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Essay living in a small town
Personal narratives about high school life
Personal narratives about high school life
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Recommended: Essay living in a small town
School bell rings again. So many memories and sorrowful regrets of the past. I knew that living in a small town will be something totally different for me. Born to Brooklyn, raised in hell; I had no idea what I was doing in this deadly place in New Jersey, that announced new death every week. Alienated, I walked slowly to class, looking at jet black sky above me. Air smelled so fresh, so full of my personal agony, that in was unbearable to stay outside. Awkward steps, that didn’t seem to follow my insane mind, got me sooner or later to the classroom. People glazed at me. Their eyes were burning into my flesh like a blasphemous fire. All their stares like butane on my skin; I prayed silently to wake up from this intoxicating nightmare and die. But instead I flicked back my long, blonde and black hair and stood up tall. Belleville Evening Art College. Perfect. Seems like an ideal place for all these creative losers from broken homes that have to work all day to get money for a vodka shot and cheap cigarettes. High and happy, they’ll come at night and give themselves to their passions, I thought sarcastically. My life is a fucking black comedy. An alcoholic mother abused by her younger lover, leaving New York to start a new life in this shithole; a good person but not a good mother; mother of nihilistic, drug-addicted and hardcore loving vegetarian anarchist, called Audrey Midnight as a joke, with a simple Farrell at the end – a surname after her so called mom, as she doesn’t want to remember her father’s face. Not like I didn’t know the truth. All I ever was – a side effect of her good paid job. Ellen used to be a prostitute – the known as Nina. Such a wonderful start for a young kid that suddenly becomes an 18-years-ol... ... middle of paper ... ...wing step by step, I settled at the place right next to the enigmatic vocalist. He eyed me but his expression was absolutely blank. Jared’s enigma was so broody and compelling that almost supernatural. With a curiosity, I looked at his painting and from that moment I realized it must be some sort of fascination. Unfinished artwork presented the dark scenery, enhanced by dim candle light seemed to be screaming pain. Surreal picture capturing every negative emotion was piercing; from alienation to self-destruction; from burning hate to sweet revenge and inventible contrition. A fallen angel covered in blood with stained wings and ink-black tears, ripping apart her insides which turned into the monsters and zombies on the jet black sky that was crying in torment. The face looked somehow familiar and the depth hidden behind it was incomparable. I felt exactly like her.
We were now at the bus stop. The sun had replenished and the sky full of glee. There was trail next to the bus stop, she started walking through it. The trees intertwined like arches and the shadows created an ominous feeling. As she walked through the forest, her whole body had a calm aura.
I still feel the same pain when I see them as if I’m re-living that day over and over again, I never see Lizabeth anymore, her father found a job somewhere that was nicer than the town we were living in I hope, no one should ever half to live in the poverty that our town is in. “The years have taken me worlds away from that time, and that place, from the dust and squalor of our lives, and from the bright thing that I destroyed in a blind, childish striking out at God knows
As I walked toward a bus full of strangers, using my sunglasses to shield the tears forming in my eyes, I couldn’t help but to be apprehensive of what was to become of the next twenty-three days of my life. As I trudged up the stairs of the bus leaving behind all that was known, I couldn’t help but wonder; What have I gotten myself into?
Long, wide roads, small houses, steel fences, tall palm trees, a black Toyota parked at a yellow colored house, an abandon house, which looked like it was hunted, the front door was open and you can see from afar that inside there is nothing but darkness. The house was surrounded by trees and it was secluded from all the other houses around it. These were my view as I walked into an unfamiliar building called Thomas Jefferson Middle School. As I opened the blue wooden door and walked in the building, a tremendous chill came over me, which I have never felt before. The building was very cold; I started shivering as I was walking in. It was old and was not well cared for. The colors of the walls were faded and the elevators made the sound of
The sun is making its way up the horizon, but has not yet filled the sky with its cheerful rays. We exit the bus and immediately turned into statues. We stood next the flag pole staring at the school entrance. “This is going to be okay. This is going to be okay” I mumbled to myself. I wanted to enter, nonetheless, gravity glued my feet down to the cold concrete ground. My hands started sweating through my thin-knitted pink sweater and tears were about to roll off my eyes. Shortly after, I saw a shadow of a tall woman approaching us from the school’s front door. My heart beats like a drum as she carefully making her way toward us like you would when you proceed a scared puppy. She stood about four feet away from us making sure she’s not invading our comfort zone. She knelt down and shows us her school staff ID card while holding her buzzing walkie talkie on the other hand. She then ask for our names and walked us one by one to our classrooms. I remember it was so early that I had to sit in front of my class waiting for my teacher to
Bringing distressing images and situations the forefront of art isn’t gimmicky, and it isn’t entertaining. It’s indispensable. When punches are held the point is only half-made. Vividly bringing to life the tragedies of the world is the only way in which we can come to understand them with any validity, and understanding these heartrending circumstances is the only means through which we can learn from them.
As I enter the Gioconda and Joseph King Gallery at the Norton Museum of Art the first thing that Caught my attention was a painting measuring approximately at 4 ft. by 10 ft. on the side wall in a well- light area. As I further examine the painting the first thing I notice is that it has super realism. It also has color, texture, implied space, stopped time, and that it is a representational piece. The foreign man sitting on the chair next to a bed has a disturbed look on his face and is deep into his own thoughts. It’s as if someone he loved dearly just experienced a tragic and untimely death. He is in early depression. I could feel the pain depicted in his eyes. A book titled The Unquiet Grave lying open on the floor by the unmade bed suggesting something is left unresolved. The scattered photos and papers by the bedside cause redintegration. The picture of Medusa’s head screaming on the headboard is a silent scream filled with anger and pain, yet it cannot be heard. I feel as if I am in the one sitting in the chair and I can feel the anger, and regret.
