When Prompted to Ramble

Today, Tristram brought three sheets of paper to my room. He looked rather more sheepish than is his usual custom, and once he had stammered out his proposition [though I highly doubt it was his idea] it became clear why. The fellows at the institute were getting bored of their usual efforts, began, quite understandably, to tire from confrontations with failure, and so they decided to try something new.

Now, as far as new approaches go, they could have done a lot worse. I am notably more partial to the written word than I am to the spoken one [a facet of my personality not unknown to them, of course]. Furthermore, though it is a far more tolerable fatigue than the one faced by the good fellows, I have become tired of having nothing but books, jigsaw puzzles, a rather underwhelming view and tasteless furniture to while away my hours. I have not tired, however, and will not ever tire of my thoughts. But thoughts are curious things, I’m sure you’ll agree. As if to spite their own ephemeral nature they seek manifestation, expression – compression, really – through the means we, as a collective, have so cleverly devised. My preferred medium just so happens to be text, and my thoughts have been aching more for their release from the prison of my mind than my twiching fingers could have fathomed, even if they but submit themselves to a different class of shackles.

Though I am writing these words for them to read I did not let my giddiness show. Instead, I queried poor Tristram on this curious turn of events, intrigued what guise of professionalism the vultures of science have forced upon these very sheets. I was let down [no novel experience in this place], for all I got was an invitation to write. No requests for psychography or dream analyses but the most wasteful and desperate of tasks I have ever heard issued – “just write, ma’am” [for this is how Tristram chooses to call me] “about whatever you like.”

He said that, if I so wished, he would be happy to oblige prompts to guide my creativity [or, what they are doubtlessly aiming for, my memory]. This is intriguing, if only because I wonder, capable of drawing from all the breadth and depth of human ingenuity, what exactly the fellows will choose. For this particular first set of sheets, as is perhaps evident, I have declined Tristram’s amiable offer to present me with a carefully curated prompt, instead allowing my hand and mind their little indulgence in merely translating these events into words. But don’t be too disappointed, because I have already discarded my considerations of defiance. Your little scheme has successfully hooked me, though don’t expect to reel me ashore with the selfsame ease.

As the blank space cedes to the flow of my pen – [for this, I feel obliged to add, I ought to thank you; though I have been a frequent writer in my days, not once before this moment would I have felt compelled to call the act of writing a ‘flow’, but, it seems, deprivation has made it so] – I conclude.

Yours [for better or worse], O. Hohnheim