MOD C Imaginative PDF

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Summary

An ‘imaginative’ piece written by a year 12 student broken by the systemIn a world where I am bound by stiff and rusted shackles, ones that possess no key, writing was the one weapon that I could use to fracture the concealed crate detaining me, and feel. The rustic feel of worn parchment sliding th...

Description

An ‘imaginative’ piece written by a year 12 student broken by the system

In a world where I am bound by stiff and rusted shackles, ones that possess no key, writing was the one weapon that I could use to fracture the concealed crate detaining me, and feel. The rustic feel of worn parchment sliding through my fingers as each word immersed itself into the very fabric of my consciousness was pure bliss. Observing the intricately hand-picked words placed delicately on a page left me with premature tears in my eyes. It was the one thing that made me feel that I was meant to be here, and whilst it was probably only a fleeting moment, it distracted me from my inescapable paralysis. That’s the way it once was, before you took it all away from me…

It was as though the entire universe and I had a mutual understanding when my pen connected to paper, she told me tacitly what to produce. Everything made sense when my free thoughts were hurled at full flight onto a page, and whilst the chronology was always frighteningly nonsensical, everything just worked. But it didn’t always just happen when I wanted it to. Writing worked for me, like all natural phenomena. Like the ebb and flow of the waves; inevitable, but with an unpredictable force of each break on the sand. Like the blooming of evening

primroses, effusing their subtle aroma when the universe willed it. Like the vehement flush that engulfs your rationality when you accidentally brushed his hand walking across the street. You couldn’t possibly ask me to write an authentic response about such experiences coercively. The mere thought of it is absurd. But here we are. And that’s where the problem started.

***

I sat at my desk, the cogs spun rapidly, batteries overheated, wasted over a lost cause. You adjusted some of the bolts, I couldn’t see which ones specifically, but I could feel it. From your toolbox emerged a wrench and with it, you tightened the loose nuts and used the blunt of it to dent something into position, making it impossible to be removed. You closed my hatchet and screwed it shut with the Phillips head, handed me an assessment notification and 14 weeks time to genuinely capture the essence of a human experience.

You choked the air out of my lungs, restrained me and stuffed PEEL paragraphs, techniques, language forms and features down my throat.

Writing for me, was the one release where I could lean my head out between the bars and inhale deeply. Where I could feel the entirety of the cosmos sucked up into my two nostrils, and still be perfectly intact when I exhaled.

I don’t breathe any more, you programmed me to operate.

***

What once brought me inconceivable joy, you replaced with contempt, reluctance, disgust. I fear that if I succumb to what you make me do, I will lose myself, lose the unconditional reverence I have for my art. I am imparted with a sense of apprehension upon writing this particular piece and too many which have preceded this one. But how are you supposed to be conscious of the error in your ways? By inculcating a child like me, you will take away the only thing I have. I am but an empty vessel, a shell without my writing. When you strip me of my passion, I die with it.

Yet I am here writing you this piece. I am weak, I am a victim to you as we all are, but you’re pervasive, and as much as I’d like for us to go our separate ways, you’ll always catch up to me. It’s a sombre fact to accept and I thought by acknowledging it, it would make me feel again, but tolerance of the fact doesn’t detract from the numbness.

***

How dare you take this away from me.

The number burned into my mind, on the top left hand corner of the page serves as a constant reminder that you stole my humanity. Hope. Freedom.

You’d prefer anything written on paper to tick the boxes rather than something of substance that challenges you, a lifeless slob of compiled words that hold no true significance and dare not to step outside of the rigid lines you’ve drawn for us. And I fear that if I so much as slightly diverge from the uncomfortably claustrophobic parametres you’ve set me, you’ll just cut a few more wires, replace them with the more updated ones and exacerbate the automatic nature of my communication. I would truly like to understand what a human experience is. But how am I meant to let that notion percolate when you replace my soul with faulty wires, rusty bolts and empty batteries? How can I ponder on life’s deepest complexities with shallow logic? Can you expect me to give you a raw reflection of what is outside, imprisoned within walls, sitting face down at a chair and a desk?

***

The gears do not spin. The light bulb does not illuminate. Are you pleased? Is this the result you sought? If so, I commend you. You destroyed a free thinker, a rarity that will soon morph into a myth. I am appalled at myself and with you because you made me do this. Life has been beaten out of me, and the final pitiful remnants of it exist on this page....