BomiSaur 289 Posted February 8, 2017 Share Posted February 8, 2017 Hey OH, I have to hand this personal response (creative; fictional) for Engish on Friday. It's based on the theme of existentialism, and showing a transformation of my fictional character. Please let me know what I can do better. Pink Jacquard Blazer If I were in a vegetated state, it would be easier for people to understand. If struck by fever, diagnosis would come immediately, and I could find a convalescing cure. If my frontal lobe is lobotomized, at least I would not have to make decisions in life. If struck by the Grim Reaper’s scythe, at least my existence is now over. Instead, life is a meaningless battle. This writing is meaningless. If my exterior looked as hollow and crushed as I felt on the inside, people would have mistaken me as a motorcyclist involved in a gruesome traffic accident. Putting on a haggard face, and dressing in a bleak grey outfit, I lived my entire episode of my high school life apathetic and unconcerned with any of those within my social circle - except for myself. I felt empathy with lepers - physically grotesque and miserable. Although none has figured out my inner grotesque - except for you - I was disgusted at myself, and thought I needed a leper’s bell to warn people of my approach. Speaking of which, I contrast with the only close friend I had. He is called Easton. How I became close to him I do not know —we are two polarities— but he is the life of the party. He always greets me with a chest bump and an out-of-blue ‘I love you’. He dresses in pink jacquard blazer that matches his pink highlight. During a party —and the countless parties he hosted— I remember his hand holding a toast in a way that effuses his fashionista expression. But I have not followed how he is doing, because I do not give a care about anyone else except for me. For years, the majority of my energy went into hiding the anguish that comes with my apathy. I was insecure. I smiled, laughed, and joked around with my classmates in school, but that was merely ‘my diplomatic facade’. In terms of monetary gain and investment, I did not think cherishing those around me mattered - it is childish and does nothing to add value to myself. I showed no vestige of humanity, and I was numb. When a petulant classmate of mine ridiculed me and said, “Stop being a tryhard!â€. To which I stood with arms akimbo and callously replied, “You degenerate, if only I can sell your worthless existence to the Devil, I would be rich now.†With everything I am, thinking overachieving would suppress my pain and gain others’ approval, I worked relentless with no end in mind. In my head, being just average makes you useless to the society. Constantly attempting to outperform people’s expectation, I dug myself deeper into the burrow. Ignore your exacerbating insecurity, buck up your ideas, pull up your socks, were thoughts I constantly had. Mistakes were intolerable, any laziness means someone is going to knock me out of the university admission. I could not breathe. After a hill, I have the urge to seize a mountain. After a drop, I have urge to seize a fountain. Paradoxically, the euphoria that comes with achieving a goal is a short-lived enemy that plunges you into further meaninglessness. It is when my social circle approves of my self-worth that my self-worth is destroyed. Pretending to pull myself together became who I was, frightened that if I let the mask slip I would lose the only thing I had only hold onto; the only thing I had built my identity around: my achievements. It was too late ----- to turn back to the simpleton that stayed up all night to play hide and seek, the simpleton that bruised himself from sports instead of bruising others to get to the top. Then in one day, I received news that Easton died in an accident. He used to be as close as a brother to me. Years ago, he invited me to his house for an overnight party. He was my closest friend; I still remember the vivid details of his room and the camaraderie we shared. As I came to his house to pay respect. Pacing down the hallway with a heavy heart, I saw the chair he used to sit; the bed he slept in since birth; the chilling reenactment of the overnight party in my memory, and the calendar in his room left untouched since his death. When entering his room, I saw the very pink jacquard blazer hanging on his worn-out chair. He had yet to realize his dream, experience the inexhaustible variety of life, and complete his calling. It was miserable; his life is cut short without notice. If I am omnipotent, I would, without doubt, save him at all cost. On the next day, his absence was like waking up one day with no teeth in your mouth. you wouldn't need to run to the mirror to know they were gone. The news of his death first evoked a sense of guilt in me. It sent chills down my spine; it pulled the plug on my meaningless lifestyle. Not that I had anything to do with his death, but the epiphany of how ungrateful I had been revealed to me. My friend did not get to express his last words to his loved ones; he did not get to have his last meal like the prisoner on their death sentence does. I took my every single breathe, every friend, and every family member for granted. Unfortunately, it took his death for me to discover a perspective I fail to see all this time: the apathetic and insecure fit I have gone about since puberty is nothing compared to the tangible magnitude of life and death. Death destroys a man, but the idea of death saves him. Leaving my grey outfit hanging on the wardrobe, I stepped out the door like an omnipotent would. As I sashayed the classroom in my pink jacquard blazer and pink highlight, upon seeing the same petulant classmate that annoyed me, instead of giving him the middle finger, I hollered, “Chap, I love you, bruv.†Brushing off the sudden warmth he felt, and trying to act aloof, he replied, “I don’t know if you are on drugs, but get out of my sight before I smack y- y..o.†Before he completed his next word, I gave him a chest bump. He stood appalled and timidly said, “Thank you. By the way, why haven’t you been hitting the books?†Completely compartmentalized, I simpered and said, “What do you mean? I’ve been holding parties.†When I reached for the wardrobe before hosting the party, the grey outfit disappeared and was replaced with repetitive rows of pink jacquard blazer. The ambience of my house became more like his. As the party at my house began, one of the unfamiliar faces gasped in incredulity and stuttered, “Y-you.. No way. You aren’t Easton. Unless you are Lazarus.†Out of an involuntary instinct, I exclaimed “Yes, I am Easton. Jesus rose me from the dead.†, while finding myself swirling the toast inadvertently. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Honeystan 10,291 Posted February 8, 2017 Share Posted February 8, 2017 It's too late at night for me. I'll read it later. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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