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Scarred so many times, each wound had never fully healed. The molting hurts forever, a giant shell that never hardens.

I thought I had suffered enough when I left all that I have ever known, and thrived, to a place half a world away in distance and a whole world in reality. Sights, sounds, language, faces houses, flowers, all are so indifferently painful. When time sweetened the past, it only sharpens the pain of present.

Every time I recollect, this new burst of bitterness envelopes me until I finally see that there never will be any escape. I lived, in perpetual peace and seemingly, in snug satisfaction. In the naiveté of childish innocence, there were distinct feelings merely, each vivid and easily forgotten. When the travails to cross borders and boundaries were over, one hardly feels it anymore. I knew then, there is now and here, delightfully defined and definite. There was sadness in leaving and remembering but that was all. The young tears on the pillow fade easily.

The days passed merrily in the sun, gently awash in the soft embraces of the ocean and amidst the laughter in a tongue that I had began to understand. The turbulence of the mind was gradually settled, and I reached for the second time, a state of rejoice along with those who had grew up with me through enough years that our memories are nearly the same.

There was the routine of everyday life, a happy place, in which I remained apprehensive and happy, that blessed word. I cannot forget all the wonders that we used to share, small contentment, and a greater complacency that descended like a mirthful cloud. I knew the natural colors well. The view I had was imprinted on my mind by constancy of time alone. That familiar volcano which had loomed ever since I can think in the language of words, and the brilliant sea blended in one with the sky. All there, all gone now in my self prided decisiveness and self- sacrifice that I deemed will be right in the view of my future. The irony never ends, that year, I was but thirteen.

How young I was, I can say now, never realizing the things I might miss, and the sentiments and emotional turmoil that it would cause. Therefore, the pain returns a second time, displacing the other and adds to those I have already suffered. I weep now, here, once again, more bitterly, for those that I have lost, those that I have surrendered to childish ambition.

The conscious shape reality.

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The following comments are for "Moving Across Ocean"
by Furius

I only have one little thing that I would have suggested to do differently. This should have been submitted as an essay. This is great work. It is a little confusing, but great anyway.

( Posted by: The Hal [Member] On: March 13, 2002 )

this is a rant
Anything I write under 30minutes is considered a rant by me at least, especially this kind of sentimental piece. It was how I felt when I looked back on my past, and wrote during an outburst of melancholy. Its jumpy and almost seems too broad becuase of all those confounded feelings. But can I have any suggestions on how to write essay(s) out of it?

( Posted by: Furius [Member] On: March 14, 2002 )

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