the beautiful ordinary - a real-life boarding school / small town rp
When asked to describe my years at Beaton, I reply:"Wholly imaginary."
I adored it so much I hardly left - not for Lent, summers or Christmas. I bought into the illusion. I lived life with no inhibitions, no structure. We had supper when we ought to have breakfast, our classes could last a half hour or a fortnight, we desired and were desired, and our teachers were our defilers. The world outside our winged isle of whimsical indulgence was inane. We lived in a vaccum, a world where we were perpetually gratified and our actions bore no consequences. We thought we were larger than life - adolescent leviathans even if our black blazers only speckled rising green hills like flies on resting dromedaries. Hedonism wasn't a vice - it was a fact.
As any Beaton student I felt an unwavering amount of pride in our little school: a handful of peers from only the best families, staunch traditions, an illustrious six-hundred year history, no wogs. Yet, I realized that having pride in one's school is as redundant as, well, hating wogs because unlike other pupils in other institutions we never earned the right to go to Beaton, we were born into it - it was simply a genetic mishap.
It was my unwavering love for Beaton that extenuated the humiliation, pain, and surprise I felt when I realized the misery and hopelessness of myself and my peers.
The cracks in the school's facade began to show after the headmaster's death. Having attended the school in the early 1940s, he was a man who embodied the Beatonian ideal: intelligent, industrial, and possessing attractive cynicism supported by questionable integrity. I left the funeral in a fantod as the realization of my mortality struck me in the face. At Beaton, existence was played with, a toy that was bestowed upon us by our parents and as limitless as their wealth - our other trinket. We all contributed, through our debauchery, a Soviet-worthy deception that we could transcend existence.
We, however, could not.
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