Oxford Union by L. H.

Luna wasn’t so happy this days, how could she if all she heard on the news and all around were
stories of war, murder, violence, absence of hope, greed and disrespect.
On the edge of all this was her own will to survive, to overcome this dissonance and create a
environment of harmony around her.
Many, most of her friends were dead, others were far away in distant countries and the scale of
destruction had by far become inimaginable.
She had study the history of first and second world wars, even XIX Century conflicts and
Mythology, but she had not yet lived so it was absolute nightmare, absolutly absurde, she could not
believe evil existed and was so good on destroying the hapiness of others, the sadistic pleasures of
destruction, creating fear and panic all around.
The places that once were lively, cheerfull and where joy was present had become almost dark,
silence was scarry, people did not went out on the streets, the city was ghostly, covered in a bad
omen and deserted, the daily routine turned into a strugle, she got her motivation from a paralel
source of faith and kindness, a search for beauty and a way of life under the tempest.
She used to go to the library and ignore the sirens of security warnning, she used to hide in the
garden and write under a tree by the lake until very late in the afternoon, she used to go swim in the
ocean and ignore all the bad news, after a while she had summened enoughth energy to be able to
walk in tranquility, all she needed were the birds sounds to keep her grounded and focus.
This was not easy, she was up against most of the corrents, the society she once thought was
organized and civilized was a product of her own imagination has there was not such thing has
strategy or peace, she has been able to live just by abstraction, by the powers of creativity and her
own will to find harmony and melody. Her father had offer her a collection of digital recording of
all the classical composers performed by major Classical European Orchestras and she spent years
just reading and listening to the libretos and she could dance and sing what she had learn from
them, she kept a open journal and registered little poems, she was most found of rhymes and poetic
prose but mainly dancing with point dance shoes.
She had friends in Vienna, Nothingham, Oxford, Cambridge, Liverpool, London, the Bloomsbury
Bookshops, Paris and other villages, and it was strange remembering the alarms of bomb treaths
and running around in paris metro or the paris undergound, trying to reach the surface, climbling
stairs, running, climbing strais with no regrets just a huge sence of self and not looking back,
running for her life and not falling upart with the colapsed people who ordered this actions.
She was strong in her beliefs, she was walking almost inconscient in the sence she had no idea of
the dangers that were just around the corner, anything could happen and she just kept on dancing in
pointes. It was madness, she couldn’t stop crying, she was crying compulsively when she heard
what happen after she got away of the that place, she did good not looking back and saving herself
but she could not ignore what had happen to others, she had a heart, something that was running
out very fast from existance.
This heart was beating faster than it should it could not rest from the reality that had stroke it, from
the lives that had been destryed before her eyes, to enslave, to refrain us from keeping our free will,
to keep us captive of lies and rethoric speaches of vain and irresponsible politicians. Never, she had
came front to front, face to face to the rush reality of living and she was so gentle, she never lost her
warm smile, she never said a word agains anyone until the day the was so disgusted she could vomit
from just breathing the air, the toxic waste city, the air polluition from fossil fuels in all the city
squares, you could not breath there were heavy metals spread all over and she keept walking, she
knew noone had ever helped her, they all had conspired agianst her, all had conspired to destroy her
dreams, all had part in this destruction, she fall in her bed and lost sences.
On the airplane she took to leave she was sleeping the entire time, lying down taking three
passenger seats just for her, she was asleep dreaming, noone never knew where she went.
What were you waiting for, she asked herself, how could you be so innocent, how could you be so
easy to manipulate, she turn against herself, she was sick of disgust of not being able at the time to
stop all that destruction, all that chaos, and she thought she was weak and she had fallen with the
others and not being the first to face them was the worst feeling, not shutting them up like they done
with so many already, how could they be so heartless, how could they be so shameless, how can
they be so arrogant and the anger grew and it was poison feeding her against everyone she had ever
Luna was writing poems and drawing trying to get back to her old self, to her old dreams, to her
own life, but all she had was anger, rage against all she had seen and their blindness had burned her
so deeply she suffered like she could not hold, she had difficulty breathing, she could feel her bones
craking from the inside out, she screamed at the faces of the people she had left behind, she was not
bitter, she was strugling to overcome this darkness, the murders eyes laught at her and she was
vulnerable, disapointed and she could not believe her own eyes with surprise her expression was of
deep sorrow and it was too heavy, difficult to see the beauty that was still there. It took a long time
for her to come back from the comma, a deep meditation, praying hard to get free from the faces of
the murders and come back to her own steeps. Starting by long showers, long time hair brushing,
chosing a perfume, arranje her closet and feeling confortble in her own room again. It was a stuggle
but Luna lived it and was here to tell anyone who cared about what was happening that she was
against this, she was not happy with their methods, there words, there actions, and there was too
much at stake for them to be happy with what they had done. The time had come to make them
responsable for what they have been doing for too long.
Luna writes poems and studies, Luna will always be in oxford’s student’s union with a oil pastels
box in her hands, ready to sketch the new open society.


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