Cycles: The Enamel Decay

Chapter 5 Izle

I've never really spoken to a history major. I've always wanted to know a little about history. Maybe I could learn about myself from him and if he does not reply, I'd just hack into his computer and hope history sites weren't also restricted for history majors. I highly doubted that it would be the case.

Who made history and what plausible evidence do we have that it was
accurate? How do we know that the way we perceived things could be the truth? Obviously, we see things not as they really are but as we were told to see them so how could we be less bias and actually see things through a clear lens? With all this time on earth our lens have become dusty. There is no way of cleaning them. It's not very comfortable to disinfect the eye. With that being said I must know; Who made our history? Especially since, technically, the past only exists in memories and memories can be distorted.

While waiting for class to commence, I decided to ask him, "Who made history?" He chucked at the question. I kept my eyes on him waiting for an answer.

"Oh, you're serious," he asked when he realized that I was not just pulling his leg. "We all made history. We're making it right now."

"Yea but...who wrote history?" He shrugged and pushed the apple into his book bag.

"The author of the history book I guess." That's what all history majors said. That's not what I wanted to know. Who was the guy with the unmitigated gall to determine what I should know about my past? If not one guy, who were the people? "Who made music?" And then I realised why he found my question impossible. That was an incredibly broad question. It hurt my head so he smiled. Point taken.

"Exactly. You're gonna have to be more specific," he said to prove his point further. I did not know enough to ask questions but my lack of knowledge made me curious. "I could give you a historical fact and you could ask questions about that." It's like he was reading my mind.

"Where are my ancestors from?" I asked anyway.

"Right outside of the gates."

"You've never seen them, how do you know that they exist?"

"Because the history books said they did..." He responded after some time. This was literature class so questions like this was not strange. Hopefully they weren't annoying.

"Why would you have faith in the pages of a book?" He considered this for a while.

"Because its intuitively appealing. It makes sense," he responded. "I see you. You're obviously a Mullato." The Mullato; the generation of bastards. The sons and daughters of African descendant slave mothers and European fathers. This was as much history as I knew. They were casted aside and looked down at. They were lost in history and the only way they could be recognized by society was to consider themselves fully black. Why not? Their mothers were black and their mothers were the only ones who loved them. The good thing about the past was that it was in the past. My parents were married and loved each other and me and despite the fact that I was an introvert, I had friends. ...I think I had friends...

"And you're obviously a descended from Europe," I said.

"Where was that?" He asked. Aww! Cute! He did not know where Europe was. Too bad I did not know how to explain. "Actually no, where was North Merica?"

"North America? It was north of this island but our plates moved above it. Basically the continent of North America melted into the Earth's Crust and..."

"Plates? Earth's Crust? What? Melted???!!" Ugh...I should really learn how to simplify things. "So wait! I thought the continents were all one. They melted? So if we're on top of them then why is there sea around us?"

"Because they're underneath the sea bed. Basically, North America can come out through one of the island's volcanos as lava." He looked at me. His grey eyes reflected the colour of curiosity.

"So where are we? Why isn't the island part of the big continent?"

"Who told you there was a big continent?" I knew it was true but I wanted to see how much I could confuse him.

"My history book...."

"I have a theory," I whispered, "that there isn't one continent. North America is still north. Australia is still an island continent and Antarctica is still frozen."

"What makes you believe that?" He asked instead of questioning me on Australia. He probably realized that it was far from the thesis.

"Because the years for such a major continental drift to happen does not add up."

"You don't do math. You could be dead wrong."

"If I were wrong, you'd be dead because that would mean that Europe went underneath Canada only five years ago," I said. He kept eye contact making me believe that he was interested in my theory hence making me ramble on. "You wouldn't be here if I were wrong. Well, you would look less European. The genetic pool would have become very mixed with the migration of Europeans and Americans to the Islands. You'd look more like me."

"I'm gonna be blunt right now. We totally should hang out more often." The thought of hanging out with someone sounded thrilling but then I remembered one little problem.

"It's against the rules for different majors to hang out."

"Forget about that. We'll just call it a Literature project. We're basically just working on the art of interpretation." I agreed and then the teacher walked in and begun lecturing.

"Reality as we know it does not exist," he said. "Reality is a state of mind meaning that no two individual had the same reality. Similarly, no two individual had the same past. Can you tell me what the past is according to Orwell in your own words?" He raised his hand. "Yes?"

"The past only exist in history records and memories so if someone were to control your mind and rewrite history, they would have gained control of the past. The past would be theirs," he answered.

"Exactly," the teacher said. "Time existed in the moment and what will happen and has happened does not exist. You are time and if you waste time, you waste yourself and you decay your future."

"You said the future doesn't exist," someone at the back challenged.

"The past is the present and a second from now would be your future," he paused for a second. "Now that future is your present."

"So I'm the past and the future?"

"You are time," he said. "Today we're going to do a free-write because I'm a cool teacher." We laughed. "I'm going to give you the liberty of choosing a sentence in your Journey by Moonlight text and you're going to write a four page paper, today in class, analyzing that one sentence and I'll grade it. You're welcome."

"Aww man! Just four pages? Does the font size matter?" Another person asked.

"No it doesn't but the boarders matter! Make sure to stay within the standard boarders! They're there for a reason. Email it to me when you're done." We begun our writing constricted by the thick page boarders. I knew if I went one page over I would be penalized but my thoughts and analysis could not be condensed to just four pages. Why call it a free-write if there were still so many limits?