He Made Me Feel Brave

Sometimes, I compare our society to the civilisations before and think, what a decline. Sure with modernisation came advancement and technology but at what cost? Technology has both benefitted and degenerated humanity. It has eased everyday tasks but has taken a toll on our survival instincts, on our diligence. It has made us indolent. We went from hunting for our food and creating our own shelter to having excessive amounts of food and drowning in debt for buying a home. And yet with all this easy access to our necessities and desires, we are still ungrateful, still so selfish we refuse to help our fellow humans who suffer, who haven't a morsel of proper food in months. We do not know how to appreciate and practise gratitude and that will be our downfall. Warriors would exert themselves to the absolute limit without a complaint, prepared to die in battle and then today, we cannot endure a school exam without completely breaking down. Hard work and resilience has been twisted so far to be perceived as impossible but what is the value of something if it wasn't attained with blood, sweat, and tears.

Is it really worthwhile if you didn't suffer a little bit?

Every individual wears glasses and each are a little different than the rest. Some are clear and rose-coloured. Some are cracked. Some tainted. And they all deliver different messages to us all. They are the conduit through which we perceive life but they can be very dangerous if one has a misplaced amount of reliance on them, if they never question how they're seeing their world, if what they're actually seeing is the truth. Negligence, ignorance, injustice, they are all the leaves of the same plant- unawareness. If one isn't aware of their vices, their shortcomings then how can they reflect and change in order to reach actualisation, to be enlightened. It is a poison that leeches in the minds of too many, they have become so stagnated they cannot even recognize their ills- it is truly pitiful.

I reflect on the whirlwind of a year this was. The situations that have befallen me, some I only thought existed within the pages of books. And yet, here I am having followed potential criminals into the darkest parts of town, been in the midst of bloody murders and investigations, attended a ball that was something out of a fairytale- albeit with a tragic plot twist. I've lost and gained, been frightened and thrilled but all for what?

There are so many loose ends. I haven't heard a word from Sonders and the police- I don't know if that should calm me or worry me. A pool of discomfort swirls within me, perhaps the absence of work and studies- the lack of distraction adds to my skepticism and uneasiness. I hated ignoring my instincts, "Follow your gut" was a mantra I whole-heartedly followed and going it against it never turned out well.

The sweeping sound of paper sliding under the front door, steals me away from the solitude of my thoughts. Swiftly, I pick it up to see a flyer of sorts on vintage parchment and Mediaeval font that read,

Annual Poetry Reading

Venue: Bodleian Library, Oxford University.

Time: 5-7pm

I had been so caught up in everything else, I had completely forgotten about the poetry reading, it was one of the only interesting events I ever had the chance to attend. In all honesty, ever since I moved to Oxford my life had increasingly become more spontaneous and unexpected.

Ever since I met Silas, that is.

I grip the paper, contemplating if I should go or if I should see Sonders, after all her silence on the case surely isn't good.

How mighty the burden of decision-making.

And how incessant the desire to avoid responsibility.

