Beacon of Hope

***The following is a descriptive paragraph I wrote for an assignment in my English Composition class. The paragraph explains the Young Building at Camosun College’s Lansdowne Campus. From 2014.***            

Sitting in a field that overlooks the Young Building, I am consumed by isolation and hopelessness. I long for what lies in the distance. The blinding sun of daytime brightens everything in its path. The tingling sensation of the wind – like lips gently brushing against supple skin – gently grazes past. Streams of light dance among the grass, blades greener than greed and envy. Beaming rays illuminate an open field; acres of an emerald-kissed landscape.

Over yonder, a beacon of hope stands atop a rough ridge. This is the Young Building, adorned with brick and stone. This restored, antiquated haven is blurred in the distance. It is distorted, like the jaded memories of a tainted innocence. The dim, tranquil whispers of the gentle breeze gently echo. This serenading tune soars beyond the clock tower, each hand ticking as a tedious reminder that time is running out. This utopia is unreachable.

Suddenly, a revealing disguise of a perfectly painted blue sky begins to darken. The sun’s short visit gives false hope. The joyous delight cowardly disappears behind the provoked clouds. The dismal veil of charcoal smoke spills a stream of rain. As the clouds shed their pitiful tears, a muggy stench lingers in the air.

Next to me, a crippled giant stands tall. This aged tree is dressed in leaves, but her fading colors show summertime being a distant memory. Up above, the lurking branches loosen their grip of the withering leaves. The branches, like extended arms, wave farewell to their departing allies. Drizzle taps on the dreary leaves, as they lay helplessly like fallen soldiers. The remaining leaves hang on by a thread; they dread being swept away and scattered by the wind into the abyss. Inching in closer, the detail along the tiresome tree’s exterior is so astounding that it seems innovatively and precisely planned. Her weary trunk has cracked and hallowed crevices caused by the torment of endless, taunting storms. Every feature of her bark is chiselled. The truth behind the tree’s grief does not lie far beneath the surface. A twisted trunk tortures her, trapping her in a tangled knot of deceit. Entangled roots embedded deep into the earth eternally chain the tree to the ground.

As I walk away from these tainted pastures I become relieved knowing that I am leaving behind this dystopia, but my longing for a false sense of bliss still lingers.


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