i had written paper one english today. its only one hour 45 mins =(
the func.writing was damn stupid, the composition titles were more stupid. i had to choose one word compos. i must, i did -,- as usual. my school has this fetish to keep our compositions to themselves and don't give them back so i had to make a copy using my precious examination time so that i can give it to my other english teacher so that she can access my score. o; damn.
and here's my composition, for my brotha :D
CREATION:
You twirled your pen gingerly, though no aimlessly as you stared into space. The closed door of stored knowledge opened as you rummaged around for inspiration. Random scenes, images and abstract pictures flashed past your eyes like an array of fireworks, running amok, yet a cohorent mess. Your hand curved into the familiar posture, your pen tip erect and alert. You saw an image that you liked, singled it out and waited for its essence to flow into your fingertips.
Black coloured words filled the page and you marvelled at the beauty of it. You just had to take time to pat yourself on the back, take time to flip the page over and felt the depression the words had made onto the paper. The atmosphere smelt of the euphoric blossoming of creation. You felt pleasantly light as you worked furiously on the paper. Words were your voice, and the pen was your weapon. You know you could do miracles with just pen and paper. It was a gift God has bestowed upon you.
Arrogance took a stumble as you paused abruptly. A drop of pen ink quivered and before it could stain your work of art, you stoppered the pen tip with tissue. You hated stains. They reminded you of beautiful people actuated with viciousness. Once beautiful, yet now tainted. Inspiration stopped. You thought you were tired, but disdain crawled into you. For that while, words abandoned you. What was to be a godly creation lay on your desk like an unborn foetus. Then you heard the door knob turning. That boy, whom you adored so, had returned with your favourite pancakes. You scoffed them down ravenously before telling that boy that you were out of inspiration.
His piercing hazel eyes twinkled merrily. He had an idea. He sat himself at your piano and started to play. His fingers blurred in your vision. You closed your eyes and heard music more beautiful than your words. They moved your body in a calculated stealth, whispering their stories into your ears. You threw yourself onto your desk, losing your heartbeat to the rhythm.
It was so amazing as the consonance of the musical notes formed the most flawless harmony. You penned down the beauty of them, but all were understatements for they were far too beautiful. Yet you let your words took control; they had to prove themselves worthy, just as that boy was to you. His love, he had acquiescently given warmed you so much. Music in words, words into stories and stories into music. You see the connection and got fascinated by their inextricable creations.
You filled lines after lines as you watched your words came alive. The music reached the climax, rupturing into a sweet orgasmic bliss. They tumbled into your head in a joyous and disorganized gait. Then it dropped, slowly, as you could see the clear outline of that boy's slender fingers again. You look at him, beaming at you from over the piano and you wanted to tell him your love and appreciation. Yet words were not spoken, not for you. You penned them down because that was the only time you were yourself, and your works were your life. Nothing was a facade. You put down your pen just as he tapped the last key of his music, his forte, his way of expressing his love for you.
The creation laid there, quietly now, lifeless without music. Your words without it were just like you without that boy. Yet once you picked up the paper and started to read, it was almost as though you could hear that boy playing again. And your creation started off with " You twirled your pen gingerly... "
Will post again later o;
