The InditeCircle

Her eyes were dark and worn. Just one brief glance, that’s all anyone who had been there would need.

That’s all they would need to know that she was just at that point. At that fine line between giving life all of the fight that she had, the last ounce of her vital strength, and drifting into the welcoming cradle of resignation.

It all rested on how she related to the memories which she knew her mind re- created. Like a kaleidoscope does with a beam of light. Like a furious and colourful drama of light, forever distorted and refracting. The beautiful streams of light she found were both deceitful and inspiring. How powerful. How mesmerising.

She knew it was not real. But she also knew that her knowledge of this did not exempt her from falling under its spell. This, she had learned the hard way.

If she gave in to the seduction of this wondrous show, well then she would have to believe in its characters. And, of course, the Kind and Passionate ones could not exist if they could not experience the antithesis of the Cruel and Careless.

And it is these Cruel and Careless, these voices. Well it is these that would make her decisions. That is, if she believed the show.

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Well that is all it took, a quick glance. She had grown used to how it felt, numbed to it over the years. No secrets. No mystery.

A whole life in a second, she was an open book. Accustomed to that silent, brief exchange of worlds. You are an actor in mine as I am in yours.

I wonder how many fictional characters I have played today. The crooked, the wretched, the silent, the hopeless, the elated, outspoken, the pitiful, the lost, the inspired. No man could fleet between these in one day. I had remained as me, yet all have seen me, and each eye had seen a completely different person.

And so she had become numbed to this feeling, that she is a real life actress, thrust onto the stage simultaneously performing different characters in endless scripts, by authors whose storylines she will forever be ignorant. The distorted light of her memory inhabiting some other kaleidoscope battling with the will of the soul of its keeper.

Outside of the mind, the light remained as one.

The rest was all but a creation. It was all but fallacy.

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The clock struck 10. The blaring of the train’s horn bringing the minds of those making up the hurrying crowd briefly to this moment and this place, before they return once again to their inner dream.

Jade was bent over, almost double, as she waited on the busy, lonely platform of St Pancras station. Sitting on the ground by the door, her baggy, torn jacket nursing the fragile soul within, she picked up the coins so generously tossed into the mangled, brown flat cap she had counted on all these years.

Her contribution to the world, equal to the contribution of the men who ‘owned’ this land. Nothing. Yet day after day, she honestly sat in front of the world, for all to see, in all her sincerity. She didn’t claim to be anything more. But maybe that was just it. Maybe her honesty, well maybe that was worth something.

31 years old. I think. I can’t be sure. The last time I celebrated my birthday, I was 25. But that was before. Well, that was before.

5 dollars and 50 cence

Enough
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Every time they hurt her. Every time. Every time, she slipped further and further into this beautiful dream. She had created the best defence. They cannot see it, touch it, smell it. They cannot take this dream, that I immerse myself in. For I can go wherever I choose in this dream. And now the pain. And now the pain is not mine. There is no more I, in this dream. And so there is no hurt, it is not felt.

Well that’s what I used to think. How Naive. The only problem is they don’t need this dream. Because they have what they want. I’ve given them their sacred obedience. That which they worship. That which they just cannot let go. That which they value more than love and life itself.

If I felt pain, well then. Well then at least I would be able to feel. Then at least I would know that there was something there that can feel. My defence. My armour of dreams. For my safety, I had traded my life. Yes I was a living being, but I was not alive. Just like the rest of us. We had not beaten them. They had beaten us.



That feeling.

That feeling that you get in your stomach, when you know you have been beaten.
When you know that both your heart and your mind have been completely overcome.

When your sense of right and wrong is so skewed, that you accept it.

You accept it all because you no longer have any boundaries. Any frame of reference.

You can’t remember where it came from.

That feeling of total loss and confusion.

That feeling.

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After that I couldn’t think of anything to say.

That feeling. Well I couldn’t talk about that.

That’s what it came down to.

I could never think of anything to say.

After that?

Well after that it was all guesswork.
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Anger had been outlawed. Abolished. It wasn’t correct.
Well it wasn’t a law as such. It was deeper. It was better. It was cleverer than that.

