Futility

Taking inspiration from Rankine's Citizen, write a few paragraphs detailing an experience in your life that has troubled or perplexed you. Originally published October 2023.

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"You're a foolish kid." says the middle-aged woman, snatching your piece of paper, confiscating it and casting it into the trash. "What do you know about notes anyway? Who do you think you are, coming up with new notes? As if you're too good for the standard ones. You can't even read them!" Her voice rises to a piercing crescendo, inches from your face and you realise she'll never know why you made the new notes. First look into futility. No one bothered to help you or teach you. Weeks later, you relinquish your guitars.

"You're a stupid child." The older man brushes you off, refusing to entertain the idea of looking at the paper you proffer. He doesn't believe you understand. "What do you know about mathematical formulas anyway? Don't bother me with this crap again." You retreat to your seat eventually discarding the paper filled with your findings. You've come to grown accustomed to this pattern of futility. Weeks later, you refuse to show anyone your papers anymore.

"Who do you think you are?" Your father's scolding voice rends through your headphones, shattering the sanctuary you sought. She rips them off your head. "What are you doing here? Don't you realize there are guests awaiting you?" And you know. Better than anyone. You can't handle any more ridicule and futility. Blind are leading the blind. And blinding those who obstruct their path. Blinding those who remain with light inside their eyes. Weeks later, you decide to stop writing papers altogether. Stop searching. Stop thinking.

One night, as you loom over the washbasin, you unzip your head. There it is. A dim light within, and it hurts to look at, hurts your eyes. You unceremoniously cast it into the sink, as if you're disgusted by the mere sight of it. Deep down you know you aren't. But you have to. That's all they've ever taught you. And they must be right. You wash it thoroughly, knead it meticulously. Give it a good rinse. Give it a good sanding down. There you go. There's a good lad, for once. No need for being a little anarchist anymore.

You gingerly return the pulsating, pink mass of flesh to its place. It's all smooth and shiny now, all the kinks worked out.

The world became dark the moment you sealed your head. You've desperately been looking for the light ever since.

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"What are you on?"

The spectrum, jackass.