Toscani's Benetton Advertising Campaign
Adoption Debate
The Mt. Sigmot Ruins
Monologue (as Syme from George Orwell's '1984')
Fortitude - Chapter 1
Fortitude - Chapter 2
‘Untitled’
By Beth Sheerin
The harmonies of our heartbeats stain their callous souls.
The fiery yearn unfolds inside our minds as it does theirs.
The same passions; the same excitements flourish in them
As they do in us to their foolish misconceptions.
The Government compile the bills and sign the sheets of paper
thinking that their conducts will suffice. And yet, they,
Who rarely look past their ego – witness our torture:
Across the street, late at night, in that very alley way.
Many two-faced politicians secretly agree.
What makes you so different from my people and me?
Our hearts have the capacity to feel pain. So do yours.
Our eyes can distinguish black from white. So can yours.
Our souls are born angelic, not demonic. So are yours.
Our appearances differ. We’re not perfect; we have flaws.
We’re really not that different! We don’t wish to even scores!
Accept us. Please. We wish to end all wars.
Is Oliviero Toscani’s Benetton Advertising Campaign suitable for display?
By Beth Sheerin
I believe, despite the distressing appearance of Toscani’s Benetton advertising, that all of his advertisements are both effective and appropriate. You could argue that his work was not only distressing, but also morally corrupt; however I would have to disagree with you as Toscani brought the harsh truth and reality into the world of anorexia and stereotypes that is advertisement.
Toscani himself, I believe, is not so different from the famous pop-artist Andy Warhol. There are many aspects of each other’s personalities which are far from dissimilar. They both brought the harsh truth and reality into the corrupt, opinionated world. Andy changed art forever but his work was and still is debated about; whether or not his subliminal messaging was intentional or misinterpreted as genius although it was simply ‘something for him to do’. His followers and fans believe that he only wanted those capable to understand him to be able to comprehend his works at all. Similarly, Oliviero Toscani claims that he’s a ‘radical liberalist’ and a ‘total anarchist’; however he reveals this once his work with Benetton had deteriorated into unemployment. Taking this into consideration, his advertisements suddenly transform into one of the best equality campaigns ever to be executed, up there at the top with Martin Luther King.
His photos weren’t edited or modelled; they were real life and real people. In the same respect, his true motive in my belief was not to gain wealth and popularity, but to raise awareness of things other than possessions; to raise awareness of reality – a difficult concept to grasp in our modern, technological world. Most people think that life’s a breeze, and that’s why I agree with Toscani’s attempts at disproving their thoughts as uncomfortable or distressing for them it may be. Our world, as just and righteous as we believe it to be, has many, many flaws. Toscani points them out within the catacombs of contradiction he created by publishing his campaign nation-wide. Taken literally, the adverts are inappropriate, bearing no relevance to Benetton itself. Although even after analysis relevance is something which cannot be commented on, inappropriateness can be, as Toscani is merely portraying the truths of the world onto a bill-board. If the publication of the truth is an inappropriate sight then surely the truth itself is the problem. If this is the case, what has Toscani really done that’s more in the wrong than any other current affair such as the Bosnian war?
In nineteen ninety four, Toscani produced a campaigning shot called “Bosnian Soldier.”
The picture: a pair of blood stained combat trousers and a casual, potentially civilian, pink-coloured tee also with the same splatter of soldier, Marinko Gagro’s, blood. The issue being raised here is war. War is wrong by any definition and any opinion of any person. Nobody approves of unnecessary deaths. The Bosnian war wasn’t broadcast in the United States of America. Certainly not to the extent it should’ve been, as the blissfully unaware American public carried out their daily routines and browsed the shops for clothes, whilst other human beings were massacring one another. I think it’s only their right and their privilege to know about current international affairs and the suffering caused by them. Anybody who looks at the picture will have the name engraved in their memories. If they choose to dismiss the picture, the image will only come back to haunt them more – along with the name Benetton. This is why it’s effective as it would be more difficult to forget than the regular, orthodox adverts.
Preceding in time, Toscani begins his career with Benetton by presenting “Handcuffs.”