It was not a law. No. It was common sense.

See, everyone knew it was wrong. It was wrong to be angry. We had all been trained. Trained to be Positive. To have a healthy outlook on life.

It’s bad to get angry. If you expressed anger, well then it was you. It was you that was immature, childish, weak.

We. We did not feel anger. We were not like animals. We knew better.

Most of the time, we knew that it was our own fault anyway.

And so we were peaceful.
Peacefully obedient


It was so quiet.
But it was not a pleasurable silence. It was not accompanied by a feeling of enlightenment or inner peace.
It was a haunting silence. It smacked of confusion and conflict. It was an uncomfortable. A destructive silence.
It was the sound of our souls being stunted of articulation. It was the sound of our independence, our rebellion, slipping away into a dream.


“I am a human being, and I exist”

She repeats this phrase to herself. She was battling with the dream, but she knew that these words. Well, these words would support her at least.

As she pulled herself up, onto her feet she felt a sharp pain, like an electric bolt shoot up the back of the spine. A regular occurrence. Nothing special.

She brushes off the pain, and lifts the tattered black hood of her coat over her thick, matted hair.

“I am a human being, and I exist”

As she slowly trudges toward the coffee stand. She feels the drama again. The characters she is playing for her part in the various shows directed by those who see her.

The expressions on their faces. If only they knew.

If only they knew how similar she was to them. Like the light before it hits the kaleidoscope. Well i’m not hiding behind smoke and mirrors.

The only energy I have, I am using to walk these steps. To move one foot in front of the other. To get by.

I can only be myself and

“I am a human being, and I exist”


I Remember.

Before it happened.

Some of them didn’t have official occupations.

They didn’t contribute.

Here was another strange belief of that time.

They didn’t contribute towards what?

Towards the mindless, pointless, destructive, ignorant machine that was creeping into every little free part of previously free and living space in this land.

There were other occupations, that if they had the time to think and work on. Well then they could be creating more life in this world. Maybe they would inspire us. Maybe they could counteract this destruction.

And yet it was common sense that they were the spongers.

They weren’t angels.

No.

Maybe they thought that they were enlightened.

And maybe they were.

They were not working in the factories that made the metal. Or the factory which made the weapons. Or the ship that took them to the countries. Or the plane that dropped the bomb.

No they were not making an honest living. No they were not just doing their job.

Was it so bad that they were not doing these things?

Was them not taking part enough?

Should they be doing anything at all?

Some of them didn’t think so.

Some of them had rebelled against this elitist power structure, by declare themselves elite. And that was that.

But some of them were in schools, studios, community centres, in each others houses and on the street.

They were not just doing their job. They were really doing their job.

But the ones who most needed it? Most of the time they didn’t even get a chance to think about it. Almost all of the time, they didn’t have any time to paint, or sing, or write about it.

The ones who it was all for?

Well most of the time they didn’t even have a choice.

Most of them were just getting by.
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It didn’t take much.

No matter which words they spoke, no matter which flags and banners they used to represent them. No matter what symbol they used. No matter all of these things. No matter what it was that they were thinking.

Even if they had thought that they were on opposing sides, there is one thing had always united them. They were enlightened. And they were in love with their ideology, with their magic words; they could see it, feel it. That beautiful revolution in their minds. They knew that it was right. They would bring Peace to the world.

They just knew.

They knew that they were the ones who had found the answer, and they were the ones who would set us all free.

They had found the answer.

This answer, this beautiful journey into peace and equality. Well it was their right. Their duty, to bring this to all four corners of the world.

To all of the people.

With education.

And if not that.

Indoctrination.

And if not that, by brute force until the people would look and see that they were right.

Whatever it took, there would be peace.

They just knew.

Yes.

The knowledge of good and evil.

Of the above and the below.

Yes.

This knowledge was theirs. This power was theirs.

And they were enlightened.

That’s all it took.

And that is how it begun. And that is how it had always begun.
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I had a dream that I was looking into my own eyes. Right up close.