Even though my grandparents did not live in a big city, it was a fun small town. A town that was so small, it only had one traffic light. Everybody knew everybody. It was a real country town, but I loved it. Well, I use to love it. That’s how I used to feel about it until it happened.
In the piece “The Scream,” by Edvard Munch, he painted a piece that evoked emotions from the viewers. He created a mysterious individual who appeared to be overwhelmed with unknown feelings. The individual was far
I awoke this particular morning to a sky, heavy with gray clouds, choking the welcoming warmth and light of the morning sun. The humidity was so palpable, it felt as though it reached into my naturally curly hair and twisted it into one impossible tangle with its own, moist fingers. Knowing I had to gain an education, I got dressed. I threw on my companionable sweater, hopped into my car, and drove, reluctantly, to the school. After heaving my backpack onto my shoulder, I slugged across the school yard toward the ominous, glass double-doors. The doors that perplexed my racing mind on a normal day with its unforgiving reflection seemed especially stern today, and my anxiousness and dread seemed to grow as the reflection grew with each
When I smelled the damp air the dark clouds drifted over me in the sky. As I watched as cheerful kids played on the jungle gym and the swings at recess, I noticed the mulch was darker than usual. As I was waiting by a bench for the whistle to blow,which was the sign for everyone to come in, I heard a scream from a whistle, from the monitor. As I lined up in my class, people passed by me rushing to their line. I watched one by one as people ran inside. The wind bristled my hair as I finally could walk inside.
My feet planted firm on the ground as I bit the inside of my cheeks to feel something. My pigtails and gray uniform forgotten along with my surroundings as I just watched death do his work. I didn’t feel like a kid anymore. The once peaceful scene turned into a mass of chaotic moments as soon as metal clashed on metal, and the remains of glass littered the floor of the street in front of the fenced gates of my school. My peers screamed loudly but the sound of the crash replayed in my head, but worst of all is that I saw the blond hair of the woman cover her face like a veil tainted red. My teacher ushered us to wait inside yet my mind was numb and my thoughts blurred as I heard the cries of the adults.
We all remember these grey gloomy days filled with a feeling of despair that saddens the heart from top to bottom. Even though, there may be joy in one’s heart, the atmosphere turns the soul cold and inert. Autumn is the nest of this particular type of days despite its hidden beauty. The sun seems foreign, and the nights are darker than usual enveloped by a thrill that generates chills to travel through the spine leaving you with a feeling of insecurity. Nevertheless, the thinnest of light will always shine through the deepest darkness; in fact, darkness amplifies the beauty and intensity of a sparkle. There I found myself trapped within the four walls of my house, all alone, surrounded by the viscosity of this type of day. I could hear some horrifying voices going through my mind led by unappealing suicidal thought. Boredom had me encaged, completely at its mercy. I needed to go far away, and escape from this morbid house which was wearing me down to the grave. Hope was purely what I was seeking in the middle of the city. Outside, the air was heavy. No beautifully rounded clouds, nor sunrays where available to be admired through the thick grey coat formed by the mist embedded in the streets. Though, I felt quite relieved to notice that I was not alone to feel that emptiness inside myself as I was trying to engage merchant who shown similar “symptoms” of my condition. The atmosphere definitely had a contagious effect spreading through the hearts of every pedestrian that day. Very quickly, what seemed to be comforting me at first, turned out to be deepening me in solitude. In the city park, walking ahead of me, I saw a little boy who had long hair attached with a black bandana.
Everything seems like it’s falling out of place, it’s going too fast, and my mind is out of control. I think these thoughts as I lay on my new bed, in my new room, in this new house, in this new city, wondering how I got to this place. “My life was fine,” I say to myself, “I didn’t want to go.” Thinking back I wonder how my father felt as he came home to the house in Stockton, knowing his wife and kids left to San Diego to live a new life. Every time that thought comes to my mind, it feels as if I’m carrying a ten ton boulder around my heart; weighing me down with guilt. The thought is blocked out as I close my eyes, picturing my old room; I see the light brown walls again and the vacation pictures of the Florida and camping trip stapled to them. I can see the photo of me on the ice rink with my friends and the desk that I built with my own hands. I see my bed; it still has my checkered blue and green blanket on it! Across from the room stands my bulky gray television with its back facing the black curtain covered closet. My emotions run deep, sadness rages through my body with a wave of regret. As I open my eyes I see this new place in San Diego, one large black covered bed and a small wooden nightstand that sits next to a similar closet like in my old room. When I was told we would be moving to San Diego, I was silenced from the decision.
It was a maddening rush, that crisp fall morning, but we were finally ready to go. I was supposed to be at State College at 10:00 for the tour, and it was already eight. My parents hurriedly loaded their luggage into the van as I rushed around the house gathering last minute necessities. I dashed downstairs to my room and gathered my coat and my duffel bag, and glanced at my dresser making sure I was leaving nothing behind and all the rush seemed to disappear. I stood there as if in a trance just remembering all the stories behind the objects and clutter accumulated on it. I began to think back to all the good times I have had with my family and friends each moment represented by a different and somewhat odd object.