Thursday, June 21, 2012

Free Writes- Part 2

Hello! I'm ignoring the fact that I broke my challenge to myself on the very second day. I just... meh. Yeah. I'll make it up to myself with fattening foods in due time. No worries.

Before I begin this post, if you haven't read Free Writes- Part 1, you might be a little lost. To briefly sum it up, I used to hate writing free writes (a blank topic) in my Composition class back in tenth grade, so I wrote all my free writes about hating free writes. Here is a continuation of my free write detestation from my old Composition journal.

Journal # 41- Free Write: A Letter

Dear Free Write,
      I truly and sincerely despise you. It's been roughly twenty minutes and I can think of nothing except for my intense hatred of you. Even now I can think of nothing else to satisfy this empty page, except for my horrible, half-assed cursive. You deserve only the worst, dear free write. The fact that you are titled on the board, "Free Write Friday" disrupts my mentality about Fridays because I associate Fridays with fun and relaxation and free writes are antagonistic roadblocks in any attempts to enjoy the perks that come with a Friday. So I lace my tone with sarcasm as I thank you, free write, for contributing to the diversity of tasks I face daily. Thank you, oh so much. While I have your attention, allow me to point out that you have no substance, no backbone, and no power without the creativity and effort that others give you. You would be nothing on your own and would simply rot in your own pathetic blandness. If you have a problem with my hatred of you or my handwriting, well you can just go write yourself.

Yours Truly, 

I'm not going to lie, these entries scare me a little. Somehow my mild distaste for free writes blossomed into a deep rooted disgust. This next one really hits it home, revealing a darker side of me that I never even knew existed.

Journal #46- Free Write

      The bottom of my shoe. Gigantic and flat, it rushes down in a rage of frustration upon your face. In slow motion, the shadow expands until you are shrouded in panic and fear. The shoe is upon you. Flattened. 
      Smashing your face into the pavement was satisfying... but the giant wants more. You are lifted into the air, rubble from the ground clinging to your side. Thrown into the wall!. Crushed between fist and concrete- this is not your day. Clearly you are not wanted here. Yet you still return, and the giant is angry, the giant is furious, the giant is exasperated. 
      You must die. 
      Pried from the concrete, you think it is over. It is not over. Now flat on a desk, you see an object in the giant's fist. A pencil. For the briefest of moments you feel the slightest glimmer of hope- is this pencil meant to write me into something beautiful? Has the giant been pacified? The giant has not been pacified. For as long as you, the free write, exist, the giant will never be appeased. 
     The pencil point stabs into your thin pages, running long lines of anger across your surface. Scribbles of injustice and frustration create fissures and rips. These tears are not enough, and you are torn up, ripped to shreds. The thousands of pieces of your soul are scattered into the bottom of a trashcan, and the giant can relax once more. 

There are three free writes left, but I'll save those for another day. I can't have everyone thinking of me as a violent, grumpy old banana who likes whining about activities that I now chose to do in my free time.

Logic is for apricots.