Beta Decay: Rian's Essay ---Part 3
A back story into Rian.
It wasn't ten past seven when the owl reached down and pulled his final stack of papers to grade from his philosophy class. His moderate glass of chardonnay was sparkling in the dim light of his study. The first several papers flew by : one on predetermination, then a religious one, a few about how abortion is a bad thing. It didn't matter what he read. They had all passed his class. Then he pulled the next one off the stack. It was written in a shocking green pen. Strange, as he had instructed them only blue or black ink. He would normally have discarded the paper for failure to follow instructions; however, something seemed to pull him to the page.
Rian O. Beauregard Philosophy 304-100 December 15th, 201X Dr. O. Noctius
Boredom
Boredom is. We all experience it. We cannot deny that every now and again we can't fill that space that makes us want more. We hate being bored -- or at least I do. Day in and day out I watch these sentient beings move their mass of molecules from one point in space to another, at will! The new freshmen personally sicken me. I have been told that it is a sin to kill a mocking bird, or in metaphor, to destroy the innocence of the children. So I bite my tongue every time I see one of them dating a new girl like she is the love of his life, as if he didn't just have a different love of his life a week prior with whom he had recently had a huge screaming fight on the knoll. There is a devastating cycle. The boys go into business and marry and raise a family, after marrying what was between the tenth to fiftieth love of his life. Those children learn to walk and crawl and dance and talk and sing and then they go to school, then to summer camp, then to the university where they find ten to fifty loves of their lives and the boys go into business and they play on the golf courses and drink their martinis dry, then they have pretty children, and those children go to school, then to summer camp, then to the university where they then have ten to fifty loves of their lives only to repeat the cycle until the extinction of being. Every face melts into flat, grey, bland, monotonous dribble, and they all look just the same. There is an aire of excitement buzzing around, and they've been told they are special and unique, but they aren't. they're all the same. Same styles repeat. Same ideas get spread. Every year is just a repeat of the previous year. The kicker is they don't notice me watching them while I sit on the stone column by the library as they pass by. Not one has ever asked me why I am sitting up there watching them pass. I don't blame them, their ignorance is their bliss. Their unknowing is their serenity. The worse thing is knowing how it ends-- the cycle gets broken. Some dare to change the idea of what life could be. It may not involved picking up loose women to fulfill our baser desires in poorly cleaned and dimly lit motels where the most devout of Catholics would cross themselves before they enter. It may not be going to university to stumble through a history class to hungover to recall who discovered the new world. To them, all that matters is that they repeat the cycle, to keep the long line of cars moving in the same direction without yielding to allow one to veer across the median and head a different direction. I forgive them because they don't know. The world we have become accustomed to is boring. But in that there is hope for sentiency. Boredom is a unique emotion. It drives us to make new paths and to forge ahead in productivity in creative ways. Our spirits are too grandiose to endure this much longer. It is time for me to start my own personal revolution. But doing that leaves me with a moral dilemma-- I would have to be the figurehead of a genocide of mockingbirds. Nietzsche said that there are no absolutes, that there are no rules, that there are no moral ideals, unless you make them. Those who forge new paths are called Ubermensche or supermen. I will assume that role. I want to make more Ubermensche. Then maybe the boredom can end.
The owl put the paper down, He couldn't read anymore. This student had surprised him. There was a cycle. He was right. For the first time he felt as if existentialism might not be just a silly joke. He stood up, put a giant red 'A' on the remaining ungraded papers, and began to pack his bags.
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I opened my email today to find that my philosophy instructor had gone on leave. I was told that my major could no longer be pursued at the university until an interim professor could be found. It instructed me to continue with other classes I needed to fulfill my minor. I can't help but feel like my paper inspired him to brake the cycle. History doesn't remember those who read the books, sometimes history doesn't even remember those who write the books, but history always remember those about whom the books are written. One big mockingbird down, only billions left.
I had a party to plan for the fraternity, maybe, just maybe, something interesting will happen. In the meantime I'll be watching, and biding my time.