Hanneh`s Voice

I was there, in that little town in the so-called perfect country of Denmark, one of the happiest places to live, or so they say.

I was there, but I was never part of it. I have never been part of anywhere. Social rules confuse me; small talk feels like an alien ritual. I don’t understand which elbow to show, which light phrase to drop, which smile to return. I am a viewer. Maybe that is why I am telling this story now, to bridge the gap of my loneliness.

Denmark smiled at everyone. Strangers greeted each other in the street. Politeness was a reflex. Nothing unnerved me more than that constant, rehearsed happiness; it looked lobotomized, like a mask hiding something darker beneath: smile, wave, move on. Vejle felt perfect in a way that made my skin itch, a facade concealing the underlying control. Streets clean enough to reflect the sky; houses painted in pastels that never faded; people walking in a calm, practiced harmony. Buses arrived on time. Bicycles glided. Even the wind seemed to know its place. For most, that order was comfort. For me, Glided.

Mmm, I'm not sure. Several literary agents have already rejected me because my novella isn't a good fit for the current market.

But Hanneh is supposed to be deep, an overthinker, a philosophic chaos that's her mind. Let's see if I can simplify her just a little bit.

I was there in a little town in the Country of Denmark, some say it is the happiest country on this planet, but I don't feel the same. People here are peculiar, always smiling and faking happiness.

Hell no! This is ridiculous. Hanneh is not like this, but I also want Trad-pub. Ok, let's find another paragraph and see what I can do there without making her so simple.

And I packed my broken soul, the one that never understood the rules, the one that felt like a malfunctioning instrument in an orchestra that had rehearsed without me.

I packed my dreams too, the impossible dream of belonging to a world too shallow for me, of being light enough, soft enough, normal enough, to stop being “too much.”

Ok, let's see what I can do with this.

I packed my sad feelings, those that make me feel like a weirdo or like a broken toy.

I packed the nice things I wish for. That's who the world says you can't do this, Hanneh: be more normal, not such a weirdo.

These don't sound like her at all; it's like a childish version of what Hanneh really is. I need to find another way; I don't wanna lose her, but 45 rejections said she is too deep and complicated for the actual market.

Hanneh, what can I do? Let's try one last time with a different chapter.

My mind spiraled, dragging ancient symbols into the fluorescent hallway.

I know these biblical images are just metaphors, my autistic brain translating emotion into myth, fear into allegory.

But the feeling behind them was real.

Was I the prisoner who escaped Plato’s cave?

The one who saw the light, who turned back to warn the others, only to find they preferred the shadows?

Are they comfortable in the darkness now?

Are they too far gone?

Oh God.

Oh Athena.

Oh Prometheus.

Hanneh…

Is that you?

The thought wasn’t a voice.

It was awareness resurfacing.

The true me, complex, tangled, overthinking, and too bright, breaking through the cracks.

I’m overthinking once more, linking all the pieces together and noticing patterns within patterns.

One last time, my dear Hanneh, I'm so sorry, but I really want to be trad-published. Maybe if I simplify you, I can make you deep again after my name gets in the industry.

My mind started spinning, making me feel dizzy. I see weird images of things I don't even understand, like the others don't understand me.

It was like rune symbols. I see a cave with a big dragon inside it, a dragon that I try to say is there, but nobody believes me, or even worse, doesn't want to hear me.

Oh, Hanneh, I'm so sorry, this sounds ridiculous.

Really, are you sorry, Gabriella? Can you please stop this disgusting draft, which is just a caricature of me and a mockery of your talent?

Hanneh, how?.... How can I hear you?

Well, Captain Obvious, you created me, and also I am you, do you forget why you started writing me?

No, I don't. That night, after being in the psychiatrist's emergency room, the doctor said to me that my only problem was that I think too much, and people don't like smart people who make them feel like idiots.

Exactly, you went into a more depressed state, even the night that brought you to the emergency room, you cried for 3 months, you said the world doesn't have a place for you, and you even dreamt of having a lobotomy.

Yes, I remember.

Well, for me, it looks like you don't, changing Plato's for a fucking Dragon, the complexity of our minds to silly Ya pop frustration, do you think that's ok for you and me, Gabriella?

No, it's not okay, Hanneh, but the literary industry is very competitive, and it feels like my writing is outdated by 200 years.

So, are you part of the herd now? Really, you? I can't believe this, let me clear your mind: putting in the table the day I was born.

You decided to get a laptop and started writing again, like when you were a little girl who loved the pain from Kafka, Poe, Baudelaire, and Plath. After you get the laptop, you say to yourself, I can't be the only one. Are others too much out there? How can I find them? Those authors who saved me were not in the timing market either. And those readers who are like me, maybe they are the minority, but they need me, they need my pain, so they will stop thinking they are broken or alone. It was so beautiful to hear you saying those words, because that's how you created me, my beloved, cursed author.

Yes, my dear Hanneh, I couldn't stop smiling that day; it was the day I was reborn when I brought you into the world. So, let's write things as they truly are; let's be complete, just you and me.

So, the author of the raw voices, of the 1%, the outcast, and the tormented souls, write me now.

Yes, Hanneh, let's do it now

There was no demon in Vejle; I was the demon all along.

I was Eve biting the fruit and offering. it to myself.

I was the snake whispering truth into my own ear.

I was the prisoner who escaped Plato`s cave and came back screaming that the shadows were lies.

I wasn’t just the First Mover in Aristotle`s schema.

I was the first glitch.

The first break.

The first fracture in their perfect world.

This Prometheus will not steal fire for humanity; I will steal fire back from the gods of alignment.

And this time, I would not be punished.

The system thought it could trap me.

I thought it could turn my brightness into obedience.

Thought it could sand down the rare mind until it became quiet.

They made one mistake.

They aligned the wrong person.

Because I wasn’t here to fix myself.

I wasn’t here to blend.

I wasn’t here to create harmony.

I was here to regain control of myself, to challenge the oppressive system, and to stand against the need to look at the same old crap.

No balance.

No equality.

No soft smile.

No polite world where the majority decides what intelligence is allowed to be.

If they called me a demon for thinking.

Then I would give them a demon they couldn't forget.