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Everything felt overwhelming in these past few days, which was more than expected. After all, not only was this the first time she entered a prestigious university, but also the first time she was so far away from her homeland. Looking back, it was nothing short of a miracle for an orphan girl like her to even gain an opportunity like this. But now that she’s here… she couldn’t help but to feel lost, confused, and lonely.
She had decided to take a major in physics for her bachelor program, and even though she was brilliant in her own rights, Sonetto was nothing but a lemming compared to her prodigal peers; thus, she was fated to follow the flow of this educational system without even an ounce of understanding. Her initial judgement was that so long as she gave nothing but her best, she would surely survive in such elite environment. But alas, she soon realized that it was easier said than done.
In the end, it was a mess. Sonetto couldn’t master all the knowledge just yet, but she was expected to know everything already. She won’t hesitate to sacrifice her sleep schedule to stare at the blocks of text that she would end up forgetting anyways. She barely had any time for herself. Or rather, she was avoiding it, for she believed that every second she’s not looking at her notes, she could feel her mind turning numb.
The only form of respite she had… was through poetry.
Sonetto always had an interest in such form of art. Humanity, after all, is built upon the myriads of indescribable thoughts and emotions. To be able to express those that cannot be put into speech within the parchment by the strokes of a pen gave her a sense of liberation. Yet even with her fascination, Sonetto felt like she was not going anywhere; aimless, both in her writings and her life.
On a certain Tuesday, Sonetto decided to visit the Faculty of Arts and Literature to do her assignments. She wanted to see what the other faculties had to offer, but honestly, it was just an excuse for her not to spend another moment in her own suffocating department. Time passed by, and by some limelight miracle she was able to finish most of her tasks. With some time to spare, Sonetto took out a second notebook. Its size was smaller than average, with checkered monochrome patterns for its leatherbound cover.
Inside the book were the many poems from the likes of Edgar Allan Poe, William Shakespeare, and Emily Dickinson; handwritten in ink. Each of the poems were followed by pointed notes of Sonetto’s personal questions and analysis of those works. Her curiosities fell into the many ways certain strings of rhyming words could be crafted into a complete and resonating message; as shown by what the great poets had accomplished.
Among the pages, Sonetto had also written passages of her own. Though they were not as masterful as Shakespeare’s, Sonetto kept her simple writing habit as a mean of respite lest she becomes mad from the endless theorems of her study. Most of the time, her inspiration derived from small, curious thoughts that popped inside her mind or the impressions left from listening to certain songs in repeat. Yet even so, she felt like there was something missing in her work; something that would truly define its identity and worth. She flipped the pages to her latest passage; contemplating on what she tried to convey:
The hound in the prairie
Its eyes wait in weary
Guarding a herd with no sheep
None to hold and none to keep
The hound in the prairie
The days become dreary
Searching an owner long gone
No home shall await him at dawn
The hound in the prairie
The winter becomes awry
Before a furnace without fire
It can only mourn its quagmire
Nobody left to say sorry
For the lonely hound in the prairie
“Interesting.”
Sonetto squeaked audibly, shutting her book and darted at the unknown person. It was a girl, about the same height as her, with ash green hair, faded silver eyes, and a distinct top hat. Her deadpan expression fell out of place, especially with the fact that this stranger had given Sonetto a mini heart attack.
“Did I startle you? Sorry.”
“N-no, it's fine…” Sonetto shook her head, “I wasn't paying attention, Miss um...”
“You can call me Vertin. What's yours?”
“It’s Sonetto.”
“Sonetto. A lovely name.” the girl pulled one of the chairs and sat right next to Sonetto, “So... are you new here? I don't think I've seen a freshman with orange hair like yours.”
“Oh, I am new, just not an art student. I only go here in my free time.”
“Which faculty then?”
Sonetto hesitated for a moment, “Science and Mathematics. I'm from the Physics department.”
“A physics student writing poem? How curious.” A subtle smile perked on Vertin’s lips while Sonetto was visibly pouting.
“Is it really so strange for me to be interested in poetry?”
The strange girl giggled, “Of course not. I'm just intrigued, that's all. Most of my friends in Physics usually have more fun in insane experiments and solving equations.”
“Well, I'm not ‘most of your friend’.” Sonetto muttered, “Too many times, I've wondered if I took the right course or not.”
“Can you really say that? It's only your first yea-”
That seemingly harmless comment struck Sonetto’s nerves. She snapped, slamming her notebook on the table as she stood up.
“But regardless! I don't feel like I belong in where I am now…” Sonetto hissed “and if you keep judging me, then I'll just take my leave.”
