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In Another Castle
Mar. 31st, 2014 04:50 pmHe steps through the moonlight and shadows, ducking through the underbrush, moving by memory. He passes the nettles he knows are there and straightens up as he comes through the bushes, an opening that's grown smaller every time he's been through it.
There’s a tree to his left, marking the start of the path, and he puts his hand on it as he always does, as he always has.
He remembers learning of the secret path in the park for the first time, behind two hedges and a ‘no entry’ sign, one he gleefully ignores at fifteen. He remembers how single-minded he was then, with only one thing on his mind, and danced through the glade every time, only ever stepping on the patches of light, leaping and posing, every time a performance for the royal court. Later on, he discovered other joys: a fountain pen on thick stationery, sent and received from far away; letters typed in neat lines in Trebuchet, no, Georgia, no, Garamond, watching as a story poured itself out of his soul and onto the papers. For that part of his life, his journeys through the path are muted, his feet quiet but his mind loud, as each shadow on the path became a friend, a character, a companion, whispering to him the secrets only they knew.
But even after diving into dancing, into writing, he still felt incomplete — wasn’t there more? Wasn’t there something else to conquer, to master, to embrace? He remembers the feeling of being an actor who hadn’t had a title role, only understudies and chorus performances; he never stopped feeling like there was something missing.
So he explored and experienced, tried odd jobs and took on odder hobbies, time passed, and he learned: even the careful will make mistakes; even the best actors forget their lines.
He slows his walk, frowning, recalling the days spent answering to a manager that only ever made comments about his appearance, never his work, remembering the dead-end jobs, the scramble just to make enough money to buy cereal for dinner, the casual insults to his character, appearance, and ability, all from those he considered friends. He remembers the night he sat down in the middle of the path, in the middle of the darkness and simply cried for hours, the moon a waning gibbous, the leaves rustling and sounding like all they said was I told you so. He remembers thinking, wondering if it would all just end, please, he just didn’t have the strength to fight it all anymore, to fight anything.
Absentmindedly, he reaches out to touch an old beech tree; he runs his fingers over the initials carved into it. He brought his friends here, once: led them past the now overgrown barriers, showed them the best spots to watch the moonlight glide across the cobblestones. They hugged the trunks as they left and the branches seemed a bit lower that night, ready to hug them back; the wind seemed to whisper through the leaves, telling him it would all be okay.
Here, once more in the dusky night, with only the soft moon hanging over him, he reflects on how far he’s come, how long it’s taken for him to realize what he was looking for. And he looks at the path in front of him, the light and the darkness, the wind and the willows, and the many roles that he has now in the world diverge, run free, each claiming a moment independent of the others.
He walks through the latter half of his secret path and sees these waking visions, ghosts of him that move and linger in the light. In one beam, he’s a father, caring and concerned and looking for dangers to protect his little girl from. In another, he’s a writer, brow furrowed as he paces, thinking of what to do with his characters. Another step and he sees himself as a child again, leaping into the air, holding a moment, a pose for an impossible second at the peak of the jump, and then lands, sweeping a bow to the phantom audience. Somewhere up ahead, manager-him is muttering quietly, concerned about metrics and goals and quarterly performance indicators.
He slowly makes his way up the path, reflecting on his roles and goals, his successes and failures, and all too soon, comes to the end. There, he turns back, watching as the visions step back into the darkness, nodding to them in thanks, and smiles, having finally found what he was looking for.
There’s a tree to his left, marking the start of the path, and he puts his hand on it as he always does, as he always has.
He remembers learning of the secret path in the park for the first time, behind two hedges and a ‘no entry’ sign, one he gleefully ignores at fifteen. He remembers how single-minded he was then, with only one thing on his mind, and danced through the glade every time, only ever stepping on the patches of light, leaping and posing, every time a performance for the royal court. Later on, he discovered other joys: a fountain pen on thick stationery, sent and received from far away; letters typed in neat lines in Trebuchet, no, Georgia, no, Garamond, watching as a story poured itself out of his soul and onto the papers. For that part of his life, his journeys through the path are muted, his feet quiet but his mind loud, as each shadow on the path became a friend, a character, a companion, whispering to him the secrets only they knew.
But even after diving into dancing, into writing, he still felt incomplete — wasn’t there more? Wasn’t there something else to conquer, to master, to embrace? He remembers the feeling of being an actor who hadn’t had a title role, only understudies and chorus performances; he never stopped feeling like there was something missing.
So he explored and experienced, tried odd jobs and took on odder hobbies, time passed, and he learned: even the careful will make mistakes; even the best actors forget their lines.
He slows his walk, frowning, recalling the days spent answering to a manager that only ever made comments about his appearance, never his work, remembering the dead-end jobs, the scramble just to make enough money to buy cereal for dinner, the casual insults to his character, appearance, and ability, all from those he considered friends. He remembers the night he sat down in the middle of the path, in the middle of the darkness and simply cried for hours, the moon a waning gibbous, the leaves rustling and sounding like all they said was I told you so. He remembers thinking, wondering if it would all just end, please, he just didn’t have the strength to fight it all anymore, to fight anything.
Absentmindedly, he reaches out to touch an old beech tree; he runs his fingers over the initials carved into it. He brought his friends here, once: led them past the now overgrown barriers, showed them the best spots to watch the moonlight glide across the cobblestones. They hugged the trunks as they left and the branches seemed a bit lower that night, ready to hug them back; the wind seemed to whisper through the leaves, telling him it would all be okay.
Here, once more in the dusky night, with only the soft moon hanging over him, he reflects on how far he’s come, how long it’s taken for him to realize what he was looking for. And he looks at the path in front of him, the light and the darkness, the wind and the willows, and the many roles that he has now in the world diverge, run free, each claiming a moment independent of the others.
He walks through the latter half of his secret path and sees these waking visions, ghosts of him that move and linger in the light. In one beam, he’s a father, caring and concerned and looking for dangers to protect his little girl from. In another, he’s a writer, brow furrowed as he paces, thinking of what to do with his characters. Another step and he sees himself as a child again, leaping into the air, holding a moment, a pose for an impossible second at the peak of the jump, and then lands, sweeping a bow to the phantom audience. Somewhere up ahead, manager-him is muttering quietly, concerned about metrics and goals and quarterly performance indicators.
He slowly makes his way up the path, reflecting on his roles and goals, his successes and failures, and all too soon, comes to the end. There, he turns back, watching as the visions step back into the darkness, nodding to them in thanks, and smiles, having finally found what he was looking for.
