Creative Writing: Letters from London

The window was cold to the touch. The glass shimmered as the specks of sunlight danced, and Blake stood, peering out. As God put his head to the window, at once, he felt light shining through his soul. Six years old. Age ceased to define him and time ceased to exist. Silence seeped into every crevice of the room, and slowly, as the awe of the vision engulfed him, he felt the gates slowly open. His thoughts grew fluid, unrestrained, and almost chaotic. An untouched imagination had been liberated, and soon, the world around him transformed into one of magnificence and wonder. His childish naivety cloaked the flaws and turbulence of London, and the imagination became, to Blake, the body of God. The darkness lingering in the corners of London slowly became light. Years passed by, slowly fading into wisps of the past, and the blanket of innocence deteriorated as reality blurred the clarity of childhood.

1793, London

With each step, he yearned for the concrete world to dissolve. Every man who passed wore a mask of disdain, mirroring Blake’s own, while resentful eyes trailed along the cobbled pathways, searching for answers to the unanswerable. The alleyways of London, once brimming with character, forlornly watched the people who no longer had any desire to stand still. Instead, the ceaselessness of noise mirrored the ceaselessness of life and, as Blake stood, the seed which once had flourished within his being seemed to wither away, while his sprit wrestled and writhed, yearning for liberation from the concrete cell of London. The Thames flowed beneath him, almost mocking the finite world through its infinite liberation. A young boy stood nearby, gazing towards him with an eerie blankness in his eyes, and yet the two eyes, black as i...

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... so polluted with insignificance, have found new understanding. It is a glorious feeling indeed. I will endeavour to channel my creative energies into a new poem, and it will be called ‘London’. I will use my voice to speak the truth and perhaps the repressed people with their marks of weakness, marks of woe, will hear me. I look forward to reading your new works, my dear friend, and do write back with your thoughts. I shall be returning to London shortly and hope to see you then.

Your friend,

Blake

August 12, 1827, London

The memories began to evaporate, fading faster than they had arrived. The countryside of Felpham blended with the cobblestoned alleyways of London. There was silence. He let himself fall into the arms of an eternal slumber, for he knew that his voice had been heard and he had found what he was searching for. Perhaps now he was to see God again.