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Mental health in literature
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How long had it been now? Days, weeks, months? There was simply no telling as it felt just like yesterday when I last stood here. The clouds above oozed and wafted the sun, casting a shadowy darkness onto the house in the distance. It was larger than I remembered it to be: the roof stretched higher towards the blackness, the windows prolonged as if they had to sustain more people looking out of them and the perky white house it once was, now seemed to blend with its surroundings. Adrenaline surged through my veins like a brisk yellow bug. A sudden storm erupted, paralysing me as it crackled and boomed throughout the atmosphere; the thought of being in it wholly disheartened me, along with the tang of anxiety that came with it. But there was …show more content…
There was a path that lead unswervingly to my destination, and though it was unusual and should’ve questioned me, it engrossed me instead. Every step I took seemed to distress the weather, generating thick eerie fog that strangled the twisted, finger-like trees. They limited my freedom, as the frequent vegetation outlined my path; it was like a long stretched out jail-cell that imprisoned me. Usually, insects were acquaintances; we both go our separate ways, only caring about each other when they need a warm shelter to stay in, or when I accidentally step on one of them. Right now? Every single one of them that suspended from a branch, or rested on the ground tormented m22e with their sluggish movements and playful eyes, as if they were plotting my end. They were my enemy now, and I hadn’t long to depart the cage …show more content…
It was bare, nothing but an overgrown jungle of brown grass and weeds. Maybe, it had scared everyone away, leaving the house abandoned and neglected; I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to stay there knowing what’s inside. However, that was the exact reason I had to go in. Turning my sights from the garden, I faced the front where the entrance to the house was staring right at me. It was morphed into a vertical maze as twisted vines wrapped their tentacles around the door. Through the limited cracks, I could see the black peeling door I had once been faced with. Around it, the bricks were smothered in dark green moss and decay, letting off a dank and nose-pinching scent. I wasn’t alone during my observations as the wind consistently howled in my ear, as if whispering for me to go inside. I wanted to, as standing there just left me shivering and tense. Taking in a deep breath, as well as the taste of what I believed was dust, I clutched the door handle. It was warm, disturbingly warm, as I pushed down, and pressed the door ajar. It begrudgingly creaked
The night was tempestuous and my emotions were subtle, like the flame upon a torch. They blew out at the same time that my sense of tranquility dispersed, as if the winds had simply come and gone. The shrill scream of a young girl ricocheted off the walls and for a few brief seconds, it was the only sound that I could hear. It was then that the waves of turmoil commenced to crash upon me. It seemed as though every last one of my senses were succumbed to disperse from my reach completely. As everything blurred, I could just barely make out the slam of a door from somewhere alongside me and soon, the only thing that was left in its place was an ominous silence.
If the storm had lulled at little at sunset, it made up now for lost time. Strong and horizontal thundered the current of the wind from north-west to south-east; it brought rain like spray, and sometimes, a sharp hail like shot; it was cold and pierced me to the vitals. I bent my head to meet it, but it beat me back. My heart did not fail at all in this conflict, I only wished that I had wings and could ascend the gale, spread and repose my pinions on
cold, harsh, wintry days, when my brothers and sister and I trudged home from school burdened down by the silence and frigidity of our long trek from the main road, down the hill to our shabby-looking house. More rundown than any of our classmates’ houses. In winter my mother’s riotous flowers would be absent, and the shack stood revealed for what it was. A gray, decaying...
I stumbled onto the porch and hear the decrepit wooden planks creak beneath my feet. The cabin had aged and had succumb to the power of the prime mover in its neglected state. Kudzu vines ran along the structure, strangling the the cedar pillars that held the roof above the porch. One side of the debacle had been defeated by the ensnarement and slouched toward the earth. However, the somber structure survives in spite. It contests sanguine in the grip of the strangling savage. But the master shall prevail and the slave will fall. It will one day be devoured and its remains, buried by its master, never to be unearthed, misinterpreted as a ridge rather than a
The cricket chirps grew louder and all we could see in the dark was the bright fluorescent eyes of animals creeping and crawling all over the place. Shortly begun the thunder and lightning followed by a short shower. Everything was soon wet, and the knife-like smell of the damp soil oozed into my nostrils. As I stumbled almost blindly through the deep jungle, I could feel the muggy earth squelch as I lightly treaded on it. Tears started to well up in my eyes, and I began to vigorously tremble.
