Could anyone be so kind on helping me edit my essay I have written for my English 101 class? I turned it into a novel like essay.
Thanks!
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A place for You
It has been said that writing can heal a person's soul. But who do you write for? And what do you write about? How can you begin to write about a burning past and heal a broken heart, when inconceivable memories of a complex childhood run back to you; like a child running to his mother as if he done something wrong. The pain that inflicted my soul as a child have not been erased by apologies, for they are still with me. Memories I forced myself to forget. I pleaded with myself to banish all negative thoughts that have encroached my mind, but I have failed.
I see life as a knotted sweatshirt made of wool, only to be undone by the carelessness of the person who wears it. It never occurred to me that the twenty-six years of agonizing pain and a life time of dejection that inhabits my life is my destiny. The pain and sorrow I feel living with a life-threatening illness that could swallow me up at any given moment. I don't know how exactly, or why my heart is as black as night, its one of those enigmas I must find an answer too. I know finally; however, the meanness of my own spirit. This I can find.
I try to close my eyes and dream of a angel, invisible to everyone else. Her eyes are as blue as the ocean. Her completion is crisp and clear as the morning sun. Her long white dress in which she wears falls to the ground like a waterfall off to the side of a canyon. Her voice is a soft whisper, like the summer rains of those first few moments when it trickles down and the dark clouds open once again. I want to sleep under the weeping willow tree and listen to the sounds of the rain. I'll sleep so soundly, and when I awake, I will be happy again.
I take things too seriously and hold these bottled up memories inside of me. My life is like a unmarked crossroad, no direction, no signs as to what path I should take. I just feel like sharing the few moments of my dull life, typing away the frustration I feel inside. I feel like I particularly lie to my own self every word I utter. How are you doing today? People ask and I reply, I'm fine.
I'm being pulled away from everyone and everything I've ever known. And the feelings inside of me seem so fake. I have become caged bird in my own body, a robot, so to speak. I just want to cry, but my eyes are dry like a bone. Baby steps, I say, as I begin to grow and adjust into my new life as an adult.
I really don't know who I am or what I am supposed to become, and I feel like I should have done something by now after twenty-six years.... I just feel like a dehydrated prune, ready to soak up the water of the universe and live once again. Then again, these are feelings from my own selfish pride. I wish desperately that I could be brave, bold, and strong, so I could forget the memories of my fragmented past that have been washed up by my fuming thoughts.
Thanks!
-----------------------------------------------------------
A place for You
It has been said that writing can heal a person's soul. But who do you write for? And what do you write about? How can you begin to write about a burning past and heal a broken heart, when inconceivable memories of a complex childhood run back to you; like a child running to his mother as if he done something wrong. The pain that inflicted my soul as a child have not been erased by apologies, for they are still with me. Memories I forced myself to forget. I pleaded with myself to banish all negative thoughts that have encroached my mind, but I have failed.
I see life as a knotted sweatshirt made of wool, only to be undone by the carelessness of the person who wears it. It never occurred to me that the twenty-six years of agonizing pain and a life time of dejection that inhabits my life is my destiny. The pain and sorrow I feel living with a life-threatening illness that could swallow me up at any given moment. I don't know how exactly, or why my heart is as black as night, its one of those enigmas I must find an answer too. I know finally; however, the meanness of my own spirit. This I can find.
I try to close my eyes and dream of a angel, invisible to everyone else. Her eyes are as blue as the ocean. Her completion is crisp and clear as the morning sun. Her long white dress in which she wears falls to the ground like a waterfall off to the side of a canyon. Her voice is a soft whisper, like the summer rains of those first few moments when it trickles down and the dark clouds open once again. I want to sleep under the weeping willow tree and listen to the sounds of the rain. I'll sleep so soundly, and when I awake, I will be happy again.
I take things too seriously and hold these bottled up memories inside of me. My life is like a unmarked crossroad, no direction, no signs as to what path I should take. I just feel like sharing the few moments of my dull life, typing away the frustration I feel inside. I feel like I particularly lie to my own self every word I utter. How are you doing today? People ask and I reply, I'm fine.
I'm being pulled away from everyone and everything I've ever known. And the feelings inside of me seem so fake. I have become caged bird in my own body, a robot, so to speak. I just want to cry, but my eyes are dry like a bone. Baby steps, I say, as I begin to grow and adjust into my new life as an adult.
I really don't know who I am or what I am supposed to become, and I feel like I should have done something by now after twenty-six years.... I just feel like a dehydrated prune, ready to soak up the water of the universe and live once again. Then again, these are feelings from my own selfish pride. I wish desperately that I could be brave, bold, and strong, so I could forget the memories of my fragmented past that have been washed up by my fuming thoughts.
