Prompt #4: Describe a place of environment where you are perfectly content. What do you do or experience there, and why is it meaningful to you? A fire strikes and soon every corner of the room ignites in flames; at least, that’s what the homely red loveseats and orange patterned carpet looks like through teary eyes on days I become particularly emotional. The dearth of décor augments the warm color theme of my therapist’s office, the only room one can either derive clarity or create more incertitude from. One of the walls accommodates a large window whose view is obstructed by the towering glass skyscrapers and the occasional rain. Once a week for a full hour that room is my solace, when I divulge my worries, reflect upon my character, and find happiness. …show more content…
I nervously edged on the corner of the seat, observing the cherub woman assigned to me as my therapist as she spoke of procedural regulations. I was led here due to my peaking anxiety and daily irrational fears and needed somebody to confide in that would allow me to overcome this. Our routine rarely changed: I’d let myself sink in the well upholstered couch, take a few minutes to organize my thoughts, drown the room in my voice, and then I’d listen to my therapist’s suggestions and witty metaphors. Behind her there was a spotless white dry-erase board we seldom used except for one time, when she drew four tiny red fiends called the worry monsters: one was perfectionism, the other stress, the third one was negativity, and the last one was black and white thinking. Never before had I put these flaws into such perspective, for I realized these monsters only existed in my head, and the only person who enabled them any power was
Before the beginning of last summer my parents told me that they were sending me to a therapist. For some reason, unknown to me or them, I found this comical. Imagining myself laying on a faux leather couch in a room covered in wall to wall bookshelves, divulging my most private secrets to a ma...
The previous week they had performed the spell successfully. After contacting Mordred, Merlin and Morgana had arranged to meet him and Aglain, the leader of the druid camp, in the woods near a small waterfall, halfway between Camelot and the grave of Gorlois. Morgana always went on her annual pilgrimage to her father's tomb at this time of the year, at the end of spring.
The poem ‘High windows’ symbolises the transparency of life but there is still a physical and psychological barrier to life outside the ‘windows’ that we are unable to comprehend. As the windows creates a mood of reflection, that in fact the glass can be interpret as a mirror, rather than barrier but a reflection of our understanding of what life lies ahead. As it starts within us, as the thought of looking through the ‘high windows’ for meaning is impossible as the ‘sun-comprehending glass’, the sun sends a beam of light
The window in the story that Louise kept staring much of the time in the story represents the opportunities and the freedom that stood in the way of her life once her husband was dead. Through the window,Louise can see fluffy clouds, blue skies, and treetops. She smells a coming rainstorm; she can hear people and singing birds through the window. All she goesthrough her renewed life suggests new life and a spring of rebound joy. Indulged in this new...
At the end of my mat was the other end of the cell. The wall hovered over me like a tall, ominous castle. Small blocks protruded from beneath the thick, smooth paint and stared at me. A long, thin ray of light replicated the thin, long, dirty piece of glass that was probably trying to mimic a window. It was about three inches wide and a good meter in length. Sometimes, I stare out that window at the world outside, at the people walking freely on the streets two stories below. I wonder if they appreciate the freedom they have. I wonder if they appreciate the smell of the air. I wonder if they appreciate the nice, big windows they look through when they go home. Home. I wonder if they appreciate home. I know I didn't before. No. I didn't appreciate any of that; at least not the way I will when I can have them again.
Concrete Poem Room A single beam of sunlight enters my cozy room through a vacant space between the blinds. The two-inch, Vinyl window horizontal blinds rustle about in the breezy wind, the light flickers, lightning up the walls. The cracked plaster makes up the four walls, along with white paint that is somewhat covered in black smudges.
she always used to wish for a way to escape her life. She saw memories
My favorite place in the world is my home and not because I am a hermit who dislikes going out. My home is in a perfect location that is filled with opportunities and excitement of which I take full advantage. From the beautiful exterior and welcoming street to my tile entryway, it all adds to the ambiance of having stepped into a perfect home. Not just having stepped into any perfect home, but the perfect home for me; exactly as I desire it. Each and every area displays my handiwork and the pride I take in that work is what makes me feel so empowered when I'm in my home. Oliver Wendell Holmes once said "Where we love is home – home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts" and as a homeowner I now believe that wholeheartedly.
The Creature That Opened My Eyes Sympathy, anger, hate, and empathy, these are just a few of the emotions that came over me while getting to know and trying to understand the creature created by victor frankenstein in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. For the first time I became completely enthralled in a novel and learned to appreciate literature not only for the great stories they tell but also for the affect it could have on someones life as cliché as that might sound, if that weren’t enough it also gave me a greater appreciation and understanding of the idiom “never judge a book by its cover.” As a pimply faced, insecure, loner, and at most times self absorbed sophomore in high school I was never one to put anytime or focus when it came time
There is a place near my home. It was my sanctuary, my safe place. Its rolling hills and opened sky warms my heart and cleared my mind. Life can be confusing and scary at times, this was my place to slow down and think. I live in suburban New York, right outside of West Point Military Academy.
Inside the nicely decorated room with taupe walls just the perfect hint of beige, lie colorful accessories with incredible stories waiting to be told. A spotless, uninteresting window hangs at the end of the room. Like a silent watchman observing all the mysterious characteristics of the area. The sheer white curtains cascade silently in the dim lethargic room. In the presence of this commotion, a sleepy, dormant, charming room sits waiting to be discovered. Just beyond the slightly pollen and dust laden screens, the sun struggles to peak around the edges of the darkness to cast a bright, enthusiastic beam of light into the world that lies beyond the spotless double panes of glass. Daylight casts a dazzling light on the various trees and flowers in the woods. The leaves of fall, showcasing colors of orange, red, and mustard radiate from the gold inviting sunshine on a cool fall day. A wonderful world comes to life outside the porthole. Colossal colors littered with, abundant number of birds preparing themselves for the long awaited venture south, and an old toad in search of the perfect log to fall asleep in for the winter.
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.
Early Saturday morning, I awoke to a great aroma. The strong scent lifted me up out of bed, to my feet, and downstairs, for I was eager to discover the redolence that was idle. Chills ran up my back when my bare feet first touched the cool tile flooring. The rising sun beamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the solarium as well as, the bay window above the conveniently placed double bowl sink. The sun flooded the room with its natural light and created a rather cheerful atmosphere. I immediately felt uncomfortably happy. This was a disturbingly cheerful place. Each strategic decoration was perfectly in place and the overemphasized motif was extreme and almost alarming.
I was sitting in my lounge in a comfortable, well padded, and to be honest my favourite settee reading a book. I was enormously at peace for I love reading and the atmosphere was most congenial. Next door on my left my neighbour's children were joyfully frolicking and just outside my windows the humming birds and sparrows were delightfully flitting through the pomegranate trees. Ahead of me the big French doors, fully glassed, were letting in abundant soft sunshine and the adjacent
Taking a creative writing class was a good way for me to express my thoughts and feelings onto paper, as well as read my other classmates stories. Reading stories created by other people lead me into their mind brain to experience what type of writer they were, it was an overall exquisite class. I believe that every person has a way of expressing who they are through writing stories of their own, fiction is the best way to express your creative imagination. This class that I took for two years helped me become a better writer and helped me understand the types of writers we have.