Its
Sunday night, 11:28 pm. 10 hours till my morning class. Nine hours to write a
paper. A paper about an event, something that happen in my life with vivid
details. But I don’t know what I should write about. Should I write about my
trip to Vietnam when I was 10? That was nine years ago, I hardly remember
anything. I remember it being extremely hot, so hot that you could bake cookies
in, if you left them out and that my great uncle, own a small farm. But where
would I begin?
“When
I was ten years old, I took a trip to Vietnam” . . .
Where would I go
after that? I can’t remember the long plane ride, nor do I remember the place I
stayed at for the month I was there. I could write about the farm, but all I
can recalled, were the smells of the pigs. How they smelled horrible, I felt
like it shut down my whole ability to smell. No matter how far I was, the smell
remains. No the matter how fresh the air was, the smell would not go away. It
was like banging your toe against a table, that sharp pain you get at the
beginning but then afterwards, you only feel that light pain. But that’s not
enough to write a paper with.
I could write
about the time I went to a fair or an amusement park. But I hate rides, more
like I was terrified of them. Even at the age of 18, they scared me enough that
I could cry if I was force to go onto one. And because of that, I usually tend
to make my trip there horrible, then afterward try to forget about the whole
thing.
Four hours has
pass . . . doing the only thing I can, writing as it comes in my head and
stopping every now and then to look at funny pictures and cats. Six hours till
my class starts. The house is silent, a foot step would be equal to that of a
gun fire throughout the house. The only light I have is the light from my
computer and while staring at it for hours, it feels like staring at the sun. My
body is telling me to rest, but my grade and my parents wrath are forcing me to
get this done. I should have been smart and done this early.
Time goes by as I search
through my head. Looking for that one event, that one story, in a lost temple,
that can answer the question of what happen in the past. Sadly, all I see are broken
pieces that use to tell a story. Stories that stands out in their own way,
stories that wish to be told to other. But
over time, these stories begun to fade away, taking away from the stories and
only leaving behind hints and pieces of what use to be the past.
My time is almost
up. My mind has been like a dungeon run, looking for treasure that can change
my life. But with all dungeons, there are traps, traps that are meant to stop
you, with just one click, I could be far away in a game, or lost in a video. After
falling for these traps, I find my way back in the dungeon, gathering all these
ancient artifact that could be worth so much. Yet, each one damaged and cracked,
losing its worth. Still, I go deeper, as
I hear this lovely voice pulling me away, the feeling of rest grabbing onto my
shoulder and pulling me towards the bed, but with all my might, I stay firmly
on the path towards the end.
The sun starts to
rise, as I see the end. A long run, looking for a story that could be told from
beginning to end. My body is heavy yet light, like a soft whisper is telling me
everything is alright but is forcing me down against my will.
This is the end, a
story of a kid who went on an adventure but lost his way multiply times only to
find that the tales he were told, were not as he remember.
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