She is in her room, writing a musical composure. It is 4 days before the 972nd Summer Sun Celebration and she has volunteered to write a musical for an assembly that will take place in her high school. As new lyrics and musical notes pop into her head she levitates her quill, dips it into the bottle of ink, and writes it down in her journal. In the adjacent room irksome voices, her parents want something from each other once again.
“You just don’t understand her like I do, she has a heart of gold. “
Her mother’s act is very complicated: the world, of which she fears, is used as a whip on her husband, but from her cringing attitude she would seem to an outsider to that of the one being whipped. The stallion takes the role of the aggressor as penance for the fact, the incessant shame fact, that she is the one who wrestles with the real world while he stays indoors, at home. Only by convolution have they accepted the roles in which society has made for them. They continue to argue and bicker, their daughter tries not to listen, but when he cannot block out them, images of what is part taking storms his mind: the two antagonists, circling each other, surrounded by out of date furniture, while docile framed photos of past generations hang on the wall.
This matrix of pain that bores her, she feels as if she is floating above it, spread out on the bed, writing down songs that comes to her head, contemplating the view from her window, waiting and hoping for tomorrow when she can trot off to school, yearning for the bell that will call her to homeroom, for the excitement of class, for the day she becomes famous for her musical work at the Grand Galloping Gala, for the opportunity that will carry her away, out of this, out.