As Descriptive as I Can Be

I wrote a description of my living room. It is filled to the brim with over exaggerated descriptions. Personification coats the room now. There is an add on at the bottom called "Leaving out the mess" which consists of me recoating the room with all of the exaggeration I left out the first time. I think this is a really interesting story, considering all the words flowed through my head first try. I never thought i could easily create four pages about my living room. I think it shows that I have the ability to do whatever if i put my mind to it.

My house opens to my living room. We use a couch as a divider between our entrance and the living room. As you walk in, the large T.V. draws your eyes to a large dark cabinet that rests below it, where duck figurines swim with silenced presence.

My black 2009 Wii sits above a couple unused speakers that once filled the room with the sounds that it lacks nowadays. Sets of Game Of Thrones and classics, pleading to be watched as we continue to go throughout our normal days. We ache to play them too, to have the time. The corner holds a light that projects from the ground up with a long body to convince us that the day is not lost. Hugging the wall that holds our off white marble fireplace. Never has it given us the warmth we expect it to provide.

We don’t allow it the ability to be useful, our air conditioning makes us snug. We say goodbye to the producer of smoke as we allow it’s rotting body to sit until our air conditioning sputters to its death on a cold December night with our christmas lights that bring us all the joy we could ask for. Atop our fireplace rests the four white inches of memory we lack to hold on to. A picture of my old cat, as if the loss was not traumatizing, we must keep a picture of his lack of space. Many pictures of me. A toy bear, recently placed here, it has a spot that allows us to put a picture on the face. My face proudly wears a smile in reminder that the world was once calm, once happy. Yet then I never knew the abilities the world holds, cold and dying. Above it, a clock that had recently turned from a visitor to a family friend. He is a replacement, of one much older.

Yet he himself, is not young. He has lived a life by himself but not seen the beauty a family in sync can create. Next to the books that expand above a dilapidated box. It moans for mercy, as we stub, kick, crush, it by walking by. The books show stories of far away places. Places of beauty. Beauty that only exists from afar. When under a microscope provides physical and emotional abuse. One’s home is another’s paradise.

We stretch to a cat tower that holds our two princesses to the window.. They yearn to dance with the birds and squirrels that eat the food my mom lovingly gives with no thanks. They yearn, but with the experiences we have seen between a dove and a cat, is anything but dancing.

As we crawl along our floor we are stopped by an old rug. No obsession there, we are detached from our rug, yet to replace it would change our whole world. Recognition is a safe place for us. This ugly rug has a skinnier, still ugly, twin that dances into the kitchen, disrupting the browns of wood with dark red that seeps through our veins. The green jumbles the color into a muddy color, not the most attractive friend in our house, yet many memories come from where my feet have silenced its ability to move with embarrassing dances and the belting of some musical i have adopted as my new mental state. This ugly carpet, she leads to a table from years before us. She extends to be larger than originally made for. Our ridiculous blue chairs exist from another time, somehow seeping into a world not meant for it. Her partner, a large “thousands of dollars” woman who holds my favorite scenery in the house. A glass. Into another world, of one we do not fully understand. I wish I could. The deaths haunt me as I attempt to fix them all. How I realized what I want out of life. Aquariums show their beauty with their fantastic show, our largest fish hides his face from all. His dark body shows his modest mind. He avoids the mass of the others, to care for our tank. Our others float as friends for life, because without them, they would not have life.

Leaving out the mess: After analysing my living room for a good 30 minutes. I realized a large portion of the stuff I left out included the inability we as a family possess to keep our house clean.

I left out the beige chair that sits next to our tv, gleefully taking the ruthless attacks thrust upon it by out older cat, who uses it as a scratching post. It has never been much more than a chair to me. The couch and the rug, I have slept on them when my troubles occupy my room in which its more comfortable to lay upon my scratchy rug and let everything subside while I lay under the covers I have ripped from my bed. I have more of a reaction towards anything I can find comfortable, and sadly, that beige chair is the most uncomfortable thing to lay on.

I also left out a table that glides between our table and the wall. It rarely keeps it’s function now as we have scraped the remnants of our requirements of it. It simply occupies space. It has become a table with barren drawers. Why would we keep this? I often wonder, It’s new job is to provide a ground for my mother’s work that piles on top of it. Never to be seen for years. Until we get around to our dirty, yet bittersweet, room that fills the air with the aroma of a cat’s playhouse, it simply rots away. The large files begin to resemble the trees we cut down to create them. So high, we find files from 2012. There is this dusty old chandelier. It does not work up to what you’d assume it is in your mind. It’s old, it spits out light as we roll the dial of our days to an end or to a beginning. It has nothing special attached to it, the wires stick out as if an ailment has been caught. The dust circles around it, creating an atmosphere of hate. We hate it, the circumstances it’s under, it’d hate itself too.

There isn’t much to do, the migraines flow on and on, light and buzz only fans the flame. But of course, sometimes hate is the strongest love, but it’s usually not. I realise that I must start from a realistic standpoint. When I started my English Honors class, I did not understand the ability all my friends had to look at a poem about a woman in a garden in Ezra Pound’s The Garden and get a story about different classes and revolution. Now I look at Hemingway's Hills like White Elephants and see the difficult situation of abortion. I started by looking at a couch in my story. It’s the divider to my house, it makes itself present. Yet I begin to show my tour with haste but at the same time, a thick liquid being poured slowly into a bowl. Making sure not to miss the smallest detail. I start with reality, then slowly analyze the whole room the way my brain sees it instead of my eyes. My whole writing style follows my learning process, I find it fascinating that those link. I mean they both obviously link because they both travel through my brain, but it’s like my brain stops… Thinks about it more, and then obsesses about it for days.