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The prompt was
This is not written for the young or the light of heart, not for the tranquil species of men whose souls are content with the simple pleasures…. Rather, I write to those beings like myself whose existence is compounded by a lurid intermingling of the dark and the light; who feel too keenly and churn with too great a passion; who have an incessant longing for happiness and yet are shadowed by deep and persistent melancholy.
Too much action without enough interiority.Could you give feedback on my essay so far
He was a murderer.
A regretful act changed his feelings, it all began when he was a young boy, when he was surrounded by lush golden wheat fields, at which his father worked. His house adjoined the field, it was nothing but shameful. The walls were made of wood, exposing the paint that had chipped away and a pungent smell of sweat and sewage engulfed the house. Ewart hated that he had to share this minuscule house with four other families, which alienated the word privacy to him until he witnessed a mansion in the city from the outside that had gleaming windows and majestic exteriors. He dreamt of owning a splendid mansion and eating food that was not stale. One day as he gazed through the window, he noticed the plump and powerful chickens prey on defenceless worms; it made his eyes red, while he clenched his fist. He anticipated for the night and discretely scavenged a kitchen knife, which he hid earlier on. Resembling a wolf he set to prey on these heartless creatures. The knife gleamed reflecting the brilliant moonlight, which ensured he had enough light to locate his victims. The chicken twisted and shook violently in desperation until a swift cut, unleashed streams of bright red blood, which oozed from its neck. One by one, they vanished facing the same fate as the first chicken. Content that he prevented injustice and disregarding the death of the chicken, he slept peacefully.
Unlike the majority of children, who had compassion Ewart emerged into manhood, with an inexhaustible quench for power and wealth, while a prominent group infiltrated British circles. Ewart was in a dimly lit coffeehouse that had a yellowish tint that emanated from the tungsten bulb, when a colossal man with broad shoulders wearing an unusual black suit entered. It was of Coal Black. A black, that conjured the evilest of spirits. The owner came rushing to serve this man named Henry, but instead of reverence in the owner’s eyes, one could see fear. The owner’s legs and hands shook heedlessly, while streams of perspiration sprang from his face. Thoughts cascaded his mind. Optimism won in the battle of thoughts and seizing this opportunity Ewart approached the cynical man. Before Ewart even asked a question the man responded by saying, “ I know you want to join, but you need to prove yourself to the masters and if you do so, unseen power and wealth will accompany you.” Ewart stood spellbound, theorizing how the man knew his feelings and later followed the man into an intriguing castle.
A large portcullis, made out of brittle rusted iron creaked as it rose slowly and revealed an image that sent blood-curdling tremors to Ewart’s body. It was like nothing he had previously experienced, vast and ancient. Through the dusk, the faint irregular texture of stones could be seen. Ewart was mesmerized and captivated by peculiar symbols. A shrill noise could be heard as the wild wind howled. He anxiously turned desperately searching for an exit out of the lustreless place. The heavy timber of the door groaned as it closed entrenching them in the gloom. Henry lit a torch in an attempt to dissipate the darkness. Henry led the way as they set foot in a chamber occupied by bizarre figures in identical clothing. Glancing at his own pearl white clothing, in contrast to the stygian clothing of the others, he felt estranged from the group.