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Winn's Writing Workshop 8D
I like to write... but I'm sorely in need of improvement (especially in imagery and metaphors, although, honestly, those are what get my As in English)... so I shall be posting stuffs and WIPs here! (:
Right now, I've only got a snipit. The first sentence of something that really hasn't crystalized just yet. xD It was one of those tongue-in-cheek days when around every street corner bend was a chocolate-and-whip-cream-coated delight that appeared positively delicious but really only ended up caked around his face, in her hair, and, God forbid, in the mouths of a person who had felt so accomplished upon getting up this morning and checking off “day three” on the diet calendar. |
Dead, or Just Tired
There is a question that comes to my mind every night at around ten, when I should be in bed, but I’m not. It’s a rather morbid question that you may not want to answer (in fact, you’d probably be too busy to answer it), but I find it rather fascinating. (I’d do anything to procrastinate, I suppose.) How tired can a person get until they kneel over and die? There's the physical tired. You know how it is, droopy eyes lined with black rings, not quite kohl-dark, but striking enough to be noticed. You’d notice the pallid, almost sickly face and sluggish movement, like I’m dead, but at the same time not quite dead. And you’d wonder if I was sick, but no, I’m just tired. It’s alright. I’m not dying. I think. And then there's the mental tired, when I’m making snappish comments at you, or someone else. My heart strums at a hypnotic beat as I stare at the teacher, unable to absorb anything. You can see me trying desperately to stay awake, my eyes glossed over. Dead yet not quite dead. I am a zombie. My mind is not with you, or even with me; it’s gone. Went out for a stroll and left me empty. I’ll need it back soon, but it needs more time to sleep, and time’s the one thing I’m not willing to give up. Add it all up, and it's just an ugly, ugly cycle of lack of sleep, lack of mental concentration, lack of life, as my heart squeezes tight, dying a little every time I see my grade drop, every time I accidentally fall asleep at eight to wake up at three in the morning. If you were awake, you’d hear me yell expletives before desperately trying to study, or finish up on a project. The results are futile, you know that. I know that. It’s the cycle of death. Yet, at the same time it’s the cycle that supposedly gets me to an Ivy League, or at least one of the upper UCs, the ones that will make me successful in the near future so I can retire early, and the ones that’ll make everyone who knows me proud. They’ll all say, “Oh, I know so-and-so who goes to Harvard!” Or Stanford, or Yale. The names change, but the meaning is the same. It actually reminds me of a Chinese idiom, "Work hard sowing seeds and you'll reap benefits in the future." Or, in simpler terms, "If you don’t want to work at McDonalds, work your mind away during high school.” "Does it work?" Yes. "Is it worth it?" Yes. I just need to sacrifice everything, and find something interesting in Chemistry, and Biology, and Calculus. I ought to enjoy reading several dozen pages of a myriad of subjects in one day. And while cramming everything in my brain the night before the exam, I’d hear parents, teachers, and friends alike – sometimes even you – lecturing disapprovingly, "cramming is ineffective", voices resounding in my mind. An endless stream of critique: harsh, meaning for the best, but in essence simply distracting me. I take a look at the web, the television, a novel. I talk to you over instant messaging for “just a few minutes”. Sometimes, I just stare at nothing. Anything but what I should be doing, and there goes my concentration. There goes the minutes as the hands of the clock move excessively fast, all the while grinning mockingly at me. You'd blame the lack of sleep. I'd blame myself. |
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