A thick plume of black smoke and ash hung in the air in a heavy haze, almost completely obscuring the lurid red glow of the waning sun. Below, a cloud of grey plaster dust twisted and writhed amid the sea of debris as intermittent eddies of wind gusted by.
Once one got nearer, the archway opened up until one could see the whole front of the house in a somehow eerie way. Around the windows grew ivy and creepers, twisting their way up to the roof in a claw like fashion. The windows themselves were sparkling clean, but the curtains were drawn in most of them, even though it was almost noon. The doors were of solid pieces of dark oak and the two windows above it seemed to give the whole house a rather formidable look.
She cringed as his body is slammed into a pair of boulders jutting out in the middle of the river, wedging him between them. Merryn has the horse stand by a tree that is jutting out over the fissure ahead of the boulders. Quickly reaching into her packs for a rope, and tying it around the tree, she ties the other end to the horse saddle. Parcival tries to help her, but is shaking too hard, and slumps back down.
The gentle barrage of acid rain on the flat rooftop wakes me late at night. A dim light shines through the spaces in the cheap blinds. The soothing sounds of the sleeping night caress my aching body: a distant mechanical hum; the moan of an infant; the quickening tempo of the rain on the roof. My back is stiff and itchy as it sticks loosely to the clammy sheet that separates me from the coarse concrete floor. The stifling night air is sweltering and saturated.
The flakes lightly touch my face, attaching to my lashes and tickling my nose. My boots crunched through the powdered snow. They detonated like Christmas crackers every time my feet hit the ground. The world was imprisoned in a bony white silence. Nothing sounded, nothing stirred, nothing sang.
A poorly-woven, filthy, stained mat lay below me on the floor, besides a ceramic bowl filled with murky water. As I turned my head, I became aware of another creature’s presence in the corner… The elderly man lay directly on the ground. His dull eyes fixated on the crumbled and moldy ceiling, which seemed as if it was rotting away, about to tumble down in a matter of seconds. One could almost taste the humidity in the air.
As my bewildered parents watched from the stands, I began to crouch, admiring the shiny jet-black beetle crawling past my feet. This field was a place to enjoy the blissful ignorance of childhood; still, I simply could not resist the overwhelming urge of discovery. Thus begins the first of three chapters in my life: The Boy and the Bugs. For some reason or another, insects captivated me.
Creative Writing Draft: The constant and persistent tapping of my thumbs making contact with the glass, became the only sound that I could register, as my mind was slowly falling into the digital world of virtual reality and social media. My thoughts were occupied with the heavy task of figuring out a likeable, socially acceptable caption for my latest Instagram picture. My fingers smoothly and naturally glided across the screen, like it was second nature. My eyebrows were stiffly drawn together, over the slits of my eyes that were zoned in on the device in front of me.
A long time ago when I was on the trying to get home it was dark and it was snowing. Somewhere along the way I must have taken a wrong turn, and soon I was completely lost. I finally came to a traffic light. I was relieved, as it meant the highway was nearby. I was almost positive it was to the right
Walking, there is no end in sight: stranded on a narrow country road for all eternity. It is almost dark now. The clouds having moved in secretively. When did that happen? I am so far away from all that is familiar. The trees are groaning against the wind’s fury: when did the wind start blowing? Have I been walking for so long that time hysterically slipped away! The leaves are rustling about swirling through the air like discarded post-it notes smashing, slapping against the trees and blacktop, “splat-snap”. Where did the sun go? It gave the impression only an instant ago, or had it been longer; that it was going to be a still and peaceful sunny day; has panic from hunger and walking so long finally crept in? Waking up this morning, had I been warned of the impending day, the highs and lows that I would soon face, and the unexpected twist of fate that awaited me, I would have stayed in bed.