- Books, Literature, and Writing
The Red Brick Prison. Chapter I
She sat at her computer desk, silently staring out of the window at the red brick terraced houses that seemed to go on endlessly into the distance. This was her prison, she could see no beauty in it. The same view every day, red brick after red brick. Occasionally a black plastic drainpipe or a wildly overgrown shrub were the only things to lift the eye from the ongoing monotony of old. Red. Bricks.
Sometimes, when the dusky sun shone down on them, they glowed orange, like false hope. And she felt as though she ought to see something more. More than just red brick prisons. Some beauty in it, something to inspire her, but there was nothing. She wished she could see it, anything there. Something that someone better than her would surely see. A photograph, a painting, a poem or story; something creative and beautiful taken from that prison she saw every day.
What she wished for most was that she could see something else, travel the world and write epic poetry. About the animals of the Serengeti, the beauty of China, the romance of Paris & the architecture of Italy. She sat at her desk and dreamed of escaping and soaring free, an untamed force, full of inspiration, hope, love and adventure.
But she had given up, she knew that it was a fairytale. This was her life; living in this red brick prison, leaving only to visit the town of boarded up hopes and vandalised dreams where she worked. That Blue-collar-working-class-minimum-wage-would-you-like-a-carrier-bag-sir? soul crushing job.
Her wings were clipped. Her soul was dust.
This was her life's sentence: She would live here, work here, meet some guy here, raise a couple of kids here. And then die here.
At nineteen she was resigned, her hope gone, her dreams withered. And so she sat, stating out of her window, waiting for something she knew would never come.