The Secrets Within Pages

Memories

Whispers of wind whistle me awake, gracefully guiding me out the door for the first lesson at Oxford. In a daze of nervousness and delirium, I traipse onto the streets toward the awe-inspiring establishment I was to call home for the next four years. Leaves decorated it's pathway in clusters of sage and crimson, fire and earth even now, fighting in a battle to prove their power yet abiding by the whoosh of the breeze, who ruffles my skirt and dances in strands of my hair. On the luscious lawn, students sit and lay, some at peace and admiring every inch of this place while others devour words on parchment, eyes delivering a story of fervour and passion. I am lured into it's distinguished walls that tower over me, examine me as though they are to deem me worthy or not. My eyes betray me, wondering off to gaze at the intricate design of every pillar, every archway. 

Continuing onwards, I reach the lecture hall, a male voice speaks. I slip in quietly in attempts to not disrupt the teacher.

His voice comes to a halt before saying sternly,"You're late." 

I stop in midst of my steps, "Apologies sir, I-" 

"One thing I will preface for you, Miss..."

"Burroughs."

"Miss. Burroughs, is this, I have been teaching long enough to have memorised every excuse in the book. If you are to be in this class, you are to live and breathe it. This course is not easy nor was it advertised to be. Now, I am sure you knew this before you signed up so act accordingly. Do not be late."

My breath hitched as I stood there like a soldier at boot camp. "Respond, girl." 

"Yes sir." I blurt, forcing my furrowed brows to relax and the queasy feeling in my stomach to diminish. 

He turns around but not before dismissing me, "You may be seated."

"Right." I mutter, rapidly turning around and trudging up the steps to find a seat. A couple students were scattered throughout the hall, not many which didn't surprise me, literature was one of the three most difficult majors.

Walking past, a deep voice remarks,"Being late on the first day? Bad move, Miss.Burroughs." 

I whip my head toward a familiar face.

It was that pompous asshole from Blackwells.

"Thanks for the insight." I say, reply dripping with sarcasm.

"Ooh, Miss.Burroughs, Have I... offended you?" He asks, a smug smirk dancing upon his lips as he pulls out a chair next to him, gesturing me to sit.

Professor clears his throat, the sound pulling me to him. That scowl had familiarised itself all too much with me. I pull out the seat further down and sit.

"Strike two." He whispers, facing the front.

Staring daggers at him, a small twitch began to form, one I had a feeling only he could trigger. 

"Poetry." Professor's voice boomed in the walls, "What is it?"

A student raises her hand, "It's a form of literature that focuses on creating an emotional experience that comments on life through lyrical language."

It was as though he was holding back the urge to roll his eyes,"No, no that is the dictionary definition. If I wanted that I would've asked any student on this campus and they could've answered it. You, you are different. You are here because when I ask you this question, you will answer with high order thinking. One that transcends the surface, one that delves deeper. For literature has layers, like humanity. That is why it is the most important course of study, literature is the language of the human heart and nothing holds a candle to it."

If life was dull without passion, then mine would be nothing but shades of black and white, slowly withering away without literature. Without its richness, without its confronting harshness. Perhaps the reason why I yearned for it so, is because it is the only thing that spoke to my soul in such ways that no one and nothing else could, because it both excites me and terrifies me, because it pushes me to such boundaries while also being a constant and warm sanctuary that protects me.

I felt the edge of the table digging into me as I lean in toward every word professor uttered, pondering on the question. 

Finally, I raise my hand, "Poetry is the heart bleeding on paper, often when life becomes too much our emotions write themselves. It is where we write what we fear most, what we love most, what haunts us, intrigues us, weaving it into intricately crafted pieces of prose that does the one thing, we as humans believe is impossible-

Unity.

No matter where or who you are, poetry will find a way to etch itself into your heart and render you completely powerless. Love, passion, loss, grief, these are all aspects of our human experience, the one thing we all have in common. Therefore, the one thing no one can refute, is that literature is not important because it isn't-

It is integral."

From my periphery, I notice the boy with piercing brown eyes staring at me. His all- encompassing gaze unnervingly cemented on me before he writes something on a piece of parchment. 

I look at professor, in hopes he was somewhat satiated with my response, with me. Inquistory eyes survey me, followed by a slow nod and an almost-smile. 

I sigh a breath of relief, biting my lips to hide the grin that began stretching on my face.

"Mr. Golding, care to give me a line from a favourite poem of yours?"

Golding. 

Finally, a name to that sly face. He looked at professor for a moment. If eyes were weapons, his would be Excalibar, powerful and enticing. Dark, sharp brows framing them as soft curls of umber fall atop his forehead. "Surely sir, there are more... eager students who'd be delighted to share." 

"And yet, I want to hear your response." Professor reiterates, raising a brow.

Silence fills the air for a moment before he utters, "We men are wretched things." 

They say eyes are the gateway to the soul, but ask a man their favorite piece of literature and you will understand the very essence of their being and if they say nothing, avoid them completely. 

Professor hums a response. "And dare I ask, why this line?"

The pen that he's been twirling between his fingers, ceases. "Poetry speaks truths we all are too afraid to admit, even to ourselves. It humbles humanity. And in the confrontational, some find comfort where others are perturbed. Humans are wretched, cruel creatures that are all too infatuated in themselves. Like a forest fire of ruin they burn down every good thing and the worst of all, are those who cannot even perceive their wrongdoings. But are they ever punished?" 

My eyes, like a paintbrush, trace him. His lifted brows as he questions professor, the slight clench of his jaw, the delicate quality of his thick lashes- he was truly a work of art. Could it be that you can equally detest someone and yet be enthralled by them, by their observations?

I hated the contradictory way he made me feel.

"That question. Let it make you challenge everything you believe, let it drive you mad. That is the power of words, they leave you with more than when you arrived. They elevate you." Professor says to Golding before announcing it to the whole class.

And so, the lesson went on. A riddlesome song of poetry, discussion and insight.

Whatever the next four years brings, I know that I will enjoy every minute of it's chaos.