The names in this story I am beginning may seem to line up with reality. However, I'd like to ask you not to assume that's the case, because though many situations I will write about in this piece are true, many are not. This is part one. The first of many parts.
"Paradox of mystic misfortune trying to soar to frightened souls with a message of brevity,
yet the people, they throw back outrage to break your wings and end your longevity.
Black satin of Satan, but your heart has silver thread,
pulsating fire away from that which is dead.
Angels blind demons, quicker shadows will cease,
black flame unfolds, magic in every crease.
People! Listen to whom I quoth "Nevermore!"
Let go of inhibition and word of "Lenore!"
Your power unspent, Hell ashore, the tide,
people know from fate they cannot hide,
time again they refuse to abide.
They must learn wisdom, forget, recant the spells,
find a way to release from their hells.
You, Raven, bask in your wit
love's bleak mind hath misinterpreted."
I tried to relieve my dry throat. Speaking in front of the class was frightening enough when it was a presentation about something entirely factual. But this, sharing a creative work? Something my own imagination thought up? There was too much risk of judgement. I tried to spin it like what I had written was just an ode to a favorite poet of mine, Poe. An obvious choice for a favorite, yes, but there was a reason he is so well-known. I don’t think anyone really understands him the way he wanted to be understood though, and with that I felt a kinship toward him.
“Anyone have any comments? Questions?” Mr. Hayes asked. “Thank you for sharing that, Brittany.” I looked around the circle of desks, some faces were blank and obviously not here in the moment with the rest, some faces were confused, and some were, well, delighted. A smiling classmate raised her hand, and I really hoped she wouldn’t have any questions.
“Yeah,” she giggled. I had many classes with Lauren and I noticed whenever she spoke that she didn’t seem to take herself seriously. She laughed at her own words, maybe at even the thought that she could form coherent statements. She put doubt into herself before others even had the chance to. “I was just wondering,” she began. Oh fucking fantastic. “Who are the people you are referring to? Like society as a whole… or like a smaller group of people?” She looked at me with a genuinely puzzled expression. Then a look of shock ran over her face and she quickly added, “I also totally loved it by the way. So cool, so different.”
“Society as a whole. A generalized version, not viewing any ‘exceptions’ to the rule.” I stated.
“What rule?” Her second question took me by surprise.
“ The objective rule,” I couldn’t believe I was answering her. “The way that morals function in form of church and of state. For instance, murder is bad, thinking of others instead of yourself is good, love is important but family comes first. Stereotypes that are all too true in the hearts of many.” I was shaking. I didn’t like this. I didn’t like anyone to know what was going on in my mind, because I didn’t even know myself. If I gave them clues, maybe they could figure it out, and then I’d be the one left in the dark.
“Oh okay. “ She still looked as if she had no real idea of what I was getting at. Come on, I thought. Can’t you question the way you raised and the society you live in just once? This is an advanced english class for crying out loud, you must have some sort of artistic depth to take AP dramatic literature.
“Who’s Lenore?” A very quiet boy in the corner asked. I couldn’t remember his name, it was something complicated.
“The dead lover of the protagonist in the poem The Raven by Poe.”
“So, what’s the significance?”
I didn’t know how to answer him. I don’t know what the significance is, I thought. I just wrote it. Mr. Hayes could tell I was struggling. He stepped in.
“Brittany, did you have a message carved out in the poem you wanted to share with people? Like that of other authors during the gothic influenced romantic era?”
“N-no. I just wrote what I felt I should write.” Everyone looked confused. I know, you’re supposed to have an ending in mind when sculpting a beginning. But it didn’t work that way when I wrote, I just jotted down feeling and the words that were on the tip of my tongue. The bell rang, and my blushing red cheeks finally ceased burning. Saved, of course, by the fucking bell. And as I turned to leave the classroom, I heard my teacher calling out to me, I knew I would. He looked out for me it seemed, like he thought I was fragile. Like he knew I was fragile. I opened the door and I already saw a person waiting for me. A boy that I had completely given my heart and soul to. That I surrendered my life to with ease and no looking back.
I fucking love this.
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