Freesia Stucco D2 ~DONE~

We all imagine a place; where swallowing silver spoons were not just done by the degenerates, and where vices and virtue went hand in hand; long lost lovers embracing each other for one of the first and last times before tragedy and melancholy drowned them like two anchors at sea. That tug you'd occasionally feel in your chest could suddenly take on so many faces; breathe so many truths. Yet, when you are grounded and really honest with yourself, all of that sumptuous vernacular was simply used to garnish your emotions.

But people like me never mind it, now do we? My kin; ironically not of consanguinity. Never. Only in our psyche, our thoughts. The ones who were never tenacious; willing to throw their lives away for something they loved more than anything. While they choked on their own blood, we choked on stardust. While they were called champions, we were dreamers- convicted of theorizing of the highest degree. Guilty because- instead of Careers- we were poets, artists,  photographers, hopeless romantics. Teachers.  Everything your originators never wanted you to be.

I suppose I knew what I wanted to be in life when my lecturer had spoken to me about individuality; fighting against the regime- the humdrum and the vagueness emanating from the title that forever would hang around my neck like a fetter: Victor. Everyone seemed to like to look at the short-term; but he warned me of the mortiferous repercussions of our actions; the one of many things that could send your fictitious reality spiraling down.

He taught me the short-lived escape books could offer, the benevolence it could show a man. But, to me, this wasn't just altruism of my higher-up, this was a way to be everything you wanted to be; have nothing, but all things. Just in tiny little scribbles (reading made me realize that I was a hopeless romantic). It was a world I wanted to show to people who would be just like me- not able to fit in, to run with best of them; that we could be whoever and whatever we wanted to be if we dreamed big and had the audacity to do so. If not for him, I'd probably still be imprisoned in a Training Room, wondering if this is what I actually wanted for my life. What was the point of doing something if you didn't do it well?

No matter how much I pled with my parents on the subject, they did not listen. They didn't believe you could be something other than a Career. They didn't believe in a literary world where my eyes were not just brown, they were apple pips, or my hair was not just simply dark, but an ochre wave protruding from my scalp in loose, unkept curls. My cheeks weren't just red all the time, they were flushed.

And, no matter how many times they threatened me, I did not listen to them. I was fated; predestined to be a teacher. Because trying to be something I would never be seemed so inconsequential; so utterly pointless. When they told me I would have to find another place to call home because I would not respect their wishes, i cried i cried i will always cry I merely laughed.

Home was never where I would lie my head, but where I felt most alive. And I never felt more alive than when I had a book in my hand. They loved me, they said. Lies. Even though I never possessed the guile to do so myself, I saw right through them as if they were cellophane.