A short english essay :)


Pressure

The sun is sinking rapidly. I'm sitting in a garden, my cousins garden. Over the white steel benche, were I have placed my self and my books, grows luxurish red roses. The rich flowers that hangs above me fills the stifling summernight with sweet perfumes. This should feel wonderful, this should be beautiful. But it isn't.

I have brougth with me two poetry books, a pencil and a pad. All set to start, but there is something stopping me. My mind is like a wall, I can't reach my thoughts. This barrier is keeping me on a safe distans. I grab for my pencil and press it gently against the pad, but nothing. I feel the frustration grow. I must write. I have a deadline. Stupid me, entrying a kultur-show with out something to read. And now is there no time to get inspired, no time to think. I must write, now. The show must go on as they say.

I starts to doodle to get the pencil working. The paper stares white and threatenly empty.
A stingely feeling starts to build up inside my stomach, finding it's way up to my cheast and pressing uncontrolably against my troat. I think I'm going to be sick, this can't be happening! Not again.

God I hate this, why do I all always sign up for things, that I can't do. It's so easy to just say "hey, I do it! I can write some poems." But what people don't understand is that I write maybe seven, eight really good poems per year. That kind of poems I really can be proud over. It's so hard for me to write something that I don't like, something I don't care about.

After a few minutes in total dissolution, I throw the pad on the ground. I feel the tears burning behind my eyelids. I feel so useless. My only "thing" is abandon me. Without it I'm nothing, I'm meaningless. What will I then associate my self with? Nothing, simply nothing.

It's getting colder and that damned northwind make the hair on my shinbones raise. I begin to shiver and I hold my arms tight against my cheast. Maby I should just leave it? My temper is getting darker as the sun falls. This can't be good for you.


I glance down on the pad and picks reluctantly up it from the grass. The printed lines grins in a scornful smile, empty. I sighed and reached for a poetry book for insperation. After a few minutes of reading red spots begin to bloom on my cheeks. The jealousy, the anger! How dared they write this, how dared they steel everything worth writing from me? What was I suppesed to do, why couldn't it be so easy for me?

With a silent cry of anger I trowed the book far, far away from me. I got up on my feets and quickly gathered the pencil and pad. I left the books, they mocked me. I walked towards the house and yawned, it's was getting late. Tomorrow will come and I will deal with it then.

But still. The scatterd books on the lawn, will be there tomorrow as a reminder. The sweet perfume of roses will witness of my failure. And as I move away from the garden I feel a sting of anguish hit my back and squeeze all pride from my soul. The End




Short story by Sofia
Read 632 times
Written on 2007-06-04 at 22:41

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