Short descriptive writing: Nostalgia

Trepidation and nostalgia replaced the interminable melancholy as i entered the room which stood erect for years only to be inundated with dust. At one corner of the room lay a swollen mass of crammed paper; a multitude of greatest work of the greatest writer unknown to anyone.

As I skirted around the room rummaging for his concealed works, I realized that the oldest residents of this house were the spiders with walls beautifully encrusted with cobwebs. There was a thin creek meandering from the tap making it's way all the way down ruining the once used to be garish paint. The dilapidated walls seemed to be pockmarked with a volley of bullets, one of which went through dad. Indeed a planned murder disguised as suicide.

I could smell his essence emanate as I dusted his timber bed and imagine him opening his eyes at dawn and shutting them again only to find that sleep escaped him. He would then wake up and crib about his useless back and fumble towards the cattle to fill the room with the smell of caffeine, just the way he likes it.

Soused with tears and saturated with emotions, I picked up the partially torn paper. His writings and words always invigorate me; gives me the strength to fight and live for myself in this callous epoch.

The gloomy room waited to be lit and the used-to-be-plush bed awaited for dad to lounge upon and do all his captivating work, to write and sing to mom. The desk which exposed all his creation was now contorted and decorated with specks of grey and stains of brown.

I felt so lonely in this room. The weird, unusual kind of alone that bore into me. It was a feeling way beyond fear and something next to pensive. It was dark and gloomy, and yet, it didn't seem that things would be better if the lights were turned on. It was a melange of guilt, fear and helplessness. The sole purpose of my life now is to get dad acknowledgement for his work and justice for his life.