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The Writer's Meeting with both Muses and Critic.
The inner recesses of my mind smelled like excrement and garbage, the mind that has never been used or put to the test. It is true what they say.
"If you don't use it, you lose it."
A series of doors revealed themselves as small black rats scattered from the hint of light peeking under the bottom. Walking through the waste, I noticed some of the materials which were in it. An airplane, a machine that appeared to be from some sort of movie, and a book and pencil. All the dreams that I had lost due to outside forces denying me them or my lack of willpower and interest to get past the training required for these dreams. Shoving these symbols of lost dreams away with my shoe, I moved past the refuse and towards towers and towers of books, dusty and old.
My hand reached over to take a book by its spine, my breath blowing over the dust on the cover. The title had read "The Fly in the Ointment". I realized that this book was a book that I had to read during my junior year, a witty book of chemistry and science that proved that natural is truely not better than synthetic as well as the blatant anger displayed towards a man named Kevin Trudeau, a seller of false products and the writer of a book called "Natural Cures They Don't Want You To Know About."
As soon as my mind had finished registering what the book was, the book exploded with a white light, leaving nothing behind. Thick piles of dust covered the rest of those books, making me ignore the books and continue walking on towards my path. A path that I do not know where it will lead, but will soon find out.
Kicking a book with a broken spine out of my way, my eyes laid upon the junk that cluttered the path. Papers of all kinds were scattered upon the path, red and black ink scattered upon its form. My hand reached over a paper and flipped it over. An essay with the grade of 76 about Beowulf.
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I promptly crumpled that paper and threw it, though it didn't get too far. As I continued walking this paper covered path, a yellow paper had caught my eye. It was a paper describing the process of producing and metabolizing ATP. Out of curiousity, I decided to read the paper and before long, the paper had exploded in a bright light as well.
My eyes were dazed from the flash of light and I decided to just continue on, wishing to get out of this place. My feet feverantly moved, my body dashing towards the exit until I fell. It was a painful crash to the ground with a skid across the rough sandstone ground. Friction burning the skin on my chest, I winced as I moved a hand to rub the afflicted area, lacking the desire to find the extent of damage even though blood had started to saturate my white sweater.
From my position on the ground, my head tilted up and I stared on ahead. Sandstone made up this landscape with the garbage far behind it. The door, though it never decreased in size, continued to appear as though it was a short distance away, as if to mock me for my efforts. This thought had angered me and gave me the drive to continue on despite the rocks embeded in my skin. Extending my arms into the ground, I slowly lifted myself up to my feet though I nearly fell afterwards from the effort. Determination replaced blood and pain, and I continued to limp forward.
I did not get far though. I had only limped forward for a couple of minutes until I saw a large expanse blocking my way. A break in the ground seperated me from the door in the horizon. Staring at the sight of possible death, I kicked a rock into the ground.
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A thud rang through the air. It was a long way down and definitely not survivable. He stared down at the rock face, the rocks have been eroded to a near perfect smoothness either by the high winds slashing at his faces or the small stream that remained from a large stream.
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