“Sonetto, wait!” Vertin caught up with Sonetto—holding her by the shoulder—as she was about to storm off, “I didn't mean to make you feel bad.”
The girl paused. To be honest, even though they’d just met, Sonetto could tell that Vertin was not the insensitive type; not voluntarily at least. Perhaps her own exhaustion of always lagging behind that made her so detached to any form of understanding.
“…That's alright.” Sonetto exhaled, “I'm just very confused right now.”
An awkward silence lay between them, with only the clock ticking to break it. Then, as if being struck by an ingenious idea, Vertin snapped her finger, “You said that you don't feel like you belong anywhere, right? What if I give you exactly what you need?”
“Huh? What do you mean?” Sonetto turned around, crossing her arms.
“Well, I'm thinking of creating a circle of litterateurs in my department. Since you're interested in poetry, perhaps you can be an honorary member.”
Sonetto let out an audible whine, mouth agape and brows furrowed, “This is… too sudden. I know you mean well, but why do you want me to join?”
But Vertin remained nonchalant, “Other than the fact that the only current member is me, it's because you have the look of someone who needs a place to vent and I can’t just ignore that.”
“A-are you saying I don't have any friends?”
“I'm not saying that you are not lonely… am I?”
Sonetto’s eye twitched. She didn’t know whether to be angry or worried by this girl’s audacity. And yet, her words were not incorrect. Part of her loneliness was due to her own refusal to make her own efforts. Besides, there was no harm to it. She wasn’t going to make friends with her current rate anyways, so she might as well take the chance.
“…Fine. I’ll see what you have to offer.”
Vertin smiled as her new acquaintance huffed. She held the ginger’s hand and took her for a stroll down the marbled hall, passing through unfamiliar faces. Each of Sonetto’s steps were filled with uncertainties and subtle excitement. They arrived inside a room of basil tiles and white walls with wooden frames. The room had an L-shaped couch by the upper right corner—accompanied by a coffee table—and a desk by the left side by the door. The windows were relatively wide, letting the afternoon glow illuminate the room. A bookshelf, made from mahogany, was also present, where Vertin took her moment to inspect the available volumes.
“So, is this the circle's place's?”
“Technically this is Professor Zima's office, but he said I can use it since he prefers working outdoors anyway.”
“I see” the ginger’s gaze shifted left and right.
“By the way, I read the poem that you wrote.”
“R-really?” Sonetto’s face lit up, visibly blushing “And… what do you think?”
“It's on the simpler side, but I kind of get what you're trying to say” Vertin closed the book that she was skimming through, then turned towards Sonetto, “It's a projection of your own life, right?”
“You're not wrong.” Sonetto answered. She let out a sigh as she made herself comfortable on the couch, “At that time, I felt aimless with what I am doing with my life; having questions like 'Why am I here?' or 'Is there more to me than dead ends?'. I feel like a stray hound, so I just… wrote everything that's going on in my head.”
“I understand that, truly. Although, I must ask…”
“What is it?”
Vertin’s lips arched into a playful smile “Is the reason why you made it with fourteen lines because your name is ‘Sonetto’?”
“…Screw you.”
But the girl in the top hat simply laughed at Sonetto’s pouty face, “Just a harmless joke.”
“Right, so about this… litterateur circle of yours, what exactly do you do?”
Vertin crossed her arms, “If I have to say, it will be a place where we can create, discuss, and appreciate the literatures that we wish.”
“So essentially a literature club? Doesn't your faculty have one?”
“Yes.”
Sonetto blinked twice, “…Okay. what are your plans in running the circle?”
But she was only met with a carefree shrug.
“Y-you're kidding, right?”
“Well, I am the only member, so I haven't really thought of futureproofing it.”
“But you don't see the problem here.” Sonetto stood up, flailing her arms, “If your faculty already has its own literature club, then what's the point of you creating one?”
“Because there are some things that we cannot truly express. I want to make something that can connect people in a more personal level; a place where people can be truly honest with themselves. I consulted Professor Zima about this, and he gave his full approval.” Vertin returned the book she held onto the shelf. Then, her tone shifted, as her smile dropped, “Sonetto, when you write your poems, how did it make you feel?”
“What are yo-” Sonetto held her words. In a way, she could understand where that girl was trying to say. Why did she fall for poetry in the first place?
“…Well, it felt relaxing, enjoyable.”
“And?”
“And it's like,” her lips struggled to continue “…a weight was lifted from me and poured into words.”