Initially, “United colours of Benetton” seems to be relating to the unity of both the black and the white man in this picture. However, are handcuffs the best way to represent unity? Wouldn’t a simple holding of hands or a public display of affection between the men be sufficient? Clearly not. And so the implication is that something else has been Toscani’s inspiration. However, his work is all real; there’s nothing fake about it. Toscani, unknown to most people who populate the shopping centres of America, has challenged our prejudices. The story behind the advertisement is that a policeman is leading an alleged lawbreaker into court. Who is who? Is the offender the white man with his neatly folded cuffs or the black man with his cuffs messily turned up? If most Americans knew this much of the background story, they would assume that the black man is the criminal; the white man is the criminal – Toscani proves that even amongst the best of society, the assumptions and traces of racism remain. Toscani targets racists, even those who are unaware that they are them themselves.
Another example of a Benetton campaign advert by Oliviero Toscani is “Aids – David Kirby”, dated February 1992. Take note that deceased man lying on the bed being mourned over by his relatives shows close resemblance to Jesus Christ, the founder of the Christian faith.
Toscani’s career with Benetton was ended when complaints were issued after this advert was published:
This advertisement shows a black rapist and murderer named Jerome Mallason on death row. It’s a statement against two things: capital punishment and again, racism. The majority of inmates in jail in the USA are black men. It was true then and it’s still true now. This could be due to a number of things; it could be that black men were abused for their skin colour when they younger – forced to go to different schools and shop in different shops, the abused has become the abuser (it’s not unusual) – or it could be that white men are given the benefit of the doubt. White men are innocent until proven guilty and black men are guilty until proven innocent. The contrast between his black skin and the white background, I believe, shows holiness. ‘He is one of God’s children alike us’ is the essence of this photo I receive whilst looking at it. Although can a rapist and a murderer truly remain as one of God’s sheep? Are we not exactly the same by putting him to death? It’s an everlasting issue in America but, as this photo suggests to me, life is a precious thing and although it may make you feel like God to take it away, you cannot take a life away without regret and that is why it’s God’s territory. Toscani was sued after he created this final campaign advertisement. He may have had no consideration for the victims and the shock of seeing your child’s murderer or rapist on bill-boards across America would be unimaginable, but do we really have any consideration towards the murderer? Are we really any better? The answer Toscani gives us is no – we’re no better. I think he’s right, but that’s just my opinion and everybody is entitled to their own.
Toscani played a good hand and at least opened up the eyes of some of the public. He used serious issues in his adverts, not to gain attention for Benetton or himself, but to gain awareness for the great tragedies of the world going on around us: war, racism, disease and human rights. I think that the only reason Toscani stayed with Benetton is because they funded his adverts and placed them nation-wide with the expense of a small green box with their logo in it on every one. Benetton was much more like a sponsor to him than an employer. He played by his own radically liberalistic and totally anarchistic rules. I believe that Toscani is a great man and that despite them being completely irrelevant, his advertisements were extremely effective and no more inappropriate than life is.
Should permission be granted for adopted children to seek information on or locate their biological parents?
By Beth Sheerin
Adoption: a legal proceeding whereby a parent-child relationship is born not by blood but by love for another’s blood-kin. The parent, sworn to love the child forever as though it were their blood-kin, should not have to accept their child’s choice to meet their biological parents as though they themselves were not enough of one to satisfy them.
The question you must ask yourself is: what is a parent? Is it the person who acted as your biological suitcase and merely brought you into the world? Or is it the person who loves for you; cares for you and provides for you? Is it the person who was there during your first Christmas; your first birthday; your first friendship? Is it the person who was there to cuddle you when you fell over and scraped your knees or the person who was there to cushion the blow of losing someone you love?
To me, the answer is beyond obvious. Is your biological family really your family? The term biological means nothing to me. It’s the term family which is important. It’s the quality of the relationship which is key not the physical relation itself.
Despite sharing ancestors – your birth parents are not your family. Family are the people who love you, care for you and support you in every way possible. These people abandon their children; usually due to selfish reasons or stupid mistakes. Do you really want these people in your life as a child? Of course not! You want love; you want care; you want support. What you don’t want is your birth parents; they are almost definitely lacking in all aspects required for a healthy upbringing for their blood-child.
The harsh truth is that the birth-parents mightn’t want contact with the child despite the black hole of ignorance shrouding its existence. The child, not knowing the reason in most cases, is better off not knowing the truth. I would certainly rather live in hope that my birth parents were amazing people and that they just couldn’t afford to keep me; rather than discover that an unorthodox affair had taken place and that my being was merely evidence which had to be disposed one way or another.
