So I just finished watching Dead Poets Society. First time I’ve seen it in maybe five years or something, but I’ve always considered it to be an important movie. Everytime I consume it, devour it really, it makes an impact. I am sure that follwing past viewings, I’ve been left with that feeling of empowerment; the joys of carpe-ing the diem and finding my own “barbaric yawp!” But today, I feel most affected by the futility of it all.
Bravery is a fucked up concept. On paper, it’s fantastic, right? I mean, I’ve always prided myself on “doing my own thing” and all, risking everything for the sake of sensual pleasures. That’s the Ayn Rand way-to-be, isn’t it? Be happy. Above all else, do your own thing. Especially important when I’ve always looked around and felt nothing but pity for the people who seem to have zero connection to themselves, no real idea of what their own path may actually be. “This, above all, to thine own self be true.” Today, I’m wondering if that’s a crock of shit. I pray and pray, however, that I’m just having a lousy afternoon. My world would truly be rattled if I had to realign my entire view of individuality.
But Neil Perry shot himself in his dad’s office. And for what? Because he tried and tried to follow his pleasure, to live his passions… only to find that this world would never let it happen for him. I wonder now if this is me, is this what I’ve been doing, albeit quite slowly, for the last 15 years? I have followed my pleasures from coast to coast and ghost to ghost for so long and I still am…. fucking lost. Will it all pay off eventually, or will I succumb to the voices of my dead parents? They haunt me all the time, almost shouting to me from the grave… telling me about failure, about conformity, about certain death. It’s weird, right? I imagine my dad’s body in that bed he died in wearing that shirt he died in, I see him pop his sweaty decomposed head up and say, “You’re destined to be just like me, boo-boo. You’re not gonna make it.”
This is new. Last couple years. I understand why he did what he did. Sometimes I think the struggle just gets to be too much. But that’s the thing… I feel like I’d feel guiltier if I lived the alternative: spinelessness. Being a fucking coward seems to really suit most people. But maybe for me, perhaps the only reason I haven’t done myself in yet is because AT THE VERY LEAST, I know I’m not a coward. Despite the struggle and all. (Yes, I have mental health issues and they’re very good at getting the best of me from time to time but. But! They remind me that I am a strong person, for having gone through it all, and the fact that I keep going down the hard road while it’s much easier to just… lay down and get fucked.) So yes, maybe the “being a weirdo” thing is hard work, but I think after everything else, it is my work. It is what I do.
A decent amount of self-esteem happens. When you realise that you’re one of the few who live for themselves. I have so many friends who make me sad. Sure, they seem happier than I do most times, but I can’t help knowing that they are certainly dying a little everyday. Ignorance is bliss; I’ve seen this in action every day for my entire life.
I’m getting lost. Basically I’m trying to reiterate that while it may be futile to swim upstream, for some people I think it is the only way. Because swimming downstream with everyone else may very well mean swimming right into the gaping foodhole of apathy and oblivion.
No, I’m not going to the doctor today, blowing that shit off .Instead, I think I’m gonna go write some poems about Richard Gere’s love for mediocrity.