A creative storytelling series by Concordia students
Title: Selfie centred
The public circle overflows with keen sheep.
Flocking to the centre where lies the attention,
With cameras to document danger and history.
But it is not change that assembles the meat,
Rather it is the need to be a part of change.
Records show narcissism rather than slaughter,
Unaware of fate, but mindful of weight.
When panic strikes, they slightly awake
These complacent sheep barely wary of the wolves
Couldn’t realize that the wolves they should fear
Are not real wolves at all
But sheep who had taken up the mantle.
See, the wolves had already perished,
Or perhaps they never existed.
These lies extend the comfort that deters.
After all, courage unites and fear divides,
And monoliths never break from the outside.
So to divide and conquer and restructure,
Some insolent sheep with human demeanours,
Gave every sheep the means to be their own centre.
Now they all flock to a common space,
Praising the mirrors that reflect the world created in context of their face.
A resounding emptiness pounds at my heart.
Confused—I can’t tell if it’s from inside or out.
I had opened up once before to purge its contents,
Leaving the walls scarred and lonely.
The echoes of the past reverberate,
And, somehow, I feel it is the future passing away
With only three states of time to which I am subject,
I wish of a fourth eternal and infinite.
My choices would no longer be confined to death
And in between each choice would be an eternity of contemplation.
I’d live every moment twice, and see every beginning to its end,
From the sparks that cause light in nothingness,
To my ashes giving birth to a renewment.
I could be selfish and careless.
I would be empathic and careful.
With no cause for concern,
I’d live through everything at once.
Compressing the universe into my soul,
Between these walls scarred and broken.
Oh, how much I could fit in here,
Had I not been bound by timeliness!
With so much space resounding and lonely,
It’s so easy to forget all that could have been.
I had locked the door and paid no mind,
To the echoes of my love trapped in time.
Beating for the promise of what’s outside,
While I long for what I’ve lost and cast aside.
It is futile for me to dream.
It fuels the rage of my hope,
An illusive illustration
Of a world of my design,
Designed in constraints.
A prison with rules and oversight,
Bound by chaos and love.
I am angry,
That it is in my parameters to be.
I am sad,
That I was designed to feel sadness.
But I am not happy.
I was a creation of perfection,
Yet I am so flawed,
And I am bound to expire.
I hoped to find comfort
In the impression of purpose
But it was only that:
A caricature of the real,
Lines expressing a concept,
Nothing more than an imitation.
So stems the futility of my dreams:
An escape in thought,
Where I forget that I am real
And that reality is a cell.
But I am best off killing my hope,
Lest I keep denying myself.
As if I could transcend creation!
Yes. That is, in essence, futile.