no one’s watching? Guess we’ll find out.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Dare to be different
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: “When you stop expecting people to be perfect, you can like them for who they are.” - Donald Miller I have…
“When you stop expecting people to be perfect, you can like them for who they are.” - Donald Miller
I have that tattooed on my wrist. I look blankly at it, rubbing it, with my thumb feeling the veins and folds of the skin. I got it a week after the diagnosis. Mummy and I had gone to a tattoo parlour on the side of town. Getting it together in the dead of night, impromptu. Late. Quiet. The memories come flooding back, as snippets of joy play out like hand drawn cell animation with a background score of constant giggling; her holding my hand as I panted and gasped embarrassingly like an overfatigued orangutan, me holding her hand as she sat upright and poised, visible happiness radiating on her skin. Mummy had stared at our wrists once it was completed -
“They’re perfect,” she affirmed with her words soaked in ecstasy.
The quote is from “A million miles in a thousand years.” a memoir by Donald Miller, we had read it together the summer before the diagnosis, mummy had finished the book with tears streaming down her face, her small face scrunched like she was trying her best to keep herself together.
“That was the best book I’ve ever read, Aari!” She declared, suddenly recovered from the emotion.
I flick through the pages mindlessly, I hadn't found the book as impactful as she did, it was humorous at some points and somewhat insightful at others, but entirely too long, too dragged out, and too unrelatable. I look up at her, her eyes wide and a slight smile on her face waiting - anticipating.
“I loved it as well” I blurted out rapidly, not sure if I fully believed it.
This is the effect she had on me: she makes me want to be liked, not just loved by her. I want to be someone she could have a special connection with, laugh with, share niche little book interests with, even if that wasn't authentically me. I want to be perfect for her.
I grin at the irony smacking me in the face, as I stare at the words engraved on my flesh “...stop expecting people to be perfect,” I wonder if I even believe it, or if this tattoo like many things in my life is purely for the satisfaction of others.
Thud! From the edge of the periphery, I catch glimpses of a small handheld mirror meeting the wall.
“Help! Help!” I hear a screechy blood curdling scream, coming from the living room and suddenly I have my answer - I have to be perfect… for her.
Still whiplashed, I darted towards the living room. My procedural memory guides my body while my mind follows wordlessly.
My eyes scan the room, already noting what I’ll need to clean up later. Cut fruit sits on the table, carved into irregular shapes, like someone had been attempting breakfast. I make a quick mental note to find a better hiding place for the knives.
A strong, earthy smell wafts through the air, like mud-caked boots on a rainy day. A shattered mirror glistens beneath a wall that seems to tell on everything, a discoloured crack splitting through it. That will need fixing.
But then my lip quivers as I spot a small figure bunched up on the floor - knees tucked into her chest, facing the wall. A shield of long white hair engulfs her like an oversized blanket. I step closer, observing as she slowly grows and shrinks with each passing breath. Then I hear it. A small voice. quiet, scared. I inch closer and the tiny voice singing “My girl” by The Temptations accompanied by hushed sobs becomes more distinct.
“What happened? Are you okay?” I questioned, immediately envisioning every possible scenario.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: 'What if We Tried Something…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 100%: What if We Tried Something New? I want to play with you. I want to play with you in every stupid, brilliant…
What if We Tried Something New?
I want to play with you.
I want to play with you in every stupid, brilliant way possible. I want to drag you to every arcade that still has flickering neon signs and sticky floors, pouring coins into machines until our pockets are empty and our laughter turns hoarse. Just bring the next game, the next ridiculous challenge — no, don’t tell us the rules; let us figure it out as we go, inventing them badly and breaking them better.
Let’s climb the big old oak tree in the park at dusk even though we’re both too old for it, bark scraping our palms, leaves tangled in our hair, daring each other to go one branch higher. We invent ridiculous rules for tag that change every thirty seconds. Hide and seek in the city at midnight — you disappear into the bright chaos of the laneways and I’ll still find you because I can hear your laugh from three blocks away.
When we play, we make the rules.
I want to build blanket forts with you in the living room when it’s raining outside. Proper ones — fairy lights strung across, too many pillows, a playlist that makes no sense. We’ll declare it our kingdom and make up laws that only last until someone needs the bathroom. Then we’ll tear it all down at 2 a.m. and start again because the first version wasn’t quite right.
Let’s get lost in a second-hand bookstore and play the game where we only speak in titles we pull off the shelves. Let’s play tourists in our own city — terrible photos, exaggerated accents, asking strangers for directions we don’t need. Let’s play poker with matchsticks and imaginary millions. Let’s crank the music so loud the neighbours bang on the wall and we just turn it up and dance like idiots until we can’t breathe.
Hey — do you still play like a kid when no one’s watching? Guess we’ll find out.