There are only a few things I remember about that dream:
the small details. The first thing that comes to mind is how my own brother
took a knife and carved three long gashes into my face. I remember screaming
for him to martyr me; I remember yelling at him to give me more. I remember
that I wanted welts on my back from whips, and gashes on my face from knives
before I died. I wanted to be martyred, that was easy to remember.
But for the life of me, I cannot remember what his faced
looked like, what kind of expression he had, holding that knife. I remember the
exact feeling of deadness in my limbs: It’s the same feeling I have when I wake
up each day. I remember how weak I was. But for the life of me, I cannot
remember what my brother’s expression was while I dreamt of martyrdom. It is
this that probably disturbs me the most.
One
of the many things that I have discovered while studying this art of
expression—what we falsely call an English Class—is a rather simple
observation. My favorite word in the English language is the word “rather”.
I’ve found that I use it constantly in essays, just instinctually. Allow me to
provide an illustration: It’s not that I simply like how it sounds, but rather, it’s what the word does that is
important. The word “rather” highlights the ability to make distinctions and to
recognize detail. The root of the word means “more readily”, “more willingly”,
or “more truly”. This small word not only allows us to parse out those small
distinctions, to comb out those small details, but enables and furthers the
search for truth.
When I tell people that Wednesday was my last normal day
of school, and Monday is my last day… like… forever, they ask me if I’m
excited. “OOoo, are you excited?” they say. My first reaction is to yell out
“No!...I’m not excited… Rather, it makes me sad to know that not only is this
the end of an era, but I have not made the era into what it could have been”.
Of course, to avoid strange looks, I lie through my teeth to admit that yes, it
is a little exciting. But what I have realized that it is not for the fun of it
that I would do this whole thing again (for some parts were distinctly
not-fun). Rather, I feel the obligation to learn, to get that sentence just
right, to state the truth just as it is, precisely as it is. And I know I have
not. I, like Oskar Schell from Extremely
Loud and Incredibly Close, find myself surrounded by detail and simply
trying to take, keep, and make sense of those that I can.
Do you know what’s funny? The word “detail” doesn’t mean what
we think it means. We think that it means the little things that are set apart
from the whole. The root of the word, however, is this: the combination of the
prefix de, which means “entirely”
with the suffix taillier, which means
“to cut in pieces”. This origin of the word creates a meaning that is more
along the lines of metaphorical puzzle pieces. Pieces that we weep over when we’ve finally managed to
put together two or three out of the pile.
What
I have found is this: that the origin and heart of all our bitter-sweetness—especially
about endings, like this one—is that we are, and have been, awash in a sea of
detail, and we only have the capacity to take in
a
mugful or so
each day with our morning coffee.
And
although we may always cry out for more, we always find comfort in those we hold
in the silence of our minds, though they be at 2 in the morning, found in the
sock drawer—all forgotten, or flitting about a rare hum of a woman whom you
thought you knew.
The
only thing I can say is seek these out,
and join me in the great puzzle as we put the shattered beauty of our lives
back together.
Isn't it lovely that you don’t have to be yourself?
I walk into my parent’s room.
I’m a child.
I've had a bad dream,
And I need to wake up.
That dream is my life, and I feel
Like it’s dead.
I’m a lone corpse
And I need resurrection.
Isn't it lovely that you don’t have to be yourself?
The room is empty save
For the music box on the shelf.
It plays softly, slowly.
The clutter is overflowing the dresser.
A gun belt, a few knives, many coins
All fall away.
What was sought, No. What was found
Is a crucifix. Christ’s arms are spread wide in the agony of embrace.
I hold him in my hand as the music plays on.
Isn't it lovely that you don’t have to be yourself?
I look into their mirror
And I see my face. But more importantly I see
Eyes that have seen too much evil
A nose upraised at too many a problem
Ears that too often failed to listen
A mouth that was opened too many times in scorn
A head that was not bowed enough.
Isn't it lovely that you don’t have to be yourself?
And the dead weight can be lifted?
And the sin forgiven?
And the corpse given life?
And the fault cut away?
Thrown away?
Eradicated?
Destroyed?
Annihilated?
I'll admit, my life is extremely bland. I sit here both watching TV, listening to music, and typing this post. I should be doing my homework: I have a four page paper due on Monday, and I know I won't have much time to do it tomorrow. I'm tired, yet I don't want to go to bed. I know what I must do, yet I consistently find that I lack the willpower to do it.
I spend my free time watching movies about real men, Secondhand Lions, Gran Torino, or The Dark Knight, movies that I love, movies that I try to learn from, movies whose beauty I admire, yet with all of my admiration for the manly virtues shown, I don't act with one damn one of them. I sit and watch movies or mess around on Facebook, and I don't do my homework when I'm supposed to, more obsessed with comfort than duty.
It's the final two weeks of High School for me, and the pressure is on. Coupled with this is a schedule of work every day until Friday this week.
How many times I have fallen asleep praying the Rosary, I will not say.
But that's just the point: I must admit both the need for my work to be done, and my own ability to do it. So, I ask myself, what's stopping me? Weariness? Maybe. Indifference? No, definitely not. ...Fear? Oh Hell yes.
When it comes down to it, I -our Generation as a whole, I think- desperately fear the pain it takes to make the right decision. We fear that in giving all we've got to give, we may be spent. We fear that we may not be enough. We fear, not dying to ourselves, but dying of ourselves. We fear that our adversary may slay us.
We may tire, we may slack off, we may whine. But this does not change the fact that This is War.
In this life, in this war between work and weariness, it's kill or be killed. There is no middle option in which we may do nothing. Either our weariness will overcome us and we will slack off, or we will man up, pull ourselves up by the bootstraps, and Get. Things. Done.
Do I fear the triumph of weariness? Yes, of course. But it is this fear that I may break down that drives me on, because it is only if I triumph over weariness that I will ever escape it. And it will never be easy.
But then again, welcome to the Spiritual Life. Nobody ever said it would be easy...
