Post #1627
November 19, 2013, 06:15:28 AM
A few days ago, I found myself wishing I were like a cat. They're so carefree, and so happy as they lie on blankets and in rays of sunlight all day. Wouldn't that be such a nice, easy life? But then I watched the latest episode of The Mentalist, and it struck me to the core. It left me shaking at the end, so stricken by the characters, and the deep, woven story line that I was left desperate for another episode. It was, quite frankly, art. And beautiful art at that. Last year I read The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. It affected me in a much greater and profound way, the way the book was effortlessly crafted to wrap itself around your heart and clench it. It provided moments of choking sorrows and exhilarating bliss, while your eyes stayed glued to the page and tears ran down your face because damn it, every page read is one less you still have to read. The characters, Liesel and Hans and Rudy with the hair the colour of lemons tug at you and pull you in and engross you, leading you along in their tale of wonder and heartbreak. Your emotions were made to float at the author's whim, the raw hope and innocence exuding from the pages and grabbing at you and warming your heart like a child's first smile. Then it ended, sinking a knife into my heart and leaving me sobbing, crying over characters that don't exist because damn it it's art and it's beautiful. It explored human nature and emotions and the lengths we will go to to protect and serve morals that we fabricated for ourselves trying to make sense of this endless conundrum we call life with deep, striking prose and a memorability to last for years to come. But a cat can't read. A cat cannot watch late-night television dramas about tortured geniuses avenging their murdered wives and daughters nor read a tale about a young, starry-eyed girl stealing books from the most hateful regime mankind ever experienced. It cannot comprehend these emotions, love and sorrow and grief and happiness. It can not feel such profound emotion nor appreciate the beauty sitting in front of it. So, then, is it worth it, the laziness and carefree world of a housecat? Is it worth not having to get up every morning and work for what's probably less pay than you deserve to rob yourself of that ability to appreciate such profound beauty?