Niklas watched the crowd from his apartment balcony, their subtle collective sway an anthemia to the words which flowed with practiced lyrical grace from their lips. His fist clenched he walked inside shaking.
His apartment, situated on the second floor overlooking the park, had been a wonderful locale from which he had seen the best and the worst of his city pass by. Drunken university students or young professionals were not uncommon, nor were families with strollers, or pick up football games on a spring day. The occasional concert had proven a welcome reprieve from the constant hustle of the city. For the past two years his favorite part of the apartment had been in fact the balcony from which he was able to watch it all go by.
With the election approaching he had seen protests and rallies begin to pick up in increasing frequency. Hardly a political man he had initially viewed the events as a curiosity. He would come home and discover their presence, quickly researching whatever details might be pertinent to their cause in the news before settling in with a beer. Early on though he began to sense a increasing nausea in his stomach though, as he began to notice less the purpose of the event and more the fervor of their attendees.
He was used to fanaticism, everyone had that uncle or those college friends who littered their social lives with the sort of nonsensical gibberish one would expect from the sort of person more inclined to fear rather than fact. It was something far different to see in person though. To witness vast groups of people come together under the auspices of governance to promote what he had found was an increasingly derisive ideology.
As the protests, the rallies, and the news stories surrounding them, first in concern and then suddenly in praise, grew in number Niklas had experienced his first truly political stirring. Motivated by the contempt outside his balcony he experienced the same concern that drives all reactionary politics. He researched stances, read articles, and prepared himself for a debate which would never come.
Instead the more he learned the clearer he could see others turn a blind eye and people accept what he would consider unspeakable. The toxicity of it all astounded him and with every news article or fact he felt that nauseous bile in his gut rise. Eating away at him to the point where he could feel the fear creeping in he sought relief the best way he knew how, in the written word.
He pulled a newly minted copy of the collected works of William Butler Yeats, from his shelf and settled in next to the fire. Turning the first page he reminded himself that elections were transitory, yet always with the aim of riling people up. In the end they passed along with everything else.
He could not ignore the crowd outside, nor his concerns. Still, poetry worked like a balm on his soul, rooting himself once more in a better world. Where every news article prompted alarmed, every verse proffered genuine emotion.
The crowd’s chants boomed from beyond the balcony as the night wore on. In his book though Niklas found the peace they lacked and the certainty of resolve they demanded of themselves. “The world is a better place with more poetry than politics in it.” He thought with a sigh, turning the page on the night.
Vulnerary: used for or useful in healing wounds
Author’s Note: Day 3 of 365 down. Also the election in the story and the affiliations of the crowd was left intentionally vague as an exercise in perception. What is absolutely true is the amazing impact of the works of William Butler Yeats on ones soul. Also the importance of every vote in an election.
The Flask/Pen 