A World Without Shakespeare “My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to Heaven go.” –William Shakespeare Hamlet, Act III, Scene iii Chapter One Like any pretentious book, this one starts with a pretentious #quote. But unlike an average pretentious book, where the #quote is meaningless in an attempt to turn a meaningless pleasant read into a meaningful message to greater society of the way we view [insert major world issue here], this one has personal motivation. When I was ten, I found those words tucked under the leg of my bed. By that age, it was a miracle I could even read, as most don’t have the opportunity to learn to read until the age of sixteen. However, the Great give a few of the “elite” the opportunity to read at an earlier age. Of course, there is very little point in this: there are no books to read or study. Personal writings are tolerated, but never encouraged. At ten, these words were a mystery. Why was there a torn page under the bed? Where did it come from? What was the meaning of this? But most of all, where was this “Heaven” that it states exists? I had never heard of such a place, not from the Great, which meant that it couldn’t exist. Hiding it back under the bed, I glanced around the room. I should turn it in immediately. It was not allowed. I could be in trouble. But there was the feeling of being gripped by Curiosity, Wonder tightening its fist around my heart. But even more than that, Fear’s cold breath breathed down my neck, looming over me. The combination left me in a wicked state and I did my worst: I started to cry. * It seems so silly now that I cried because I found a Hidden Secret. Seven years later, I discovered ripped pieces of paper were scattered all over the room. Under a loose floorboard [how original], tucked in the corner of the wardrobe, behind the mirror, etc. On an evening, in the only spare time I had, when I was sure I had collected every scrap, I pieced it together like a puzzle. Eventually I figured out the order. The #quote mentioned was the final piece: they were the lines I was left with. What happened? Death, murder, guilt: enraptured in the story, I hid it every morning and reread it every night. I was concerned to know that the people had names. Weren’t they just assigned numbers, like the rest of us? Someone must have had a vivid imagination to create a world where we called each other a word. They sounded so beautiful: Claudius. Hamlet. [I wasn’t a big fan of Gertrude, though]. The more I read it, the more I felt the monotone #life was at the Institute start to fade. The characters almost had a- what was it?- personality? They were different, which was more than I could say for everyone at the Institute: we even looked the same. Everyone had brown hair and green eyes and were treated with the same cool outlook. We had to remain emotionally detached, to the point where emotions themselves were unfamiliar. But as I read this scene, I felt how I could never truly belong here. I would forever be an outcast, I just had to make sure they never realised I was an outcast. Everyday, I played the same routine as everyone else, but frustration and anger churned inside me. As the years went by, I was growing more I satisfied but there were less opportunities to release. I would remain a blank canvas on the outside, but my emotions flung a fusion of colours over the walls. Then came the day it would all change. Because He didn't have green eyes. He had blue.
