The Lies Of Dawn

C H A P T E R 1

"I would say my theme has always been paradise lost, always the lost cause, the lost leader, the lost utopia." - Marguerite Young.

Celia was sitting in the auditorium, in a seat near the vast window that allowed her to gaze at the afternoon sky. The object of her fascination had been painted a mix of pastel colours and a rainbow had appeared after the continuous rain.

She almost laughed at what a false advertisement that image was. In real life, the rain, which represented the troubles following people, did not dissolve into beauty but in pain.

Celia, unfortunately, knew that all too well.

She missed the rain terribly, even though she lived in England and as it is known the country does not have a shortage of drizzle. Perhaps, it would be fair to say that she missed the rain almost as much as she missed her home.

Terribly, yet, not at all.

Celia was aware that she hadn't been paying attention to her philosophy professor's words as they came tumbling out of his mouth. She had only caught fragments of what the lecture was about and instead of worrying about the difference between Aristotle and Plato and how their different approach on some subjects created a whole new era of philosophical views, Celia was thinking about her home. The home she had left five years prior to settling into a small town outside of London.

She had just turned eighteen when she was forced to start a new life far far away from all the toxic memories the old one had to offer. She travelled a lot through Europe, for about a year, letting her self discover where she would feel more comfortable to start over. She learned a lot about Mediterranean cultures, being half Italian herself she had always felt a deep longing in her heart whenever she would gaze into the dark blue waters of the Mediterranean, and yet she did not choose a familiar environment.

She found herself infatuated with the grey skies of England and the graphic alleys, the architecture. It all felt familiar to her soul and so at the first chance that arose she enrolled in a university in order to study philosophy, as she had always planned.

The very first thing that she had been asked was what her ambition was. She had tried to be as honest as possible and replied that she had none, she simply wanted to live and that she never dreamt big, the way she was urged to do from a young age because dreams are fragile and get crashed as easily as do people who dream.

The professor looked up from his notes and started speaking once more. "All great philosophers were disturbed -in a way. Every genius is a little bit mad at the very least. We all carry baggage, some of you may know this from personal experience and this is where we draw art from. Pain, misery, insanity, violence. Have you ever heard of art coming from hearts and flowers, peace or love? No, you have not because it can't, great art takes a part from you and you never get that part back. Where I am going with this as you may be wondering is that philosophy is an art." Mr. Russ said.

Celia, usually never bothered to learn their names. She believed that because they never knew her, she wasn't obliged to learn more about them. She only cared about what she could learn from them. She was just a number in a file and some basic information, prior education, her birth certificate and other meaningless data, she was not a person with thoughts and passions. But she couldn't help but know this detail about the only professor who held a deep understanding of the things he was teaching. Others weren't like him.

She was not blaming anyone for this, honestly, that was how the educational system operated.

Perhaps, she was just bitter, she could never stand when she felt that her wants were being suppressed.

She loved philosophy yet she detested the people that attended the same classes as her, those pretentious bastards who believed they knew everything, all in all, she detested her self for who could be more pretentious than a young woman with such strong beliefs?