I admit that this is a touchy topic and that disagreements will be anything but far and few between – however I strongly believe that certainly as a child, your loyalty must remain with those who love you. Unless this is the case, you will never be able to truly grasp the concept of love or an emotion for a particular person. You would never fully be able to trust anybody as the people who brought you into the world wished for your existence to be erased. Think how horrible that would be. Obviously this has practical disadvantages but the main issue is that of the impact on the child’s mental well-being. I could certainly never bring myself to be such an upbeat person knowing that my real mother didn’t want me or have need of me. There is an attachment in a parent-child relationship which is not present in a relationship where the significant other is unknown.
Another question you’d have to ask yourself is: would you rather live in hope or in disgust? If you discover who your birth-parents are and they’re completely different from whom you are; then an identity crisis is more than likely to occur. This is a problem for many adopted children. They don’t see things as rationally as maybe older adoptees might.
Biological parents may be completely different from what the child is used to. Again, it’s the harsh truth but most adoptees are usually either boarder babies, physically deformed children, children with mental issues or the results from two young or unmarried people misbehaving in a lustful manner.
Adoption is a legal proceeding whereby a parent-child relationship is born not by blood but by love for another’s blood-kin. The parent, sworn to love the child forever as though it were their blood-kin, should not have to accept their child’s choice to meet their biological parents as though they themselves were not enough of one to satisfy them.
I do not believe that people who are kind enough at heart to take in an unwanted child should have to undergo the rejection of not being a ‘real parent’. They’re much more of a real parent than any of the birth parents would or ever could be. A parent is much more than a biological suitcase and just because they didn’t give birth to you, doesn’t mean that your adoptive mother is not your mother or your adoptive father not your father.
A parent-child relationship is an extremely precious thing. In the same way that you can choose your friends but not your family, your adoptive family can choose you and your biological family cannot. Although you wish to know everything about them – the odds are, they wish to know nothing about you.
Having been closely related to a person who went through the procedure of adoption, I must insist that adopted children should not be allowed to seek information on or locate their biological parents. It will only damage them and their confused emotions further and that is something which we do not want to happen. They must wait until they’re old enough to fully understand the world.
March 17, 2011.
The Mt. Sigmot Ruins
By Beth Sheerin
A place shrouded in anonymity; a place engulfed in mystery; a place with a strange cryptic beauty scratched into the inner workings of the skeleton. The Mt. Sigmot Ruins are home to those without another. It’s a home to those who have lost their humanity and a home to those whose souls perished uncountable years ago.
Moonlight pierces through the putrid stained-glass windows of the chapel. The altar’s been left to God’s tainted will. Petals from an overgrowing tree that burst through the solid wooden beams of the arch fell to the floor. They fell onto the charred Bible which even now, still rests on the priest’s pedestal; opened under Psalms chapter one hundred and eleven, verse nine. The people vanished in such a hurry –even too much of a hurry for God’s hand to help them. “…He sent redemption to his people; he has commanded his covenant for ever…” Below, in a collection of red illegible scribbles lie the words: “…But the gateway will not open. We are not allowed to pass. Nor will we ever be again…the lord has forsaken us. We must turn our backs as we are unwelcomed by the all-welcoming Being.” The rest of the Psalms are torn to shreds and exist as piles of scattered ashes on the floor. What’s left of the holy book has been drawn over in devilish fallacies and chants; clearly drawn by Lucifer’s misguided hands. The tapestries had been burned but the stone walls had kept it from spreading further. Only the crucible, high above the altar remains untouched.
The wind whistles ominously through the small doorway where only the rusty hinges and the cobwebs remain. The embers left sitting at the bottom of the large central fireplace have smouldered. What exists in amongst the vast quantities of ash covering the Chapel’s grounds, not even God knows. The fountain in the courtyard provides a constant supply of incandescent scarlet water. As it calmly flows from the jets– some stare in horror at the brutal farce and others gaze in amazement, thinking it’s unreal.
The crumbling plaster peels off the walls of the infirmary next door. There’s something in the air that gives that uneasy feeling when you’ve just realised you’ve insulted somebody without the intention to. It’s the same uneasy feeling when you know that you’ve done something wrong but you don’t have to nerves to admit to your mistakes. The building, consisting of about five small rooms, was dilapidated and the structure was surrendering to gravity’s pull. The few rows of pebbled-dashed terraced houses remaining were derelict and abandoned. Each small window was blocked up and each oak door was locked and bolted. Something wasn’t going to be let in; or let out. Each and every house was left behind by the people they belonged to and were loved by. Each garden gate was tight shut.
