“The pursuit of freedom involves changes”
It was another rainy day outside. Warm and wet, nothing special or extraordinary for this city. Drops were falling, sliding down the clear glass of the classroom’s window, just like tears of a person, who had lost an important fraction of himself. Today was that day, a day when you have been put into chains of rules, restrained by their importance and compulsion. The feeling of not just your body, but your mind being locked down in the deep, dry well of order, limits and responsibilities is not leaving you alone even for a tiny bit. You are just sitting there, feeling all the hatred coming inside of you towards these laws, you just can’t get along with them…
It was Wednesday. The whole class was tasked to write an essay, which described the best moment of their lives and how it affected them; two hours of given time with a word limit of 500 words, seemingly pretty simple, pretty decent. Everyone started to write their paragraphs. Words were running down the page, falling and filling in the gaps of clear paper. The feeling of work and tension was noticeable in the air. The teacher, in his black suit, with a black leather coat on top of his shoulders was reading today’s newspapers, periodically hitting the side of his chair with a long, wooden ruler. Everyone was writing the essay. Everyone? One person was not. She was sitting still, staring at the window, playing with her long black hair. Then, suddenly she grabbed a pen and started to write something frequently and hastily. Yet what she was writing was not in paragraphs. They were dialogues, lines with brackets, question marks and dots. After two hours of long, unstoppable and hard work, the teacher said loudly: “Time’s up, hand in,” Everyone stood up and put their sheets on his desk. The pile was growing bigger and bigger, starting to look more like an ancient tower, or a column that holds an ancient temple on the shores of Greece. The words were all written with precise beauty and shape. Each essay was exactly 500 words. The teacher was smiling with his grim smile. Yet, he noticed that the girl was still writing.
“Time’s up, girl, you are late,” he said loudly.
“It’s ok,” the soft voice replied
A deathly silence hung in the air. The teacher stood up and headed towards her desk. The ruler landed within an inch of her fingers.
“I said time’s UP,” he hissed threw his teeth. Everyone was standing still, someone was even trying not to breathe.
Her hand put down the pen, and she passed the sheet towards the teacher: “Here” The teacher took the sheet and read it. Another minute lasted without a single noise. Someone was staring at this situation with fear, someone with surprise, someone with calmness.
“What is this?” the sound which came from teacher’s mouth could best be described as a sound of snake, lurking for its prey.
“It’s an essay”
“NO! What is it?!” the red tie was dangling nervously as the teacher shouted close to her ear.
“It’s a story”
“What was the task?” followed the question with less power in it.
“Write an essay”
“Then why did you write a story?”
“It suited best for this moment”
“Oh, really?” a grim smile came up on teacher’s face “How many words are here?”
“Nine hundred, sir.”
“How many words was the limit?” The smile was growing bigger.
“Five hundred, sir.”
“I will see you after school, Miss Jonson, and you will write me rules of this assignment 400 times. I am looking forward to it.” He turned around and headed towards the desk.
“Why sir?”
“Why? Because you have to follow the rules to finish this school, young lady, so if I were you, I would start to make some adjustments, or I should say changes, in your writing. Class is dismissed!”
Everyone left, and later on I was walking by the writing class, watching that girl sitting there, writing and rewriting and rewriting those rules again and again. After that day, she never wrote a single essay more than the given limit. I couldn’t believe that person, who was creative and open-minded, could be turned into this machine, which was following master’s orders…
Seven years passed. School and education in total was over for me. Now I was a free man, without any responsibilities whatsoever, walking down the street and surfing through the shops and markets. But suddenly, in the window of one of the best bookstores in the city I saw an image. I saw a familiar face, beautifully shown on the photograph, with the contrast on her black hair, and the headline: “Out of the Cage” by Emily Jonson. I stood in front of the glass, stunned and numb. Then, a quick smile crouched on my face and I continued my small journey, thinking that sometimes you have to change, in order to be free later...