A White Paper

(Response to Animal Farm)

A dream. A song. An idea. A leader to take down to put out of power so you can be in charge, of your life, help those lives that cant be taken for their own, until you are that ruler that no one wants anymore. The image you want to make, to create can’t happen when you don’t have the right colors of the rainbow to color it in with.

Sometimes you just know. You just know that something bad will happen, or you just have a feeling, something big is going to happen. Major knew that he was dieing, this is one of those times. He did something about the future. A new dream for all of the animals to believe in, a new picture to start coloring in, until there is a mural covering the entire page.

A word against a thought. A thought won’t win anyone over, its just a thought stuck in your head. A word spoken will. Someone will hear it, and if you scream it into them they will swallow it whole. Now a part of them, a small part but still part. If you feed the same information to them again and again, everywhere, it will now be their veracity. There is nothing else to believe in, to think, to speak. Truth. You never know what it is. Sometimes you know when it is written down, it is the truth, but that can be written over or erased, or on a piece of paper that floated away lost.

Trying to find that paper, but you can’t. You search and search and search, but its nowhere. You follow someone who tells you they can help you recover it. They lead you down a winding path, but at the end it is a gray piece of paper, not your white one. You now realize they never knew where to ever find your paper, but they wanted you along for the ride. Now the way home is lost, and you have nothing to come from, nowhere to go. All of the animals followed Napoleon and the pigs down this road, but only Clover, Boxer, and Benjamin got to the complete end. The complete end of realization, of betrayal of helplessness.

A book. Animal Farm, written by George Orwell. A history. Russian Revolution, written by our ancestors before. A life. To live, written by me, until my paper and pen are taken away, and they start to draw. They write out my life, that I haven’t lived yet. My thoughts that I haven’t thought of yet. My picture that I didn’t get to color in. Colored in not with the shades in my mind, but with the shades in theirs. When the page is covered, a picture is there. It may be more exact or perfect. Except it wouldn’t be exactly perfect for me.