The poetry reading wins.

~~~

The crunch of snow beneath my feet slowly dissipates as I reach the towering, almost castle-like library. Despite the cold, the welcoming walls of Oxford never failed to grant me a warm embrace. I enter through the mahogany doors to feel the bustling aura of curious individuals, hungry for words. Hundreds of candles and old-timey lamps light up the room as people scatter all over. The smell of books and parchment, its woody, nostalgic and almost vanilla scent permeates the air- igniting memories that play like a film in my mind.

It took several support talks with myself in the mirror to force myself out the door. Professor says I should socialise more, that I write better, more authentically when I have life experience and actual conversations with real people-

It sent shivers down my spine.

After I plucked up the courage to, I strut through the library doors. At least the setting was familiar, baby steps. I was a little late, so I snuck behind people to a quiet corner. A youngish woman with brown skin and long black hair, styled in a plait stood and recited.

Finally situated, I listen to her. Her strong stance and engaging body language could've been enough to keep me entertained but her alluring tone as she delivered the last line,

"...And if the devil were to see you, he would kiss your eyes and repent."

Was what mesmerised me.

Many, and I am not exempt from this, remain too much in the world of known and famous literature that we unconsciously block out or forget the other magical realms that exist beyond what we are exposed to. That are just as good if not better. There is beauty in the unknown, in the secretive.

Oftentimes, what we haven't explored is the most puissant. But our feeble human minds only know what we know and what we do not will never see the light of day if we are not curious and open.

Farouq Jwaideh, an Arabic poet. The very one who crafted that poem, that line.

Shakespeare, John Keats, Sylvia Plath- these are all transcendent writers who undoubtedly etched themselves into our world but what about those who go unnamed. Those whose stories and words hold the power to transform us, to move us but we will never know it's influence, hear it's lyrical prose or feel it's majesty. Why? Do we all not deserve a voice?

In fact I believe one of the biggest mistakes humanity ever did was give too much sway to the foolish and not enough to the wise.

"Wise men speak because they have something to say. Fools, because they have to say something." -Plato.

"Enjoying the ambience, Burroughs?"

How is it that even someone's voice sounds smug?

I turn to the bearer of that deep, gravelly voice.

"Ah Golding. I certainly was." I reply, slowly turning to him. He wears a brown sweater, the same shade of his soft eyes the ones that contrast so immensely with his sharp features.

A slow grin, "I have a theory. Care to hear it?"

"Don't think I have much of a choice." I tilt my head to meet his.

"I think that you act like I annoy you but deep down you wouldn't have it any other way. In fact, I'll go as far as to say you love my company, perhaps even desire it. So pretend all you want... I've always loved games."

I laugh. I laugh hard. "Is that so, Golding?"

"Oh yes." He says smoothly.

"Well then I have a theory also." I declare. "As much as you act like I'm your competition. I know deep down you think I'm the best conversationalist you've ever engaged with and you only ever badger me the way you do is so you can get my attention."

He nods and gives a downward smile, "Well it doesn't take much, does it? When I speak or not, it seems your eyes are always on me."

"Mine!? Speak for yourself! Any room I'm in, you're gawking at me-"

"Shhhhh." Sounds the harsh voice of Madam Rosebury. He begins to stifle his laugh to which I shoot a less than delighted look. He purposely got a rise out of me to get me in trouble... and I always fall for it. But before I could dwell on it for too long another presenter came forth.

This time an old man. This in and of itself ignited a flame in my heart, how utterly beautiful it is to see both the elderly and the young connect on words from centuries past. He stood before us all and recited,

"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of being and ideal grace.

I love thee to the level of every day's

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right.

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death."

And as he said every perfectly crafted sentence and purposeful word, all he looked at was a woman in the front row. Of the same age as him, the same shared smile that decorated both their faces. Their love knew no bounds, they were so connected it was as though there was an unbreakable string tying them together, a force so powerful nothing could break it. His mouth was delivering a love poem but his eyes were conveying even more. Speaking to her in a language only they could understand. I didn't shy away from staring at them both, in awe, in a little bit of envy.

As if he sensed all the unsaid words lurking in my mind and recognised where my gaze was set at, Silas looked at them as well before settling on me.

"Do you believe love like that exists? Love like in the books?" I ask.

He doesn't say anything for a moment, just looks at me. "I do."

I look up to meet his eyes and they're brimming in sincerity.

"I dare you to go up there and read us a little something." I challenge, gesturing to the spot where that old man was.

He huffs a laugh, "Burroughs, I think I've been a bad influence. My spontaneity might be wearing off on you."

I shrug my shoulders.

"Alright but on one condition. You do it as well." he asserts.

I smile in response. Immedietly, we make our way to the coordinator of the event and write our names to perform next. Usually, I'd rather be beaten with a cactus than say anything in front of a crowd but doing it with someone and none other than, Silas, gave me the courage to do it.

He made me feel brave.

I forced him to go first. He saunters in front of the crowd.

"It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

I and my Annabel Lee—

With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsmen came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

Went envying her and me—

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we—

Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in Heaven above

Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,

In her sepulchre there by the sea—

In her tomb by the sounding sea."

He was a performer too. The crowd erupts in applause.

Edgar Allen Poe, the father of Gothic literature. I loved many poets and authors but Poe set himself apart from the others in so many alluring ways.

Golding had good taste, I suppose.

"I'm a fan favourite, Burroughs. It'll be hard to beat." He says, cocking his head.

I smirk, "We'll just see about that." Ignoring the nervousness, I take my position. Too many eyes stare at me. What ifs of every kind plague my mind. What if I mess up? What if I didn't choose the right poem?

I take in a deep breath, my sight falls on Golding, on his smug smile. Suddenly, the power to wipe it off his face and prove him wrong surges through my veins. Seeing him stand there, centres me but also culminates my competitive urges.

"Hope is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I've heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me."

Finishing, I see the smiles of the audience as they applaud me. Looking to Golding, he beams brighter than all the rest. "You did... well, Burroughs. But I think the applause for me was much louder." He whispers, grabbing my coat and placing it on my shoulders.

"Whatever lets you sleep at night, Golding." I reply as we walk out the door.

We spent the rest of the night walking around town. If Oxford was enchanting in the daytime, it was even more so during the night, seductive even. We bought pretzels and enjoyed its warm, salty flavour under the moon as we spoke for hours.

Sure he was a cocky asshole, but perhaps a cocky asshole who was good company.