The professor and the class are locked in an eternal struggle. We drown in his droning, the continuous sound like the monotonous lullaby of a moving train. The rhythm of his voice slows the movements of our minds until we struggle to stave off sleep. This struggle is reminiscent of the contention between life and death - the professor being the dark angel set to carry us to the other side.
The struggle manifests in our mannerisms. Bodies lean back, arms crossed, some taking diligent notes, and me writing this. Those of us leaned forward fight the hardest, but there are only two of us left. Hands holding heads. These people are losing the battle, though they might not know it. They are like dying men who long for a little rest, and that dark angel gleefully guides them to their beds.
The suffering try to find ways to cope. Clicking, tapping pens. Kicking, fidgeting feet. Pained faces and drooping eyes. We look to find solace in the equal expressions of our peers. The suffering is so shared that, rather than each individual enduring it, it hangs as an atmosphere in the room - an invisible cloud of dread that escapes the room itself and lingers in our minds from the time we leave the class to the time we return.
When we are free, we are not really free. That dread, like the fear of death, follows us constantly. We go through the days focusing on other things, and we eventually forget our mortality. However, we are always crudely reminded by a freak accident or a misplaced glance at a sheet of paper, and that overwhelming dread returns, and so do we.
I'm back in that place, fighting for my life, and I think I'm losing the battle this time. My eyes droop, and my limbs are numb, and I forget sensation. Only the lullaby of that dark angel persists. It threatens to lull me past the threshold. The suffering is too great, and as I slip away, I focus on something beautiful. My body is far away, but I wish I could say, "Your face is a pleasant sight for a suffering soul. It makes me forget that we're all dying together."
The dark angel changes his mind, and a sudden outburst jerks me back to life, as if to say it is not yet my time. But this surprising salvation is simply a delay of the inevitable. Soon, we will all succumb to the darkness. The spark of life reacquaints me with the suffering - to the pounding in my head and the growling of my stomach and the grotesque yawning to maintain my awakened state.
Currently, I am having a realization. Maybe life isn't nasty, brutish, and short. Maybe we've been looking at this the wrong way. We find ourselves lost in the monotony and suffering, and we lament rather than seeing the extraordinary opportunity. We have the chance to learn all we can and make a change. Yes, life is short, but maybe it's only nasty and brutish if we allow it to be.
Maybe, past the monotony, we can hear the beautiful music and the clever poetry. Maybe the pounding in my head and the growling in my stomach is a reminder that I am alive. Blackness surrounds me, and I know my time is up. The rhythm goes silent.
Clap! the professor exclaims: "You're dismissed! Hopefully, I didn't Donne you to death."
No comments:
Post a Comment