The Writer~Part Two

The writer is in class and hoping...

A red glow came over the naked trees. A strange light ofr an early morning. Over the bright blue building, a yellowing light showed smooth. The leaves on the ground remained very still, a serenity beyond human comprehension had settled in. The wondrous sight was more than can be put on paper. Close up, the trunks were darker, a superb outline against the light. The grey pavement looked dull in contrast. Whatever was happening out there was much more interesting than in here. The professor blabbered on, scribbling something on the board. There was only one thing to desire : walk where there is nothing but the strange sunrise and the leafless trees, and have a sense of freedom in this wind-less early hours. The stranger rays gleamed through the branches, and fell on a distant building. In the distance, a faded hill rose. The foggy light made it look like an illusion. There was a plant on the edge, in a pot. A dull light came upon it. The writer, was filled with knots and weariness overcame her. She wished to do nothing, hearing the class' noise which was unbelievingly frustrating. A passionate desire seized her, an impulse with great power. Just to sit out, beyond the buildings and the roads and be able to stare at the rising morn in peace. She wished to feel the sweet dew soak through her skin, and refreshing, as she would sit in the grass. A great grief rose from the dust around her. The light was suddenly hidden by a grey dullness. The writer's spirit was very low. She ached from sitting down all the time, staring at this mass of depression covering the sun in the blink of an eye. All seemed much too sad, much too bad and uninviting to live through. And yet, it is known that the grey-blue sky looms and threatens to a frightening doom, there is still something beautiful and bright to see behind it, like a golden sun, rising from the deep.

Author's Note

I wrote this at 8:30 am, during my Italian class.