Life’s points to let you know it still happens

I am currently taking a course on English literature from 1920 to 1940-something. To be honest, I don't really care what year it goes up to, I'm just glad that it's my final literature course. The "modern" era, as what we are studying is referred as, is the most miserable of all literature. Every class calls my heart to be broken over things that do not happen. My relationships are called into doubt. Reds and blues become grey and mauve. Fruitless seems to be the only adjective available after WWI. The same plot of the sun rises to noon roasts our barren flesh and then drops into terrible night has really worn me out, quite on purpose.

Right now, we're discussing "Endgame" it's some awful play about an old guy (who apparently was a lord, or king), his depressed servant, blah, blah, blah. It's supposed to be incredibly important because the play actually involves the audience. Admittedly, the play does seem to dismantle the concepts of theatre, allowing the unnatural state to be absorbed until the audience is supposed to be absorbed by the audience. It's apparently supposed to be artificial, I know, but the persistent theme of destitution is something that just does not make sense.

Repetition is one of its main points! The depravity that life may sometimes slip into is to be perceived as what makes sense. Barren destroyed lives are all that are examined. Age becomes a paralyzed man that has become dependant upon a servant who has lost any sort of future goals. This knight has lost his regality and now simply totes a catheter for his master to use. No longer does he seek the valor that had defined him, but now works towards order.

Granted, this work addresses the long standing ideas that those born into power are those that deserve power. It also addresses the "crony-mentality" that had defined so many influential Englishmen. It may call us to find a purpose beyond our perception, but further, it draws a life defined by service into a mockery. A blinded king can be defined as those that follow the then weakened church, his servant the broken congregant. This is the relationship in the play. These "friends" are nothing like the friends we are drawn to. What is the truth then described by this "classic"? We are alone. At the root of it all, we are by ourselves.

My dad is sick. Terminally ill is how the medical community describes it. When I was ten we moved away from the friends he had had since he was young. The other day he got a package from his brother, who lives near those friends.

They had organized a dance to honor him and charged $20 for people to get in. They did some raffles and other things in order to raise more money on top of that. Almost 200 people showed up to honor my father, an everyday man with three kids, a wife, and six grandchildren. Four of the friends are flying down

to deliver the money,

to sit and be silent,

to finally say goodbye.

As long as we are human,

as long as we are breathing

we are never alone.