Manifesto

Chapter 1: Scene 2: Home

New Galloway was a rural town it didn't even have a train connection. However, it had it's charms. On sunny days like this one, the fields shone in bright green, the mild breeze made the leaves jingle and dazzle, and the well-taken care of houses and lawns gave it character. Shawn got out of the bus in a somewhat better spirit, happy to see the scenery he so loved. Anywhere he looked, he'd have a memory to recall, such as scouting Ms. Fraley's — the local newsagent's — backyard or taking care of lost kittens. He stopped for a moment and took it in.

I miss this in the city, thought Shawn.

He made his way home and absorbed his surroundings. The heavy heart he had made him appreciate the good things more, oddly enough. He took a deep breath. He could think only so much before his head started to buzz, but he felt rejuvenated by the fresh air. So nice. Almost tickles my lungs a bit. Then he got a coughing fit again. He coughed until his throat ached. Fuck this, he thought. It didn't take long until his mind started to pace again. His anxiety came back when he thought of what awaited him at home. He shook his head as if trying to shake off the thoughts when Mr. S. popped up in his mind Ever gave ideas a second thought? "Ever gave ideas a second thought?" he imitated him. What did he mean? I swear the old man is like Rafiki from the lion king. Wouldn't be surprised if he had a tail waggling from under his lab coat. Then he laughed out loud. "I'd really want a tail too." He tried to think about it systematically, Okay, there are two options, either ideas are man-made, meaning I am the source of the idea... or they aren't. The second one seemed too irrational to even consider, however after all those magic mushrooms he ate, he was rather open to irrational. He now pictured society, and how great thinkers and scientists became obsessed with an idea and readily gave away decades of their life chasing it. He thought about artists. Now artists are really.. "odd," he finished aloud. They are constantly swimming in a pool of ideas. Pulling them by their feet, trying to manifest them in the material world. Scientists are bound by laws, by logic, by protocols. Artists are limitless, although limitations can also be used as tools to bring forth beauty. Well... they are limited by their capabilities. "Where am I going with this?" he said out loud again. It was not unusual for him to talk to himself. It helped him think. He started to think of society and people again trying to see the bigger picture. "Ideologies" he nodded to himself. Why do people get so obsessed with ideas? Then he thought of religion. Maybe they need something to believe in. Maybe life is too much to bear without belief. Then he thought of the monasteries and how corrupted they became over time, how people were manipulated and exploited in the name of god. Isn't that what our governments are doing? Aren't people with firm beliefs constantly exploited? As if the beliefs, the ideology, were a handle... a grip? He felt he was getting somewhere. He was so deep in thought he almost ran into a lamppost. As he recovered from the close call, he noticed a bright green shieldbug on his sleeve. "Well, look at you, Mr. smelly bug." Pralomena prasina he thought, which was the Latin for it. He took it on his finger and extended it toward the grass, which grew abundantly on each side of the road. The bug didn't budge "Sorry to bug you....," he laughed then continued "may you consider taking a leave... or a leaf" he laughed again. "God, I'm horrible." The bug flew away, and in disappointment in himself, he said, "Right... they can fly... nice try, Woodward", which was his surname. Almost home he tried to finish his analysis. Where was I... Right. Ideologies as a handle to manipulate. He thought for a moment and imagined masses of people being drawn by an idea. A set of words or images. Oddly powerful, he thought. If those weren't man-made, that'd be "creepy as hell," he finished aloud again. He now stood in front of his house.

It was a sunny day, but now he felt like there was a cloud above him. The house was not visible from the road. It was at the end of a crooked path covered in lush green. Bushes, tall grass, and trees. One of the bushes had vibrant yellow flowers on it. The yard was separated from the road with a wooden fence. It was more symbolic than useful, for it reached maybe up to the waist. Shawn's steps felt heavier the closer he got. It was a typical orange brick house with brown clay tiles and a chimney on the roof. He could see the curtains were closed. He didn't like when people blocked the sun from coming in, somehow places like that always made him uncomfortable. There was a saying he thought of now, where the sun couldn't reach, the doctor goes for a visit.