The small town was left in shambles. Left to rot and wither away.
No grass. No flowers. No life.
No more fire. No more evil. No more spite.
He looks up into the world from below and He thought it good.
Monologue
(as Syme from George Orwell's '1984')
War is peace.
Freedom is slavery.
Ignorance is strength.
Therefore I am seen as amongst the weak. I see through the guise of the party and I understand why the sacred principles of Ingsoc remain so. “Newspeak, Doublethink, the mutability of the past.”
My eyes are capable of piercing through people’s pretenses and into their souls. I discover thoughts and traits as though it were second nature. It’s my first nature. Big Brother remains no exception to my ability.
Despite the state’s removal of emotion – a lone emotion of mine remains. That emotion is love. A love for the Party and for a merry dystopia.
I remember my days spent teaching. I taught maths. Maths, a concept to be laughed at now-a-days, for two plus two has been proven to equal five just as much as it equals four, if not more so.
My fellow comrades and I discovered one day that 0, 1 and 2 were in fact – one of the same.
Upon this discovery, Maths was defied and so my numerical career ended abruptly.
Despite the flaw only I have spotted…
That’s how I came into the lexicography business. Lexicography is word that should no longer exist, for it comes from Ancient Greek. Lexis meaning word and graphein meaning to write. Together meaning a writer of words.
Oldspeak is being slowly eradicated. Therefore we have no need for OLDER speak.
I give them a fleeting farewell and dismiss them proudly. Dabo eis vale fluxis et superbe dimittere eos.
Even the ancient languages of the Romans and the Greeks must perish. All language must die. Iam prisca lingua Romanorum Graecorumque moriendum. Lingua omnibus moriendum.
Since this generation is the last to talk by the ancient tongue, I take it in my stride so that it may be commemorated.
But I do not question the Party, for I have no need to question the party.
I am shrewd and I see through its guise and I understand why the sacred principles of Ingsoc remain so. “Newspeak, Doublethink, the mutability of the past.”
Newspeak: a clever mechanism which I have an uncontrollable admiration for. Not only does it narrow vocabulary, but thought along with it.
Big Brother is truly a genius. A devilish genius but a genius none-the-less. The one thing which could never previously be controlled is now controllable.
It makes me keel over with joy and excitement whenever I think that I am a follower of such genius.
But I am one of the last generation to think this way. Not because future generations will rebel seeing only Big Brother’s callous (yet another word from Greek which shouldn’t exist anymore), but because future generations will think in Newspeak, even the verb to think will be non-existent.
It will be an unword; an unconcept if you will.
Now, with doublethink (or, Cognitive disequilibrium in oldspeak) is the practice of holding two conflicting ideas or memories and discarding the truth which Big Brother wants to hide.
Tis called the condemnation of memory. It existed in the ancient world as well as the modern. Damnatio memoriae.
It is caused by a thought-terminating cliché; more commonly known as the justification of fallacious logic. Being a logical man, I have never mastered the art of doublethink.
Whether that be something to praise or curse, I’m not entirely sure.
But after all – Ignorance is strength. So I am weak.
The Party has changed me. I have become a demon. I delight in the manipulation of my fellow comrades’ minds.
I laugh at how easily they accept fallacies as truths.
I find it intriguing how people can be created and destroyed overnight.
However they were always there, or never there at all. There was no alternative because it was fact. Every book states the same, every past newspaper which you think you remember contradicting it but you don’t because it isn’t there.
That is why I love Big Brother so. He manipulates the past, the present and even the future. He’s constantly watching us and listening to our thoughts. He watches the world from the depths of hell.
Nolite Timere.
I am merely his faithful demon.
Fortitude
By Beth Sheerin
“Affliction is the wholesome soil of virtue, where patience, honour, sweet humility, and calm fortitude, take root and strongly flourish.”
