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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is an essay I wrote for school. Personally, I think this is one of my best peices of work so far! The topic was to do with ones emotions in relation to creativity - I spread my butter pretty thin on sticking to topic . . . Can you find the "hidden" metaphor near the end? Please critique, it would be much appretiated!

Submitted: May 08, 2013

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Submitted: May 08, 2013



“Go to your room!”

No other four words could have set me off as easily. My stomach erupted and my mind filled with a million different witty retorts, none of which my mouth would regurgitate. With a feeble moan of resignation I marched heavily back to my room with a hollow stomach.

The sun beat down through the bows of the overgrown avo tree and filled my room, illuminating each corner with the mockingly joyous light. My bated breath fogged the window as I drew nearer to it, letting out wisps of fury, which seemed to eclipse the warm rays of the sun, leaving my room filled with an icy chill of resentment.

Just then, a colourful bird descended onto one of the avo tree's branches, humming a tune as rich as the succulent fruit which the tree bore. Startled by Maddy, the neighbour’s Jack Russell Terrier, the bird flew off in a kaleidoscopic ascent. Incensed by the bird's freedom of flight, I unlatched the shutters and pulled them shut.


I glanced at my easel, in my room now void of any natural light, and admired the piece of art that hung from its rough edges. The painting had a smooth finish with no visible brush marks – possibly my best piece that year. I spotted a mark from the dark navy paint which had defied all my efforts to keep the portrait perfect. Perturbed by this miniscule mistake, that I would have over-looked any other day, I picked up the paintbrush lying, discarded, next to the green paint on the floor. I dipped the brush into the white acrylic and began to fix what needed to be put right. But as my brush moved across the canvas and the mistake faded in with the background, my hand would not cease and carried on painting away the faults that weren't there. I was so absorbed I didn't even notice when my feeble hand let slip the tub of acrylic paint. With every stroke more and more of the painting would disappear, until the hot tears rolling down my cheeks fell to the floor and mingled with the spilt paint, drowning whatever emotions I had left. And the painted canvas stood blank once again.



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