Descriptive Writing

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As I sit here on my throne that once belonged to me I remember all the memories it brings. I now have to face the fact of the aging through time and space. Not everything stays the same. The cobwebs hang like drapes over everything, like it has been untouched for centuries. It looks almost normal. The piles of dust gather around the room, like big, plush pillows, ready to be rested on. My desk shouts out for a clean, books thrown around everywhere, without a care. The detailed writing merely fading of the hand written poem, fresh off the press, lying on a hardly ever used dictionary. As I turn in my chair memories come spiralling back. All the fun that came out of that one console, the thing that has moved on by so much now, my laptop. I bet no one will remember all the fun we had chatting, gaming and reconnecting with the other side of the world. This world has been left for good now. Garments are visible through the half closed door of my old closet. Fashion that would never come back, hangs there, wishing for a home. Although old, a great array of colours flow from within the dreary, bleak space, which once served as a hiding space for eager young faces. No one could find me there. All this brings tears to my eyes. Why did I never come back? I fluff the cushions in desperation for the past. The dust fills up the room like a magic puff from the genies lamp. As it fades away I turn my attention to the exhausted chair. It had supported far too many in its time and was beginning to give up. It crumbled as I desperately tried to dust it, bring it back to its own hope and glory that it once was before. The wall which had once been a bright sea blue was now dim and dull. It seemed as if the life and spirit had been sucked out. It was no longer a proud masterpiece of bold colour, rather a failed attempt to be chic and classy. There was no feel of time passing anymore as the clock had stopped. It was only 15:37 but yet the clock showed 18:12. I wonder what would...
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