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Passion born

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I waited in the lobby, anticipating the news that was to come. The doctor walked out of the emergency room with a look of defeat on his face and a glint of sorrow in his eyes. He approached us and began to speak with my father. The doctor spoke, but I could not hear the words coming from his mouth. Painful thoughts drowned my scenes and left me dry. I couldn’t handle the overwhelming pain. I collapsed.
He died January sixth, two thirty in the morning.
I woke up the next morning in my bed with no memory of what happened the night before. I walked to my mother’s room and found her sobbing aggressively. I stepped outside into the garden. It was a hopeless summer day. I examined the peaceful clouds carelessly drifting above me. I wished for a moment to be a cloud and rise above the afternoon’s boredom. A lazy breeze caressed my face; the songbird’s chorus softly hummed in my ear, singing of her lost spring memories. An open notebook lied on the grass, the summer breeze gently flipping its pages. I took out a pen from my pocket and began to write.
I wrote of the alluring slumbers of the daydream and sweet smells of spring. I wrote of cold autumn winds and soothing spring breezes. I wrote tales of a girl who possessed all the riches of the land, but wept each night for all the wealth of the world could not replace her vacant heart. I wrote down letters, words, sentences and paragraphs, and I recorded each emotion I felt that day. The last word I jotted down was, “Live.” I curved the L, dotted the I and shut the notebook.

The next morning I awoke to the haunting memory of the emergency room and my great-uncles death. A dreadful sadness clouded my soul. But something more came from my great uncles passing. His soul had assisted me in a discovery within. That day I began my journey with words.





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