Public Enemy Number 1

Author's Note: This is response to The Truman Show. It is targeted at the idea that we must make our life real, and that feeling nothing is to be constantly feared.

It was a lonely day. They all are. I never have any choice. Every day it's all the same. Everything is already done and decided for me. Set from the beginning, and not changed, ever. I wish I could choose. I wish that there was chance, but there is only what you have done, what you are doing, and what is set that you will do. I needed change. I needed to feel something. Really feel something... Anything would suffice. It was that day, that I made myself an outlaw, and public enemy.

I woke up, did what I was supposed to, but I did it lethargically, so to slow the day, miss the bus, and change the set structure. Sure enough, it worked, I was supposed to go to school, but didn't. It felt... so different. It was an awakening, like nothing I had ever experienced before. It was a sense of pride. Not the false pride that schools bestow upon you with a title, but one of real pride. It was now my life and I could anything, so I went outside, and walked. Just walked, but I never stopped. I never slowed down. Now I knew I couldn't go back. I could never go back. After feeling this, after knowing... It just would make me a hollower shell than I already was.

I walked until I the city was no more, and it became the country, and then, I walked some more. I could begin to hear the panic. It was everywhere in the city. The government was flying in helicopters, and jet planes, but wouldn't say what was wrong, but the city had entered a state of lock down. I, of course, knew what was wrong. It was me, I had caused this. I just wanted to feel, but at the expense of my city. I still felt, but now, it was sorrow. I can't go back, because now the government would detain me, and kill me, or even worse... Make me work for them. Now everything that I felt was beginning to overwhelm me, but I still couldn't go back.

Now was my choice. Three options, each as painful as the next. I could kill myself and be totally free, I could go back and turn myself in, or I could bear the emotions and trek forward. Turning back would mean no misery for my friends, and fellow city dwellers, but I would then thrust myself into a life of misery. I could not bring myself to kill anything, even if it was me, so that left only one option.

I must go forward, and so I did. The minutes turned to hours, the hours to days, the days to weeks, and the weeks to months. The whole time I stayed in the wasteland. I would avoid any cities I found. My emotions had become dull again. That was until the third month. That was when I finally saw it. The ocean was before me. I could now do anything. If I made it out there, nobody could ever control me again.

I ran out, and swam. Swam as far and long as I could. My only motivation, was if I get out they don't own me. It was the life that I now possessed drove me to get a better one. One free of the tyranny here. I went, and kept swimming.

Real Reality

Author's Note: This is a poetic response to The Truman Show. It was targeted at the idea that what's real isn't really real.

The sky,
So blue, so soft, so,
Perfect

The grass
So green, so luscious, so,
Fake

This world
So great, so taken care of, so,
Constructed

This moment
So pleasuring, so perfect, so,
Wrong

This Life
So right, So rigid, so,
Fabricated

My life
May be free,
Should be true,
Will be real

The Dying Christian to His Soul

Author's Note: This a poetic mirror of Alexander Pope's The Dying Christian to His Soul. This is an open poem that has an AABBCC rhyming pattern. Pope often uses fictional beliefs for his poetic platform, but it is based on real events. For example, The Rape of the Lock, it speaks of sprites and other legendary beings, but it was about a fight that spurred between his acquaintances. In this poem he talks about a conversation that one would have with their spirit while dying, but it is based on the moral values of a Christian about to die. The above poem is written by Pope, and the lower is my effort at copying it.

The Dying Christian to His Soul

Vital spark of heav’nly flame!

Quit, O quit this mortal frame:

Trembling, hoping, ling’ring, flying,

O the pain, the bliss of dying!

Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,

And let me languish into life.

Hark! they whisper; angels say,

Sister Spirit, come away!

What is this absorbs me quite?

Steals my senses, shuts my sight,

Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?

Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears!

Heav’n opens on my eyes! my ears

With sounds seraphic ring!

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!

O Grave! where is thy vict'ry?

O Death! where is thy sting?

The Sinner on His Deathbed

Needed light of earthly shine

Stop, O stop this state, divine

Waiting, wanting, staying, shaking

O the joy, the love of waking

Stay, thou Man, stay in life

And let me lay, through my strife

Stay! It whispers; that I say,

Brother Spirit, stay O stay!

What be this consumes me whole?

Captures my senses, drowns my soul

Kills my spirits, takes my breath?

Now, my spirit, can this be death?

The world advances, it appears!

Earth opens to my sight! My ears

Full of earthly grinding!

Give, give your horse! Myself minding!

O Grave! Show me it, thy loss

O Death! Show me thy cross