The whites covered with streaks of red, like forks of lightning.

The pupils. They were not black.

No.

They were red.

And then I looked closer. And then the pupils changed.

They were not round. They were shaped like slits. Like that of a snake.

Like that of a Dragon. 

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She didn’t need to ask him. The man at the coffee stand. He knew her well, and he knew what she wanted.

If he gave her a chance to ask she would ask for a small coffee. And that was $3.

But as soon as he saw her walking towards him, he would take the large cup, and fill it right to the brim. And that was $5.

And she always came to him with her money. He always accepted it.

But every day, when she wasn’t looking he would find a way to slip the money back into her pocket.

He was a large man. Gentle and quiet. Just as she. I don’t think they had ever spoken to each other. But they knew. They knew they were just the same.
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I never knew whether I was right or not.

And that was always the trouble. We could never be completely sure.

When you don’t have the words, which allow you to place where you are.

If you are stuck only with this intense feeling of something.

But without an explanation.

Without the means of expression.

And then the enlightened ones. Then they’ll give you the words. And then they’ll have you.

And that’s how it was.
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She clutched frantically at her pockets. As she was suddenly immersed in an intense stream of anxiety.

Have I lost it?
My book I mean.
I need my book!

Furiously patting at her coat. If I don’t have my words, I don’t have my mind.

She could feel her heart racing, that adrenalin flow through her veins, as she anticipated what would happen. Without my book.

The dream would take her. Without her book.

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“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me”

That was one of the lies.

One of those phrases everyone seemed to know.

Words were the most powerful weapon of them all. They could conduct the most intricate and efficient operations that no tool could perform.

Words were ideas, Words were meanings. Words were the bait that kept us hooked.

They were promises. They were dreams.

They were nightmares. They were prisons.

Yet, they were only words.
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It was a strange feeling that I had.
I don’t think there is a word for it.
It was like being both intensely weak and intensely strong.
The feeling that I felt.
It wasn’t just my feeling.
It was for all of us who had been there.

And by feeling it.
And by accepting it, we were accepting ourselves.
It meant that we could see.
We could see things that you can’t see unless you felt this feeling.

We had been somewhere you could never really come back from.
We could see it in each other.

It was a strange place to be.

We didn’t talk about it all that much.

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My book!

I’ve found it.

She was ok.

She began to relax as she slowly slid down the wall she’d been leaning on, so that she was returned to her daily position once again, her heartbeat slowly returning to normal.

As long as I criticise the dream that I know. As long as I know that I don’t know.
As long as I know that my world deceives me.
As long as I continue to love knowledge, and to love learning.
Then maybe one day I won’t need the dream.

And so she opened the book.

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Fantastic and Beautiful.

That’s what she was.

Jade.

That girl.

That girl I loved.

I never let her pay.

Of course she didn’t know that I loved her.

She was not loud and forceful. She did not hide behind drama and words.

She was not hardened, like me.

She was strong, soft and warm.

She was quiet, in that wonderfully peaceful way.

Inside her eyes, there was a world of wisdom.

She was the kind of person. When she looks at you. You don’t feel like an actor.

She sees you. She really sees you.

And she was happy that she saw you.

There was something there that I cannot explain.

But her being there. It healed me.

And in those moments. We were free.

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And so here we were. No longer battling with swords in the volatile land of the earth. In the jungles, deserts and seas. No longer hunting for blood and flesh.

No, our battle was a battle of words and ideas, in this grey and concrete wasteland.

Whoever can out speak the other. He would be the alpha male.

A battle in our minds. A battle of dreams.

Of course we heard about the terrible famines, and the terrible wars and bloodshed in the other world.

But that was the other world.

We heard about the other world all the time.

But the way our brains worked.

Well we just got used to it.

After all we knew that we were only one person. We. Collectively. Were only one person. And so we couldn’t change anything, even if we did try.

And what would we even do if we tried?

Protest? For our safety they had had to make it illegal. In this democracy we did not speak.

And anger? Well that was wrong.

Our freedom was in our dreams.

And that was how it was.
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