The fool is King, and the rest is just a pleasant song, indicating factual wars, and not just sporadic ancient revolutions on women’s equality.
On this pad, I can see my writing, in my mind I can detect overwhelming thoughts to be verbalized. I can hear myself talk and sing out loud, endlessly… but does anyone else see me or hear me? Even if they do, will they just pretend they haven’t seen my hurting foot stuck under the heavy wheeled lorry? I’m still holding on to my written papers, which by now may all be scattered and blown away… can anyone else see them?
My voice could even routinely rhyme like in a droning song that plays in the background, as monotonous tones echoed in an empty room, no one ever notice, because there’s nothing there but emptiness and some drifting dust…
Still, silently the continuous routine swelling misinformation about my ‘being’ widens… but how would I know? I can hear them. I can hear them all just as I’ve heard them behind the heavy door from the end of the long hall, as they were thumped shut. I pretty well remember when I was a kid, doors shutting off right into my face. These girls just wanted to hang out among them and no one else was allowed in. The controversy was too strenuous, too exhausting, too draining. Thus the ceiling and its shadows became entertaining sceneries away from a poignant life surrounded by browbeats.
Was it intentionally done to hurt my feelings or were they dumfounded and inebriated by proud persuasion? I’ll forgive them if they might be suffering of some form of irrational syndrome, just like the zombies walking into a long path with sightlessness? But they weren’t suffering of any weakness on their high plinth. Sometimes in the past I have heard of a saying in French: “Dans le monde des aveugles, le fou est Roi” which means “Within the blind world, the fool is King” it was mostly current and popular during the battle of Orleans in France.
Charles VI became king at eleven years old, he had visible psychosis at the beginning in his mid-twenties, and soon enough he made very bad choices. Once known as Charles the Beloved, he was called Charles the Mad later in his reign. Apparently psychological illness had been passed on for several generations through his mother, Joanna of Bourbon, an extremely frustrated woman. Maybe as a woman, she had no rights, and the high ranked religious priest tortured her within antagonistic ruling and lack of liberty. It was well practiced in ancient times. History reports have revealed that in some countries women lived without liberty. We wouldn’t know now, but we do know that at the time women had no freedom, and when they demanded it, they were locked up and labelled as insane.
Reading these parts of history of France could explain the ongoing wars that never seemed to end and always blaming others for enticing them. I’m hinting out factual wars, and not just sporadic revolutions among gender equality.
During my grammar school years, I remember having read about these wars and the amazing Joan of Arc… but of course children that only read comic magazines wouldn’t know how to retain historical testimonies or get inquisitive to devour more literature, just to get informed by cheer curiosity, as I always did and still do.
“Maybe there’s no light? Maybe there’s no power,” as the songs goes:
What we do when the power’s out.
What do we do when the lights go down.
What we do when the power’s out.
What do we do when the lights go.
Down, down, down, down, down, down.
When the lights go.
Down, down, down, down, down, down