Growing up means so many things
I've given up on the imaginary. I've found myself stranded on a languid beach, and I know now the definition to that old French word "ennui." I see it , now, creeping over a campsite, a foggy mist of nothing that curls and cues itself around the sleeping eyes of those inside of it. I feel it, daily, at the cash register, in the bus, in my living room, in my car. There is little release; there is little escape. There are glimmers to and fro, glinting flaps of moonlight and the assurance that one day, I'll mean something. That one day, I'll be something more than the Club Red guy, and maybe I can make something in this boring world bright again.
I've seen death in the form of apathy; the student body herds in and out, and so many of them do not value their education, and I sigh for the future of my country. Patriotism isn't cool anymore-pass it on. There's no pride in being here. There's no pride in loving anything. What happened to that? I wonder if I truly have an old soul, or if I'm just completely out of touch with what other people like.
Reading them, I understand the Terrible Sonnets more and more with each glance. The Victorian era has always been a bummer for me, but in the light of an increasing modern world, it is possible to see their paranoia and fear and I wonder-am I such? Others evolve more quickly and I am stuck here. The Modernist movement is so perfect for this. I wonder-where is our literary response? Have we confined art to blog posts, anxiety to twitter? Have we finally outsourced our own emotions?
Emotions aren't cool, either. I've never seen a group of people so out of touch with their own feelings. Or maybe, by comparison, I'm too in touch with my own. I'm hypersensitive, still, and my mind leaps only to some form of medication, to some form of SOMETHING to derive some joy out of my life. Not to say my life is joyless-it is not-but what am I to do with all of this? I have so much to figure out, and here I thought that that part of my life was over.
I've seen death in the form of apathy; the student body herds in and out, and so many of them do not value their education, and I sigh for the future of my country. Patriotism isn't cool anymore-pass it on. There's no pride in being here. There's no pride in loving anything. What happened to that? I wonder if I truly have an old soul, or if I'm just completely out of touch with what other people like.
Reading them, I understand the Terrible Sonnets more and more with each glance. The Victorian era has always been a bummer for me, but in the light of an increasing modern world, it is possible to see their paranoia and fear and I wonder-am I such? Others evolve more quickly and I am stuck here. The Modernist movement is so perfect for this. I wonder-where is our literary response? Have we confined art to blog posts, anxiety to twitter? Have we finally outsourced our own emotions?
Emotions aren't cool, either. I've never seen a group of people so out of touch with their own feelings. Or maybe, by comparison, I'm too in touch with my own. I'm hypersensitive, still, and my mind leaps only to some form of medication, to some form of SOMETHING to derive some joy out of my life. Not to say my life is joyless-it is not-but what am I to do with all of this? I have so much to figure out, and here I thought that that part of my life was over.