Hello, I have an English assignment due tomorrow morning

Hello, I have an English assignment due tomorrow morning.
The Question is "write a narrative within which the main character experiences an awakening or realization".


Here is my story. What should I change?

Who would have thought a sugar cube has all the answers?
As it touches my tongue, I feel it corrode, its kindliness sweetness tantalising my mouth as the sucrose overpowers the flavour of the lysergic acid diethylamide imbedded within its grains.
Now we wait.

My mirror on my wall paints a picture of me. Six hours until I’m thirty six, what have I accomplished? A lone silver hair plunges from beneath my fingertips, landing upon my shoulder, speckled with crystals of dandruff. I hate my eyes, even in this light they’re a dull, decaying singed brown. What have I accomplished? It’s nearly my birthday and I’m alone, resorting to a brief diversion to materiality, the fruitfulness of my life. The antiquated time piece upon my mantle seems to be faster than usual. Its hands pulsating, its heart creeping further towards its death with each beat. Such a comical contrast that it’s situated next to a photo of us within the valentines frame you presented to me. You with your foul strawberry hair at the perfect length, your corrupt sapphire eyes, and your malevolent smile tearing us apart because of my innocent mistakes.

The time piece ticks once more, its hour hand twisting, bending, growing and condensing. Five hours until I’m thirty six. My room itself seems grimy, tea cups spotted with camomile pods are stacked upon the floor, the hinges upon my door feeble and rusted arching the door ever so much closer to me, and my ceiling with its cracks within the plaster are some memoir, a tattoo of decades of disregard.

Three hours until I’m thirty six. My room is there. That’s funny. No, my room is there. My head is here. How peculiar. Why, it does not seem to be here after all. I am here. I am alone. Nothing but dust moulded to be biotic. I am surrounded by dust filling our lives with the expectation for us to die, leaving behind but a trace, a memory ingrained into the minds of my descendants, until my second death when somebody says my name for the last time.
How grim. Tears fall down my cheek, dancing in slow motion as they slip away and decay upon the touch of the floor. My floor itself is alive, the hairs of the carpet are worms, breathing and intertwining themselves with each other. My carpet once was orange, but now it is yellow or peach, or marmalade. It is every shade, alternating spectacularly and coinciding with each press of the metronomic time piece upon my mantle. I am alone. Why am I alone? Am I alone always? Is everyone alone? Why am I alone?

(continued)

Fuck I am sorry, that was the unedited first part

Who would have thought a sugar cube has all the answers?
As it touches my tongue, I feel it corrode, its sweetness tantalising my mouth as the sucrose overpowers the flavour of the lysergic acid diethylamide imbedded within its grains.


Now we wait.

My mirror on my wall reflects a picture of me. Six hours until I’m thirty six, what have I accomplished? Dragging my fingertips through my hairline, I see silver hair beginning to replace what was once blonde, time is catching up to me.. I hate my eyes, even in this light they’re dull, decaying. Singed brown. What have I accomplished? It’s nearly my birthday and I’m alone, resorting to a brief diversion to materiality, the fruitfulness of my life. The antiquated time piece upon my mantle seems to be faster than usual. Its hands pulsating, its heart creeping further towards my death with each beat. Such a comical contrast that it’s situated next to a photo of us within the Valentine’s frame you gave to me all those years ago. You with your repulsive strawberry hair at the perfect length, your corrupt sapphire eyes, and your malevolent smile tearing us apart because of my innocent mistakes.
You disgust me. You’re just like the rest of the people on this decrepit planet. All you do is destroy. You’re the reason I’m alone tonight. You don’t care about me. You’re the same as everyone else. I’ve done nothing to deserve this

The time piece ticks once more, its hour hand twisting, bending, growing and condensing. Five hours until I’m thirty six. My room itself seems grimy, tea cups spotted with camomile pods are stacked upon the floor, the hinges upon my door, feeble and rusted, are arching the door ever closer to me, and my ceiling with its cracks is a memoir, a tattoo of decades of disregard.

Three hours until I’m thirty six. My room is there. That’s funny. No, my room is there. My head is here. How peculiar. Why, it does not seem to be here after all. My thoughts shouldn’t make sense. But the LSD arranges them perfectly.
I am here. I am alone. Nothing but dust moulded to be biotic. I am surrounded by dust, a system filling our lives with the expectation for us to die, leaving behind but a trace, a memory ingrained into the minds of my descendants, until my second death when somebody says my name for the last time. I will die leaving no trace upon this Earth. How grim. Tears fall down my cheek, weaving in slow motion as they slip away and decay upon the touch of the floor. My floor itself is alive, the hairs of the carpet are worms, breathing and intertwining themselves with each other. My carpet once was orange, but now it is yellow or peach, or marmalade. It is every shade, alternating spectacularly and coinciding with each press of the metronomic time piece upon my mantle. I am alone. Why am I alone? Am I alone always? Is everyone alone?

Eleven o’clock, eleven or ten, eleven or ten. The hand can’t decide, it’s moving between them. No. It is eleven. It was ten last time. When was last time?
The hairs on my arm are waving, an ebony forest rustling in the wind. Why are they not alchemising into silver, like those that rest upon my crown. This voice I hear. Why do I hear a voice? Am I compos mentis? Are you my conscious?

