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Example research essay topic: Moving From One Part Of The Paper Father - 1,226 words

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ote: a "vocabulary" essay "Children are completely egoistic... " - Sigmund Freud He awoke for the third time that morning, or that afternoon, only to open his eyes to the small basement window, which, once again, beheld a motionless picture of sadness between its corners. His mother, the woman who had left him a trail of messages scrawled on sticky notes before she drove to work, had told him fall would come quickly this year. He crawled out of bed, leaving it in a state of unrest, and approached the door, watching his feet as if he was a newborn still learning to walk. He moved the doorknob slowly, not to avoid disturbing his family, for there was no one home, but to avoid disturbing his thoughts. The state of tranquility had transcended the dimension of his dreams and he was now walking on the line between fantasy and reality. Although he was within the foothills of his own mind, his physical aspects, his hands, his feet, were active in searching for balance among the white walls and white rug.

He now came to the steps, twenty of them exactly, as he knew from times that he and his little sister gleefully counted them, and glided up the railing. Underneath the white door at the top of the stairs laid a sliver of light, one that attempted to crack open the crevice between his upper and lower eyelids. He opened the door and the sound of a police car ran from his left ear to his right, ringing and reverberating within his skull, as if he was sitting in the front row of the movie theater. He had awakened, now for the fourth time. His father had told him that he should wake earlier, he being a firm believer in calendars of inspirational quotes and framed photos of people overcoming obstacles, and things of such nature. The father was no preacher but he had been preached to, he was no counselor but counselors had analyzed him, and he was no "genius" but he had engaged in discourses of and taken courses on the Bible, literature, and theater.

The father was no fool; it was only the costume his son put onto him. Any outsider would see the parents, two successful, respected members of society, and then see the ignorant and inarticulate son and question what could have happened in the mixing of two ideal pieces of DNA. The father, learned in the category of art, had labeled his son, whose name, you should probably know, is Thom, the teenage of suburbia "in search of absolutely nothing." This was taken from the title of a Dali painting. Thom resented this because he considered himself an artist, and he respected Dali and wanted no reason to dislike him. There was artwork framed around the room, actually, some of Thoms paintings from seventh and eight grade with little A marks written in red ink at the corners, lying side - by - side with famous painted landscapes of places that seemed nonexistent and family portraits with smiling faces and crying babies. Moving from one distraction to another, he switched on the radio, turning the dial left from the oldies of the middle - aged to his "favorite" public radio station.

Of course, this was a best of the worst scenario, since Thom had tired of every other song that floated down the circular mainstream river that is called FM radio. The commentators were either "fair", without duplicity, or "moderately" liberal, and they spoke in normal, nearly conversational voices, rather than yell as in the verbal 3 - minute boxing matches of political pundits. He filled a glass halfway with ice, and filled the rest of the glass with water from the tap because he was thirsty. He pulled out the paper and read the comics, finding solace; he drew a mental comparison between a cartoonist and a child who puts his picture up on the refrigerator. He took out the real part of the paper, the laden part of the paper, and looked at the picture on the front. There was a sad woman, maybe despondent, crying or maybe yelling while the remnants of some building were seen aflame in the distance behind her.

He sighed once, and then sighed again, the second time simply because he felt like it. Maybe the blood was flowing towards his brain, or maybe it was an ambulance passing by in the distance, but something was ignited within his mind. "Oh, he thought to himself, "I have a history paper due tomorrow. " The anxiety of the paper was a fleeting thought. Moving from one irritant to another, the sounds of the radio switched from the political to "Sunday evening bluegrass", bluegrass being possibly the most despised music genre of young North Easterners with anything above an elementary education. He walked slowly over to his cd case, or cd tower as it was appropriately labeled in the store, shaking his head while he overheard the announcer talk about the musicians on the program that day. "We have Earl Grossman on banjo, Ed Johnson on the milk carton...

He took out his Rage album, hesitated a moment to look at the discs cover, and then put the disc into the stereo. The song built up to shouting lyrics, and he shouted with them, singing "my slaving, sweating, the skin right off my bone, on a bed of fire Im choking, on the smoke that fills my home", to an absent audience whilst tapping the rolled up paper against the breakfast table. He contorted his face, imitating the visage of the lead singer, whom he had seen in some "political" music videos. Caught in that intense satisfaction of distraction, he knocked the glass of water onto the table, and watched the liquid threaten to soak the rest of the paper.

He quickly cleaned up the mess, using the towel, which served to maintain the cleanliness of all persons and objects in the house, and then, disappointed that he had committed an act of responsibility for his actions when no else was around, drifted to the couch in the living room. He could still hear Rage, and was now annoyed that the vocalist never stopped his rant for the entire 45 minutes of the disc. He moved back over to the cd player, his pants dragging across the tile, and put in an older composition of Beethoven. His father had recommended that he play such music, citing Time magazine articles in which it supposedly raised IQ levels or did something to that effect and quoting politicians who say currently popular teenage music is deleterious to its listeners. Truly all Thom wanted now was sleep and mollify his irritation; so he drifted towards the couch picking out parts of Beethoven's music that he had recognized from movies. Whilst passing from the kitchen to the living room, he noticed the bathroom window was wide open, and was the only window in the house open, and smirked.

He closed the window, which must have been the source of the sounds outside that had stirred him from his "reality", and continued the long journey towards the couch without any more obstacles. When he awoke for the fifth time, his father was scolding him for forgetting to turn off the stereo.


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