~ David Malloch, 18th Century writer
Chapter 1: Seclusion
The pine cones crunched beneath my bare feet, entangled in ferns and mosses. Insects covered my legs – my joints weakened. I had to keep going. I had to keep breathing. My eyes were fixed on the far away waters of the lake. It was a mirage and I knew it, but it looked so pure; so fresh. I ran towards it. Alas, I grew no closer. Rather than approach it, the lake seemed to vanish into the sun-tinged horizon. I stood there happily watching two suns set and a collection of dazzling moons rise. What I could remember of my life flashed before eyes as I found myself collapsed on the forest floor. Drained, burdened, exhausted.
I was no savage. Yes, that much is true but after the sinful crimes I had committed, I deserved no forgiveness.
I lay there a while, thinking. It was unaware to me how long I’d spent here. Nor was I aware how long ago I’d left my apprenticeship with the Brotherhood of Jah. There were so many things left to do for which I needed their blessing- although it would’ve done no good despite their noblest of efforts.
I mean - at the time, it never occurred to me. At the time, I thought that I’d done no wrong. However, my naiveté was soon corrected because it was already too late. I’d missed my opportunity to make things right and to make things better; to ensure that my feeble soul was away from Satan’s reach; to plead for Yahweh’s forgiveness of my mighty sins.
I didn’t know whether or not to be sorry for what I had done, for I did not remember doing it.
Regardless of the constant drumming on the very fabrics of my mind, the thought which occurred to me most was that of my precious Evullae- my home-stead; my native soil. It was a pleasant rural retreat. The thrushes’ song awoke us each morning and the crickets’ chirp lulled us to sleep each night. The apostolic bells rang quietly from the top of the hillside nearby. We were forever accompanied by the drone of the clouds – the calming, pale grey clouds. Evullae is a place where the soothing pitter-patter of the raindrops hits the windows as though tears running softly down your cheek; the quiet murmur of that ancient language whispers through the fields of poppies outside the gates; the suns that shine upon us contently every day washed away all sin or evil or pain. Negativity is non-existent in the village of Evullae. I simply wish it could be the same in every other village. I suppose that’s my fault though.
When stuck in this everlasting state of fantasy, I often yearned for my mother and for my darling Esme. It’s been so long. It’s been too long. I miss her with my entirety and I would do anything for her. But surely my premature separation from her has drawn her towards other men. No! I cannot bear to think of it. It would be the end of my world. And I would make it the end of my life.
My troubled thoughts were converted into a medley of pain. Both my body and heart were aching. The rapidity of it all overwhelmed me. Subconsciously - I held my breath so that more of His thoughts couldn’t infect me. I started spluttering a few moments later when the ferocity of the burning sensation in my stomach subsided. It made me long for the comforts of my woman and my country even more.
I sat slouched against a tree stump; thinking. Not of much really, but nothing of little importance either. I thought of my Esme; my darling Esme. I thought of her lovely straight snowy locks flowing down her cheeks - her gorgeous rosy cheeks that shone in the moonlight; her large blue eyes that twinkled in the suns. I thought of her hunger and lack of clean water. I thought of her suffering and could not bear it. I thought of her losing her innocent smile and being reduced to a scavenger, hunting for scraps from a butcher’s window without my aid.
This mess of mingled thoughts pressed against the edges of my rationality, which struggled to stay. I put up a valiant fight, but I am human. So as my sanity crumbled, I found myself screaming her name aloud to the forest – screaming it with lost woe and a sudden morbid passion. The birds flew out of their nests; frightened and squawking. All creatures near and far ran. I had been beaten, beaten by the very thing that made me who I was. If you’re ever beaten by your inner self then you know that you’ve lost everything. Tears streamed down my face as I cried myself to sleep.
I held the infant in my arms, as a broad smile stretched across my face from ear to ear. She was beautiful. Her miniature fingers wrapped around my thumb and they clung onto it as if she would never let go. I wished she never would. My thumb went numb. The blood had stopped circulating but I didn’t mind - it was her doing so I let her do it. Her short wavy brown locks sat calmly on her head. They shone like a vat of melted chocolate being stirred. Her warm, pale chestnut complexion complimented her big blue eyes. Her eyes were just like her mother’s eyes. She beamed up at me with a lovingness that only a child could have. I still couldn’t believe how lucky we were to have her. As the light drizzle of rain hit the windows of the nursery, she fell asleep in my arms as I held her…
I awoke to a torrential downpour. My concern, however, was not of the rain – for it would stop eventually, but of food. I hadn’t had a decent meal for several weeks now. My stomach growled in agreement. I stood up and took a few feeble paces forward. It was no use though. I collapsed to the floor again; the raindrops pounding on my back.