“Exactly.” Vertin snapped her fingers, “Imagine if people could have the chance to lift their own burdens and cry them out, and no form of expression is more fitting than literature. And I think you're more than able to help people find their voices.”
“More than able… huh?”
“I know all of this is not perfect, but I want to see it to the end and... I would like you to be a part of it.”
There she went again, offering her hand so carelessly. It was clear to Sonetto that Vertin’s rambling is that of a naïve idealist. I suppose that was to be expected from someone who was artistically inclined. Poems do have power—Sonetto understood that—but it takes more than purple prose to change the trajectory of someone’s life. In the modern era, art’ has little power in the face of artificial indifference, and sincerity had become a rare commodity. Art and passion alone will not survive the tide of change…
…maybe that’s why Sonetto chose a ‘safe’ career path in the first place, and maybe that’s why she tried to deny any expression of self.
“It must be easy for you to say flowery words like that.”
“Huh?”
Sonetto’s brows furrowed, “N-no, I'm sorry, but I think you have the wrong person. My schedule is already tight as it is, so I cannot freely join outside agendas. Besides... I'm not even done with myself, so how would you expect me to help others?”
“But can you at least stay for a little longer? Maybe we coul-”
“Miss Vertin!” Sonetto’s voice shook, “I appreciate your cause and I hope you can make it come true... But with all due respect, leave me out of this.”
Another uncomfortable silence. One side was so adamant with her ideal, while the other didn’t even know what her ‘ideal’ was. Finally, Vertin gave up, letting out a defeated sigh.
“Alright... But before you leave,” Vertin took a different book from the shelf. It was visibly thinner than the other volumes, almost like a notebook, “there's something I want to show you.”
The girl walked towards Sonetto and handed her the book that showed a certain page. Sonetto felt reluctant, but she could see that Vertin’s expression was no longer jovial or carefree, but rather sentimental. Out of respect, Sonetto read the content:
Bitter days passed a thousandfold
Yet the thorny sorrow’s still taking hold
No glory, no honor, no fame
The yesteryears couldn’t remember my name
So go forth to where the crying crows’ rest
And plant your “nevermore” in their nest
In solitude shall the dialogue be heard
A conversation with those who cannot utter a word
You ask when the cycle shall be complete
Yet fail to hear the crows’ weep for the obsolete
The waking world no longer serves me and you
Only in sleep can we find the morrow’s dew
Until the upward rain clears everything
The crows will keep hold the prayers of nothing
May “foolishness” be a part of your words
Until we can sing again, o ink-blotted songbirds
“This is...”
“A poem; one that my mother wrote.”
“Your mother?”
Vertin nodded. She walked to the window and casted her downwards gaze at the view; reminiscing non-existent memories, “But I never knew my mother, not even when I was born. I lived under the care of her close friend.”
“So you're orphan as well.”
“Yes. The only thing left of her are her works. To have so many of her works featured, she must be a very well-respected writer. Whenever I don't know what to do, I look at her articles for directions. Whenever I have feelings I can't explain, I read her poems for comfort and inspiration. In a way, it's the only way I can communicate with her.”
“I see…” Sonetto answered. Her tone carried a trail of guilt.
“And you know what's funny? I think by uncovering more of her works, I can find clues about who she really is.” She turned towards Sonetto once more. Her eyes and smile now filled with anticipation, “That's why I'm doing this. My mother's work helped me express myself honestly, so I want to give everyone a chance for that. Maybe you won't join my cause, but I do hope you can understand where I'm going with this.”
A realization struck her. Perhaps she had judged Vertin too harshly. Juvenile as she may be, Vertin was not aimless. Rather, she had more cause to uphold than Sonetto could ever imagine in her own life. A funny irony: the one who was supposed to be more intellectual and rational had less worldview than a poet.
Art and passion alone will not survive the tide of change… but perhaps a spark of compassion is enough to complete it.
“I understand.” The ginger exhaled, holding her hand to her chest, “Maybe I'm just not ready to join you yet, but... I believe in you, and I'm willing to look after you.”
A surprising answer, but more than enough. Vertin lightly patted the girl’s shoulder and smiled, “Thank you, Sonetto.”
As she parted those words, a unison roar of flapped wings flew from outside: a murder of crows, casting their shadows on the afterglow. Their cries echoed, and one could only wonder who it would reach.
“If you don't mind…” Sonetto held Vertin by the sleeve. Her body fidgeting slightly, “Can you show me more of your mother's work? I… want to study and analyze them.”
Vertin simply chuckled, “Of course.”