oom: and still we sleep.

[mumblingsoftruth]

Poetry has always been just another item on the long list of things Todd Anderson cannot do. He cannot play sports with any kind of skill. He cannot grasp higher mathematics in the easy way his brother does. He cannot fathom logistics of arguments (though he dutifully writes down the formulas and the facts). He cannot confront. He cannot be great, or good, or anything other than mediocre.

 

And it’s okay, really. His father had made sure that, from the moment he started to learn the rules, Todd would be prepared for his life of struggling against himself, of not good enough. He’d known from the beginning that he’d have to fight for the little things his older brother took for granted. Talent. Intelligence. Their parents’ pride. And It’s okay, he’s told himself over and over. No one is just given the good things in life, they have to earn it. Just because it seems like no one else puts the effort into it that he does – that just means they’re better at it than he is.

 

Poetry… the poetry Mr. Keating shows them, not the poetry he studied through the lens of formulas and graphs and dry, academic analysis… that poetry is written by people who can. People who can express themselves, aren’t afraid to express themselves. People who speak without cringing back from the inevitable slap of what makes you think you have anything of value to offer? People who can afford to have that kind of bravery, because the amazing thing is, they do. They write phrases like do not go gentle into that good night and tread softly because you tread upon my dreams, things that bypass the head and grab you directly by the heartstrings. Their words and their feelings carry an innate value that people throughout the ages have treasured.

 

It’s beautiful.

 

It’s awe-inspiring.

 

It’s terrifying.

 

When he reads something like gather ye rosebuds, while ye may, it reaches in and shakes him out of his pleasantly numb state of struggling and expecting nothing to come of it by making him want. To write, to do. To say something important.

 

We are dreaming of tomorrow when tomorrow isn't coming.

 

And every time he puts pen to paper, he’s forced to remember how awful he is, how nothing he could possibly come up with would mean anything to anyone.

 

We are dreaming of a glory that we never can quite reach.

 

Because if you stay quiet, maybe they won’t notice you. Maybe they’ll leave you alone. Maybe they won’t grind your failures in your face this time.

 

We are dreaming of a new day when its dusk has come already.

 

Maybe.

 

We are running from the battle that we never could have won.

                And still we sleep.