Twelve Hours Essay -- Papers

Twelve Hours 6.42 p.m. January 17th The doors signalled the end. They signalled the end of the journey, the end of the obsessive excuse qualification and theory-formulating process that had lead him here. It was these doors that told him it was over he had at once to face reality. He often considered them as the gates to hell, by the very nature of what goes on tail them. His hatred for the place ran deep it was a constant occurrence on his timeline that now rested at June 17th, 1989. 1989, he thought to himself. 2 years now this place had been part of his life. Two years of visits, crying and emotional breakd cause. Two years of constant fluctuations in his marital life that lead him to question his sanity. The refinement examination of the degree of sanity that he may possess that had brought him here thus far. Madness? He sometimes thought so. Now, yet again, the outlook was bleak. Was this a chapter in his life that was going to be closed here to night, on this very godforsaken night? So, here he was, in front of those doors again. I look back fondly. When life was to be lived and where death was something that never touched you or affected you in anyway. Death? Here, yet again I develop myself talking about death. Maybe its the nature of the situation that death is obviously the outcome. Have I a right to speak like this? No? I believe I have. Two years in the spectrum of life is a long time. Wars are fought in less time, friendships forged and relationships ruined. Two years ago, twain long years, which now I look back and try and gather some reason for the time I have spent savaged by my own emotions. Often it is the sun dappled path ... ...mself, question why he left it so late to tell the woman he loved good how much he loved her. The scene rests on the moment he laid himself over his wife. We sit still watching the quiet crying of a man in great pain. The memories he held of her would be with him forever. As the scene gently fades into obscurity and the colour is washed out into a grey wishful item a sense of calm quells up inside. The loss of human life means so much more than this sentence would suggest. No terminology can describe what emotions we have without someway distorting the truth and removing the uniqueness and individuality of the love. That is why I will not end this story with a habitual and mediocre ending, for it deserves so much more. That is why I will leave it up to you and let you decide an ending that is justified and meaningful to you.