*Dissident*
October 10th, 2006, 10:28 PM
this is a vignette about the situation of my private school and of the world in general:
The Trees and the Grass
As I walked along the gritty, cold side walk, on my way to another class, I tear at the white uniform shirt collar and regal necktie with the school colors on it. Is the sole purpose of this necktie and tight collar to suffocate me? To block my Voice and my breath? As I wish for freedom, the thousands of soft organic fingernails belonging to the trees seem to enwrap me, taking me as one of their own. They wish for me to join them, to be like them, and like none of them. Oh, how I dream of becoming a tree. I want to become rooted, but free, to be slender, but wide, to branch out, but remain me. I walk to the poplar closet to me, and stroke its rough bark with the back of my tired hand. I look down, and see the blades of grass surrounding the trees. I would rather be me, than a blade of grass, I think to myself. To be one in a sea of thousands, all clones, all small and neat. Every time I would branch out, become taller, and wider, and wilder, I am cut down, down to the same level as my peers, all the same, and proud and pretty. I stroke my silken hair, the long strands curling with joy and crying with freedom. I pass by what used to be a tree, but is now only a stump, with rings like wrinkles and the smell of dead things. Is all that is free destined to be cut down? Yes, I say. But I will not be cut down. Because I am not truly free.
The Trees and the Grass
As I walked along the gritty, cold side walk, on my way to another class, I tear at the white uniform shirt collar and regal necktie with the school colors on it. Is the sole purpose of this necktie and tight collar to suffocate me? To block my Voice and my breath? As I wish for freedom, the thousands of soft organic fingernails belonging to the trees seem to enwrap me, taking me as one of their own. They wish for me to join them, to be like them, and like none of them. Oh, how I dream of becoming a tree. I want to become rooted, but free, to be slender, but wide, to branch out, but remain me. I walk to the poplar closet to me, and stroke its rough bark with the back of my tired hand. I look down, and see the blades of grass surrounding the trees. I would rather be me, than a blade of grass, I think to myself. To be one in a sea of thousands, all clones, all small and neat. Every time I would branch out, become taller, and wider, and wilder, I am cut down, down to the same level as my peers, all the same, and proud and pretty. I stroke my silken hair, the long strands curling with joy and crying with freedom. I pass by what used to be a tree, but is now only a stump, with rings like wrinkles and the smell of dead things. Is all that is free destined to be cut down? Yes, I say. But I will not be cut down. Because I am not truly free.