A Creative Response to Belonging

Ryans Story Untitled so far You snag in your room like a locked away Rapunzel. Well non locked in fact matter of the choice rather. Its like blooming(a) dragons attack you every time you attempt to escape your temple. You study, you work, study again, pick up some, then you study some more. Its the same repetitive subroutine throughout your days between the same four egg-white walls. No green sense you argon told. N maven what-so-ever, burns your delicate skin. What are you conjectural to do? Visit the Wizard of Oz and ask for a glass spirit?Or mayhap obsess with Thomas Paine for a week or two? No, only the flame throwers presented at the exit is awaiting your so called insight and even the pain isnt crossed knuckles with humiliation. You feel detain only if simultaneously free free from any such liaison with the fire you have been accustomed to or rather such societal dictatorship fudgeling your every thought, presenting a more confused, liberated Rapunzel. You are fairly connected with surrounding large number despite the closed introduction.An connect wanderers web comes to mind, perhaps behind a serial publication of branches and scuffled leaves. Even though you are somewhat acquainted with these people, you can neer seem physically connected with them. Maybe its the closed door? Or maybe its the fact that you over-analyse everything until the point w here self-disappointment slaps your red rocky across the face. All you want is to be alone, far from what these people think, only when yet want to be a part of the envious spiders web large enough for your contribution but maybe non strong enough.You think of a similar case of Emily Dickinson. She wants to agency her letter, she wants to publish her poetry but in the end she doesnt because of veneration. alarm 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 p eople think of you, its a shuddery thought actually. What thoughts scatter around in others brains, without your control or prejudice. You look outside your window, rather similar to the day before.A thresh about filled with cloud secluding the suns precious touch. The unslaked lime tree half dying, half growing in the midst of an biting louse 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 face and reach back into one of your books awaiting another life far from here rather to the City of Invention you are peculiar about. If ever you yourself were to save up a novel, short story, poem, script or anything of the sort 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 a Rocky Horror show without the wickedness. wait, maybe with t he horror as well. The devilish characters 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 Thoms pathetic glass brain until Thom were to surface again as a unlikely 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 wearing apparel line in the corner of your window. This of course go forth create pink of my John and prosperous tranquillity to roam around the various blood-stained streets, never really understanding what evil was present. Not really profitable when re thought about.Here you reflect 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 whim 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.