(It is supposed to be a descriptive writing piece about a moment where I felt trapped)
Form 3 Coursework English Essay- Topic
4.
TITLE: Existential
Sleeplessness- A simple description.
Dammit.
The sun has fled. It is a cool summer night in which
there should be peace, yet in the confines of the mind there is turmoil. The
walls enclose, and the top and bottom bunks confine. Still blackness is in the
bedroom. The sheets are constantly writhing with the anguish of the body,
swirling underneath in confused tiredness. The eyes will not close. The
slashing eyebrows do not interlink their tips with one another. They stubbornly
stand apart.
The mind, enclosed and confined, brings inescapable
questions to be answered by the night.
Double-dammit.
Behind the curtains the stars twinkle like
effervescent bubbles, and the creamy swirling arms of the Milky Way galaxy
dance. The wind is soft, and the light brushing of leaves is heard. The
calmness of this night does not persuade the eyes to close. The eyes decide to
watch the stars scintillate in hope. One sheep, two sheep, three sheep, four
sheep- God may put the sheep to sleep. Ape to man, beast to human and erectus to sapiens; then finally, the sleepless body that tumbles restlessly throughout
the night.
The mind starts to think: the electric signals
pulsate across the nerves. It gravely
whispers hushes of spontaneous Genesis it melodically sings choruses of days
against millions of years. The skin is
dark and the limbs are thin. The sheets are like paper, the nightwear is sleek.
The bed squeaks and the floor scratches. The body twists. The body turns. The
lights outside gather in tiny jubilations, desperate to fend off the binding
vacuum of eternity. The time is slow; millions of years or just seven days? The
hand touches the opposite arm and feels the bumps and the standing hair. The slight
body twitches uncomfortably. Sleep… The room is meant for sleep not thoughts.
The earth is meant for what? No, the room is meant for sleep. The eyes do not close. They gaze in sad wonder, at the ever
shining and singing, and beautifully brilliant and bright and white, amazing
and angelic curios of the night.
Triple-dammit.
Stars fashioned out of clay. A dark twitching body
fashioned out of clay. Youthful, exuberant and moist clay fashioned into a
functioning doll. The doll is drying. The hands meet the face. A dry pimple of unused
soil and a crack is felt. The wall too, has the cracks and chips of time. The
lips are parched. The tongue provides a
gentle lick, but it is also dry. Another crack is felt. These can grow and
extend until entire structural collapse. The house, the room, the dark
twitching body- and its continuing crises of existentialism- fashioned out of
clay by the strong hand. The sheets, the grey shining support beams of the bed
and its two blue mattresses, the broken and abandoned toys in the corner, the
messy stack of youthful fiction by the bed, the dirty brown sock hanging of the
edge of a black school bag… All fashioned from swathes of dull, grey clay. Each
little mistake on each object is a crack in the primordial clay. The clay boy
in the clay house with the clay mind thinks of clay thoughts with few cracks in
between. A pathetic little laugh emanates
from the chapped clay lips. A morose sigh emanates from a dry clay throat
across the room. It fills the cracks in the walls.
It is dark. My open eyes stare at the sea of black
in some sort of curious longing. The thick,
impenetrable black is the fortress of the night. And
the thoughts of apes and clay; of existence and stars- wrap their stone hands
around my throat. The questions become mockingly loud.
I suffocate indifferently.
625 words.
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