My feet were in pain. My arms were in pain. My heart was in pain; But my mentality had broken into a million pieces. It was beyond what was considered as pain and beyond repair by any definition of the word.
As I sat there, dazed, hungry and hurting; I opened my mouth to let out a quite whine. The taste of salt surprised me. I was catching the raindrops. Having realised - I opened my mouth further to catch more of the salty raindrops that fell from the heavens. I cupped my hands to snag even more water that fell. It flowed into my dry, parched mouth.
What? I spotted a sugar cane. It was a large one. The rest of my energy was wasted on trying to snap open the sugar cane. But by the time my fatigue had caught up with me I simply broke down. There was neither salvation nor sugar. There was just a hallucination and two halves of a branch.
I stood up slowly, moving one leg at a time; one arm at a time; one motion per thought. I stood up with grave caution because I knew that my end would be even close if I did not. When my legs were perfectly stable and the rest of me was still and sturdy, I began to run.
One foot in front of the other, I told myself. That’s how it’s done. I ran like there was no tomorrow, for there might not have been. I brushed past the over-hanging leaves and shrubs. I rushed through the mud and the puddles as if they’d never existed to begin with. As I came to a clearing, my vitality rush ended. I slowed to a steady stop as I became aware of pain once more. I keeled over onto the soft muddy grass. I groaned a heavy groan and rolled over onto my back. I stared up at the empty sky. I was wishing and pleading for a sign from Yahweh.
Just a star. Just one star. Please. That’s all I want. Where’ve all the stars gone? What’ve we done?
There was no star and there was no sign.
My eyes scoured the clearing. All I could see were some nibbled wild strawberries to my left. As I leant over to have a closer look, I placed my limp hand on the ground. My fingers traced a line of dirt on the turf. When the groove stopped, I let out another heavy sigh and looked up from the floor. I was exchanging a bewildered glare with a shaggy-eared rabbit that had half-emerged from the bushes. It’s big, brown, innocent eyes grew wider as I stared at them. It reminded me of somebody I knew a long time ago. It was only a child. Its pale chestnut fur stood up on end as it stood there staring.
I slowly withdrew my hand from its position and placed it on my chest. My heart was barely beating. I listened to the feeble rhythm. It was quiet and I strained to hear it. Although the new world was strange and the woodland noisy – the slow, quiet beating of my own heart was overwhelming.
I regained my semi-consciousness and arose. The rabbit fled. His long murky-chestnut fur bristled against the leaves of the plants.
I started to question my existence. I could no longer tell what was real and what was a dream; what was fact and what was fiction.
“A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”
~Oscar Wilde, Irish writer
Chapter 2: Her
The Inn was old, dark and damp. As the spiders settled in the corners, their cobwebs broke and fell to the floor. Leaves flew up into the air and settled a short distance further away as the door banged open. Footsteps entered the house – pounding against the hard wooden floor as though a whole army were entering, simultaneously stomping with every step. It was perfectly rhythmic. The steps struck the floor at a slow, steady pace. A young woman, slightly flustered by the sudden intrusion, quickly arose from her kneeling position by the fire and came to greet the aged man.
“Any Progress?” he asked in a rather dismal tone.
“No Father.” said the girl coldly as though she expected him to know the answer. “I’m not afraid not.” she added quickly remembering her manners.
There was an awkward silence. Being an obviously timid specimen, the tension grew too much for the woman, who breathed out lightly. It was merely lightly because she didn’t wish to anger the man – for had she been anybody else it would’ve been a long, heavy sigh. She looked down at her pathetic excuse for shoes. They were more like soles with loosely-fitted straps. This sequence was followed by a deep inhale and exhale by the father.
“Right then-” He says finally whilst swallowing, “very well. I’m off to bed Winnie; it’s been a long day for a man of my years.” His words slurred onto each other. “Could you bring me up some tea shortly?”
“Certainly,” came the quiet reclusive voice of the woman.
As he made his way up the stairs, which were creaking beneath his feet, he smiled to himself. He was a true gentle giant complete with a warm melting heart. He loved his daughter because she was his life. She was the only thing he had left and undoubtedly she was the only thing he wanted.