No, I am the answer.
Who are you?
Who am I?
Yes, who are you? What are you?
You know who I am.
Help me. Why am I nothing?

But you are nothing. You’re atoms on some rock within nothing.
Did you create me? Are you God?
You are nothing, a speck within the universe.
God, why am I alone?
You are alone because of you.
Why me?
Look upon the picture on the mantle, what do you see?
A whore and I.
What do you want to see when you look upon the picture?
Her and I.
Why is this not so?
Because of me.


I open my eyes, greeted with a multitude of colour, spiralling and uncoiling itself within my wall. The wall breathes in, draining the possessions of my room into it, reversing and reverting upside down, the clock upon the shelf is horizontal and diagonal and vertical and it’s trading places with the mantle. The mantle is contorting too much to make out the face of the clock, whose hands have now distorted into a blurred mess, with a tracer dragging itself behind the hands, giving me déjà vu over and over again as it repeats itself indefinitely.
Everything’s okay.

Is that the sunlight floating on a river through the window? Is it that early?
The mirror upon my wall is shimmering, with slight ripples still upon its surface, but nothing like the tidal wave from the past hours. I can clearly see the definition on my face. My eyes are beautiful. I love my eyes, they’re a brilliant hazelnut with a tincture of vermillion and their shape is jovial. The framed photo of her and I upon the mantel makes me smile, a snapshot of achievement’s, proof I am worth being loved. I will write a letter to her, she will see I’ve revised myself. The time piece beside the frame beats once more, counting down to the start of an alluring auspicious new day. I am thirty six years old.

Do you even know what some of the words you're using mean or did you just flip through a thesaurus? A lot of the phrases you wrote sound awkward as fuck.

Who the hell uses a thesaurus anymore?

But Yes I do, what words within this seem hard to grasp?

Except auspicious.
That does seem out of place.

stagnant and convoluted

And what would you suggest to change?

This shit sucks. Fuck you for putting this in front of me.

Beyond reproach.

Stopped reading at "who".

childish and pedantic

You describe your eyes, their color and then their shape, how can your irus have a friendly shape? - distinguish between iris and eyelids.

You say the word auspicious, but that is no communication to the audience; diary language.

'Alluring auspicious new day' 'let me cram words down your throat'

the audience would to know what, to you, makes an alluring auspicious new day alluring auspicious or even new.

'how grim'

'my floor is alive, the hairs of the carpet are worms' redundant language

Words and phrases like 'antiquated' and 'dragging my fingertips through my hairline' show apparent laziness in your will to create good writing.

'Her eyes were big and yellow, her eyes shone like titanic suns'

There's showing instead of telling, there's telling instead of showing, but you are telling and then showing. This, to me, though I don't know you, at least marks a progress from your previous works, which would previously have been -only- telling.


"
Three hours until I’m thirty six. My room is there. That’s funny. No, my room is there. My head is here. How peculiar. Why, it does not seem to be here after all. I am here. I am alone. Nothing but dust moulded to be biotic."

this is just plain dumb.

Drug trips are not profound by nature, pal.

O u

I think OP captures the thoughts of a tripper pretty well with "My room is there. That’s funny. No, my room is there. My head is here. How peculiar. Why, it does not seem to be here after all."

It's nonsense like that which does well to describe the thoughts of someone on LSD.

It would be rad if the dude tossed a sugar cube into his mouth, made faces in the mirror, fiddled with his clock, and did a backflip at some point. Also, there is a distasteful mixed metaphor in there somewhere.

Other ideas: the dude ultimately realizes that he's a tool; the dude realizes that he's actually turning 37, and had forgotten his real age; dude plays air guitar.

but that's not why we read user

I toss a sugar cube up in the air, and catch it with my mouth. How am I such a badass? The cube melts and tasty fluids mix with my saliva. Great. I swallow just like I used to do for my dad. Why did I have to remember that?

I make faces in the mirror, with a heavy sense of irony. I mutter, "What if anime was real?" Just like me, that comment remains forever alone; that question forever unanswered. I start to play air guitar.

ETC. You're welcome.

OP, your use of words is painful to read. Not only are your descriptions boring, the entire composition leaves nothing to the imagination. It just devolved into stream of consciousness rambling with zero charm. Why would you even begin by revealing the use of LSD, it's something that should be left for the reader to figure out or revealed at the end. Everything about this is clumsy and you even managed to avoid your assignment, because your character didn't awaken to anything or realize anything of even the tiniest significance. "Because of me" is not a worthwhile revelation here. Drug use doesn't equate to enlightenment.

Do you get outside much?

A+ critique right here

>As it touches my tongue, I feel it corrode, its kindliness sweetness tantalising my mouth as the sucrose overpowers the flavour of the lysergic acid diethylamide imbedded within its grains.

This description is just... Terrible
It's way too superfluous, why spell out LSDs technical name? Is this cunt going to know it?

>imbedded
No
>tantalising
No
>kindliness sweetness
No

Say something simple like... I don't even want to attempt it
Having a story revolve around drugs where the drugs aren't used as systematic oppression is just fcking dumb

do you want jazz hands instead of air guitar? could definitely include both.

If you turn into a poof of air after.

I'm sure that, over time, I'll turn into countless poofs of air. Not in the sense that you wish for, however. Jazz hands!

Piss into the windy tides my friend!

i really hate the "who woulda thought" opening. skip it, please.