So BIB1 and I got into a discuss about Victorian literature. Specific Dickens whom I hate with all my literary heart.
I read Great Expectations cover to cover TWICE trying to dig out the meaning and the lesson behind the tale. It was an amazing book right up until the end when the benefactor tells the protagonist that he will not be getting the girl, he will not be getting the money, he is a street rat and will never be anything more.
It's like Dickens leads you down the path and just when you see your house, your safe place the place you've been yearning for, like water to a dry man, and then Dickens takes that knife, rams it in your gut and twists.
As the poisonous bile runs into your viscera he tells you that all you love and all you desire will burn and that all your efforts are for nothing.
I know that all things fall into entropy but how do you live a life where your focus is the death and decay of all you want. Yes, we are all ashes and dirt with the desire to return from that dust and that simple state but why in the world can't we imagine and love and hold and forget. Why can't we lie and choose ignorance for short periods of time?
Ignorance may not be a state you should live in constantly and accepting truth is paramount but god damn why can't our imagination sore beyond the limitations of our flesh and blood?
Fuck you Dickens, fuck you for your talent to pull me up to the highest peak and throw me off and never, ever tell me that the journey was worth it. I want to love and forget that one day it will all be silence and darkness. Fuck you for putting chains on the one thing that can transcend life itself, our imaginations. Without it we are just the dust and dirt and I don't want to live as dust and dirt.