She always excluded her feelings from her actions. A fear of rejection grew inside her; a fear of her own emotions. She bottled them up and had become a rather intriguing character ever since the incident which was followed by the other. Two loved ones gone within a few months. It would be too much for even the best of people, which her former self surely was with no debate.
She made her way into the kitchen and turned on the gas hobs with her delicate fingers. She brought out a pan from the cupboard, having rummaged around to find it and went outside to fill it with water from the pump. The monotonous movements of the hand on the clock ticked on for a while. To and fro, on and on, every second; they soothed him. She came back inside and placed the pan filled with water over the lit gas. As she waited – she returned to the fire and looked over the man with a faint shrewd smile.
Time passed. She needed no leisure other than to feel rapt in his world. She reached into the cupboard and picked up a jar of tea leaves. She opened the drawer and took out an ornate tea-spoon. She spooned four heaped tea-spoons of the leaves into the kettle and stirred it in circular movements in an anti-clockwise direction. She tapped the edge of the spoon on the top of the kettle having changed direction for a while and placed it on the wooden bench. She neatly placed the jar of tea leaves back into the cupboard that she had taken them from. The kettle cried at her as she poured the boiling water into a mug, perfectly intercepted by a wire mesh to catch the leaves.
She held its handle tightly and slowly went up the stairs, which had a sharp ninety degree turn after the first few steps. She turned round the corner on the stairs and walked up into the dimly lit landing.
There were six doors. The first led to a guest’s room. There was currently nobody using the space as there hadn’t been many tourists lately. The next led to his room. The third; hers. The fourth room was yet another guest’s room, as was the fifth. The final door led to her father’s room. She knocked lightly on the door so that it was barely audible.
“Come in” came her father’s gruff, yet placid, voice.
“Come in” came her father’s gruff, yet placid, voice.
She entered and put the tea down on the table by his bed where he lay with his head propped up by his pillow. “There” she said, as she placed it on the mat. She turned to face her father and tried to muster a smile. It didn’t register and when she saw no smile across her father’s face – she left. As she left the room she closed the door and she saw his room. She placed her hand on the middle of her chest as she breathed. Standing there, she stared blankly into the distance. Her mind was wild. Thoughts, feelings and physcological manifestations flowed through her head along with precious memories.
They were the same; they had both been blessed by Yahweh and received their minds in return for their great sacrifices. Almost as though they were the same entity – they always felt the exact same way. He was just like her; but, why them? What was His divine reason? What were they to accomplish?
She came down the stairs to witness a limp hand hanging off the side of the bed by the fire like a twig; he’d woken. She ran to him…
I forced my eyes open. There was only one thing I acknowledged and that was dizziness. I slowly closed my eyes again and drew in a long breath. Then, several seconds later, a long weary sigh released itself from my lungs. The next thing to be acknowledged was pain; a continuously agonizing pain. The source couldn’t be determined – it was everywhere. Everything hurt. I rolled open my eyes and stared soullessly into the eyes of a young girl who was drifting in and out of focus. I prised my mouth open as I tried to speak. She drew her long, cold fingers from her sides and softly touched my mouth with them as if to quiet me. Her cold yet warm-hearted touch lingered as my eyes adjusted to my surroundings. I closed them. They pulsed as if they were newly beating hearts. I squeezed them together, adding pressure - as you apply pressure to an open wound. A tear formed on my eyelashes. It fell as I opened my eyes again and blinked…
With nothing clear enough to be defined, I felt nothing. With nothing worthwhile enough to be heard, I heard nothing. With nothing advocating any understanding, I understood nothing.
Uncertainty overpowered my whims. Uncertainty washed over my thoughts and buried them in the sand. Uncertainty took firm hold onto my existence and drained it. Uncertainty was the only emotion of any kind I was sure existed.
Am I myself? Am I alive?
If so, how can I be sure when I cannot be sure of anything else? What makes someone alive? If it’s their soul then I am truly a departed soul; the metamorphosis of life combined with death. This is what I feel and it is what I always will.
Yahweh – forgive me.
What have I done to deserve this punishment? It is your whim and so it must be true and righteous, however despite how hard I try – I cannot remember what I’ve done. This lack of sense must be my punishment. I should accept it alas I cannot, as I am missing something, but what am I missing?
“Faith means living with uncertainty - feeling your way through life, letting your heart guide you like a lantern in the dark.”
~Dan Millman, spiritual Author
