New Spolotikopia
21-09-2005, 01:12
OOC Thread (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=446635)
It was a bright, sunny day in the city of Green Hall. The wind was blowing slowly through the green trees that were planted everywhere throughout the utopian city. Children played on the sidewalks such games as hopscotch, having been just let out of the Green Hall Public School. A professor at the neighboring high school could be seen walking down Julius Avenue at a leisurely stroll, carrying his briefcase with him. His name was Harold Lombardi.
Harold stopped to rest on a nearby bench, just as a biker sped past him down the street. A particularly controversial political argument was on his mind from his lessons at the high school. A student had suggested that New Spolotikopia was headed for disaster unless more personal rights were allowed. Another student had gone on to say that with the economy in the state it was in, it was a wonder that the New Spolotikopia was functioning at all. But how could there be anything wrong with the country? New Spolotikopia was perfect, the ideal nation for any intellectual. All of this troubled the proffesor, but he had more important things to worry about. He put it all out of his mind.
Lombardi examined the cracks in the sidewalk for a little while. His whole life, he had felt that he was not living up to his full potential, that he had a greater role in life. But what greater role could be intended for him? He was perfectly content teaching New Spolotikopia's future at the most prestigious high school in the nation. What could be greater than that? No, Lombardi knew it was all hyped up. The intellectualism? Just mindless babble, students trying to come up with something original just to impress the proffesors. Like any political argument hadn't been thought of already. Still, the numbers didn't lie. A ninety-nine percent literacy rate, and for what? So the people of New Spolotikopia could while away their days becoming philosophers, political analysts, or worst of all, a new generation of professors to teach the future to continue the same talk, generation after generation, for as long as the professor could remember. Yes, he made his small contribution here and there. Every now and then one of his students actually made it into politics, but it wasn't what he wanted. It wasn't his gift to New Spolotikopia, Lombardi could tell.
This was the first time Harold lombardi had ever opened up all of these thoughts and feelings in a long time. For years he had hidden behind the mask of contentedness with his career, and with his nation. The first time the thoughts had come out was when he had graduated from college and received his diploma. He had had a long period of reflection then, reviewing his whole life up until then, and what lay in store for him in the future. Then he had donned the mask of contentedness for the first of what would be many more times to come. Every now and then, little bits would come out, and then return behind the mask. But this time, it had all come out, and this time, he had a feeling, there weren't going to dissappear.
Lombardi glanced at his watch. Six-thirty. He ought to be getting home.
It was a bright, sunny day in the city of Green Hall. The wind was blowing slowly through the green trees that were planted everywhere throughout the utopian city. Children played on the sidewalks such games as hopscotch, having been just let out of the Green Hall Public School. A professor at the neighboring high school could be seen walking down Julius Avenue at a leisurely stroll, carrying his briefcase with him. His name was Harold Lombardi.
Harold stopped to rest on a nearby bench, just as a biker sped past him down the street. A particularly controversial political argument was on his mind from his lessons at the high school. A student had suggested that New Spolotikopia was headed for disaster unless more personal rights were allowed. Another student had gone on to say that with the economy in the state it was in, it was a wonder that the New Spolotikopia was functioning at all. But how could there be anything wrong with the country? New Spolotikopia was perfect, the ideal nation for any intellectual. All of this troubled the proffesor, but he had more important things to worry about. He put it all out of his mind.
Lombardi examined the cracks in the sidewalk for a little while. His whole life, he had felt that he was not living up to his full potential, that he had a greater role in life. But what greater role could be intended for him? He was perfectly content teaching New Spolotikopia's future at the most prestigious high school in the nation. What could be greater than that? No, Lombardi knew it was all hyped up. The intellectualism? Just mindless babble, students trying to come up with something original just to impress the proffesors. Like any political argument hadn't been thought of already. Still, the numbers didn't lie. A ninety-nine percent literacy rate, and for what? So the people of New Spolotikopia could while away their days becoming philosophers, political analysts, or worst of all, a new generation of professors to teach the future to continue the same talk, generation after generation, for as long as the professor could remember. Yes, he made his small contribution here and there. Every now and then one of his students actually made it into politics, but it wasn't what he wanted. It wasn't his gift to New Spolotikopia, Lombardi could tell.
This was the first time Harold lombardi had ever opened up all of these thoughts and feelings in a long time. For years he had hidden behind the mask of contentedness with his career, and with his nation. The first time the thoughts had come out was when he had graduated from college and received his diploma. He had had a long period of reflection then, reviewing his whole life up until then, and what lay in store for him in the future. Then he had donned the mask of contentedness for the first of what would be many more times to come. Every now and then, little bits would come out, and then return behind the mask. But this time, it had all come out, and this time, he had a feeling, there weren't going to dissappear.
Lombardi glanced at his watch. Six-thirty. He ought to be getting home.