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Creative Writing The Inferno Essay Research Paper

Creative Writing: The Inferno Essay, Research Paper Creative Writing: The Inferno It is the quintessence of monotony: a mountain chain of stucco that lies

Creative Writing: The Inferno Essay, Research Paper

Creative Writing: The Inferno

It is the quintessence of monotony: a mountain chain of stucco that lies

atop fallow lots the size of kitchen magnets. Welcome to suburbia. I

effortlessly enter my pervious pastel palace, but the voyage to my room is an

uphill battle; it is quite an insurmountable quest. The trek to my cell

consists of a frozen spiral staircase. It is not smooth and slippery, though,

but rocky and perilous. The portal lies beyond the staircase?

I force my way through the abrasive forcefield of forbiddance. The

shrieks of my tearing flesh are subdued by the overpowering silence of the room.

Words are mouthed, but not spoken. They do not exist. This cubicle of torment

does not allow language, the embodiment of opposition. As I step into my room,

I notice all colors of the spectrum for a fraction of a second, then they appear

red. Countless pictures adorn the walls; they are all of one person. I know

her, but who is she? Her eyes are dark and enigmatic. I can see the sadness in

her eyes. Her eyes. They lack the luminescence of the youthful character they

portray. Her glances pierce through my being like light through glass. The

carpet is a sea of scorn. It stabs my feet with its blades of contempt. The

walls of mockery laugh at me as I foolishly try to climb them to rid myself of

its presence. Yet there is no escape. I have inflicted more pain upon myself.

Nothing is soft in here; everything is jagged. My un-sanded wooden dresser

rests on the right side of the doorway. Figures of dancers with invisible

partners lie atop the uneven surface. They seem to move slowly across the

dresser, like seaweed drifting aimlessly across the sea. My unpleasant and

discomforting bed of stone rests in the center of the room. It is not the usual

shape of a bed. Rather, it seems as if it were molded to fit my body alone. Is

there no solace? The closet stands only two feet away from the front of the bed.

Inside is a world of death and destruction. My clothes are victims of either

neglect or overuse. My shoes, an array of black, sit near the foot of the

closet. They too are innocent victims of negligence or abuse. They are

casualties of an reckless spirit. The stench of decay creeps from my nose into

my mouth. I lick my lips in disgust of this new taste. As I look about the

room, I notice the mirror above the dresser. It is warped and misleading.

Gazing into the mirror, I see more than just my body. I see a being crying out

because of the agony of distortion. She can not be heard.

A deluge of darkness overtakes my bedroom. My eyes are suddenly fixed on a

beam of light. The radio that rests to the left of my dresser has a light that

indicates power. It beckons me, but I am restrained by the dark angels in my

bedroom. They always appear when I long for anything. They are with me, in my

room, for eternity.

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