Lying Beyond the Diner is a Dream Part 2
By Alexandria Davis
Leaving the diner behind may be the best, or worst, decision I have ever made. While my feet continue to follow this stranger into the night, I cannot help but glance back over my shoulder as my place of stability grows smaller and smaller in the distance. Decentering my comfortability for the chance of something more may seem heroic, but at this moment, I feel the unease creeping up my throat, scratching inside my chest, longing to sprint back to the diner. Should I turn around now?
In the midst of this conflict of logical reasoning is something that still tugs me forward. It feels as if my soul senses something I cannot quite comprehend. In the push and pull of my thoughts and feelings, a small form of clarity turns my head from the diner to the unknown. It seems as if my hope for a space beyond the constraints of capitalism outweighs any other point of contention, and so I keep moving forward.
The mysterious figure leads me down an alley to a small wooden door. Until this point, our walk together had consisted of complete silence. I watch as the being lowers themself down to the door and knocks.
“Password?” a voice whispers from within.
“Resilient ties.”
“Ah. Welcome back, Sawyer.”
The door slowly opens, and we are ushered inside to what might be the most revolutionary space I have ever stepped foot in. Lighting of different colors, hues, and vibrancies are dispersed throughout this open space of pure art. There are paint splotches on the walls, notebooks scattered across the wooden floor, and poetry hanging up on a clothesline like wet garments in desperate need of drying. Easels and wooden panels line the walls in different variations of completion. At the very back of the room is a small podium with a mic, just waiting for someone to read their literature aloud.
Amongst this space are artists, writers, and creatives of all kinds working intensely. Light jazz music plays overhead while a small group in the middle of the room discusses their pieces and what additions they should make. Someone is curled up in a corner, reading a poetry book aloud to themself.
This revolutionary room can only be described as a haven for creativity.
Once my moment of awe has subdued, the stranger, also referred to as Sawyer, leads me around the room, introducing me to the various artists. The person who opened the door is lively with energy, excited for me to join this emerging collective. Everyone asks me about my work, my hopes, my dreams, and in that I begin to learn more about the values of this community of people. I have never felt more at peace.
After guiding me throughout the room, Sawyer pulls me aside. “If you haven’t gathered by now, this haven is a space for creatives to grow in their craft, revolutionize the world, and fight back against capitalism. We are here to create a community who resists, a community who supports, a community who loves. I could tell from the moment I saw you staring out the window in the diner that you needed a community like this.”
My eyes glazed over, tears brimming in my eyes. Never had I thought this life was a possibility for me. I feel my soul coming to life.
“If you want to be a part of this community, there are a few rules you must follow,” Sawyer says. “We are an underground collective dedicated to pushing against the system in powerful, yet anonymous ways. Our collective cannot be known, lest there be infiltration or disruption to our community. You must keep this place secret and sacred. Swear on it.”
After swearing to never speak of this place to anyone, Sawyer explains how the collective works. There are living corridors in the basement, with beds, food, bathrooms, and stations for relaxation. The upper level, where we are, is for creatives to pursue their passions. Everyone contributes in any way they can to maintain and keep up the space, but Sawyer is the primary caretaker.
I nod in understanding. I feel so overwhelmed with the excitement and suddenness of this all that it almost doesn’t feel real. All of my dreams are being realized; everything I ever desired in life is coming to fruition. I can finally begin to express my creativity fully without constraints.
Sawyer notices I need time to comprehend everything, so they pat my head before giving me a paintbrush, pointing at an empty canvas, and leaving. I stare at this paintbrush with wonder, thrill, and a sense of empowerment. My desire to express myself is bubbling out of me.
I walk up to the canvas and take a deep breath. Dipping my brush in paint, I allow my creativity to flow out of my body for the first time in years.
