Thursday, October 10, 2019
A Creative Response to Belonging
RyanÃ¢â¬â¢s Story Ã¢â¬â Untitled so far You stay in your room like a locked away Rapunzel. Well not locked in fact Ã¢â¬â matter of the choice rather. ItÃ¢â¬â¢s like fiery dragons attack you every time you attempt to escape your temple. You study, you work, study again, read some, then you study some more. ItÃ¢â¬â¢s the same repetitive routine throughout your days between the same four egg-white walls. Ã¢â¬ËNo common sense! Ã¢â¬â¢ you are told. Ã¢â¬ËNone what-so-everÃ¢â¬â¢, burns your delicate skin. What are you supposed to do? Visit the Wizard of Oz and ask for a glass brain? Or maybe obsess with Thomas Paine for a week or two? No, only the flame throwers presented at the exit is awaiting your so called Ã¢â¬ËenlightenmentÃ¢â¬â¢ Ã¢â¬â and even the pain isnÃ¢â¬â¢t crossed knuckles with humiliation. You feel trapped but simultaneously free Ã¢â¬â free from any such connection with the fire you have been accustomed to or rather such societal dictatorship controlling your every thought, presenting a more confused, liberated Rapunzel. You are somewhat connected with surrounding people despite the closed door. An interconnected spiderÃ¢â¬â¢s web comes to mind, perhaps behind a series of branches and scuffled leaves. Even though you are somewhat acquainted with these people, you can never seem physically Ã¢â¬ËconnectedÃ¢â¬â¢ with them. Maybe itÃ¢â¬â¢s the closed door? Or maybe itÃ¢â¬â¢s the fact that you over-analyse everything until the point where self-disappointment slaps your red hard across the face. All you want is to be alone, far from what these people think, but yet want to be a part of the envious spiderÃ¢â¬â¢s web large enough for your contribution but possibly not strong enough. You think of a similar case of Emily Dickinson. She wants to post her letter, she wants to publish her poetry but in the end she doesnÃ¢â¬â¢t because of fear. Fear of what other people may think if it, ever so lonely in her secluding room. That similar closed door painful to think about, but comforting to realise collectively. What people think of you, itÃ¢â¬â¢s a scary thought really. What thoughts scatter around in otherÃ¢â¬â¢s brains, without your control or prejudice. You look outside your window, rather similar to the day before. A sky filled with cloud secluding the sunÃ¢â¬â¢s precious touch. The lime tree half dying, half growing in the midst of an insect infested environment. The green grass connected to the thin line of stalk, reaches higher to the sky then your window does, awkwardly enough. You refrain from such a scene and reach back into one of your books awaiting another life far from here Ã¢â¬â rather to the City of Invention you are peculiar about. If ever you yourself were to write a novel, short story, poem, script or anything of the sort Ã¢â¬â it would be one of such power and profit. The antagonist would be a devilish character, somewhat misunderstood in more ways than one Then maybe your dragons could have spot for fame Ã¢â¬â a Rocky Horror show without the horrorÃ¢â¬ ¦Ã¢â¬ ¦. wait, maybe with the horror as well. The devilish characterÃ¢â¬â¢s name would be Thomothius, Thom for short. He would attempt to escape the cannibalistic village he was forced to inhabit. A woman, always admired by Thom would stop him in his tracks and lure him underground. There she would drill question upon answer into ThomÃ¢â¬â¢s poor glass brain until Thom were to surface again as a farfetched Steven King character. From this point in time, villagers notice this strange happening and fear for their lives. (Cannibals fearing their lives, who could imagine? ) The King and Queen Dragonheart would encompass their power upon the false notions of their people and hang poor Thom for the villagers to see like the mouldy and grass infested socks pegged to the clothes line in the corner of your window. This of course will create peace and prosperous tranquillity to roam around the various blood-stained streets, never really understanding what evil was present. Not really profitable when rethought about. Here you fall out of this novel and back into the silent pages you hold. Your silent tear will continue to rise like condensation, above all morals and belief that confide in your pride. From this, what is needed to be understood? It is that you will not find your Mr Darcy stuck between the space between your window and your room. It is that you will not have a happy ending unless you face your demons, or in this case dragons. Yet you remain silent in your room, thinking of how this Thom could be the only person you can really connect with.