Thursday, August 29, 2013
The Death of Oedipus
Within Sophocles' Oedipus the King, life and death are a prevalent topic. Oedipus is the high and mighty king of Thebes and, therefore, is defined by that title. As the play continues, Oedipus becomes the very plague of the city that needs to be killed. He becomes a disgrace and a disappointment to his people as the truth about his true self is revealed. Perhaps this reveals that existence is only defined by the views that the "gods" and others cast upon you, but I would argue that identity exposed through others doesn't sum up the entirety of one's existence. Although it may accurately depict a portion of one's existence. On the matter of death, Oedipus' death is more metaphysical than it is literal. Him blinding himself and gaining self knowledge is the death of the mighty and respectable King of Thebes, but is not a literal death. That respectable king is dead and left in its place is a wretched and miserable human being, providing a meaning of death as the absence of someone or something. As opposed to a physical and literal death of a character, in this case it is Oedipus' previous identity.
What does death mean for humanity?
A question that I believe is inherent in all human beings is the question of death. What does is truly mean to die? What does death imply for humans as an inescapable reality we all come to face? What does death mean to each individual? Although many may have personalized, unique experiences and ideals on death, I believe that within all differences there lies a similar connection throughout humanity as well. I love thinking about this question, because albeit slightly morbid, there is no exact answer to death. No human can prove exactly what death is and what it means, and its ambiguity intrigues me immensely.
One of my strongest memories of death revolves around my friend who passed away in 2008. It seemed unfair that Sam and his sister be ripped away from this world at just 12 and 7 years old. I still remember that Sammy was one of the first friends I used to text on my flip phone in fourth grade (a phone only received for "emergencies" after my parents' divorce). I know a fourth grader with a cell phone, cringe. I still remember how he was one of the three classmates out of fourty-two at my private school able to finish the Rubik's cube at a miraculous rate. I still remember the way his voice sounded, simultaneously rough and soft like a reserved mouse with sandpaper lips. I still remember him asking me to draw one of his legos when he sat next to me in Mrs. Fleming's always-dim-for-no-specific-reason fifth grade classroom. I still remember hearing that something bad had happened in the backseat of my mom's red Toyota with a fellow classmate sitting by my side. And I remember hearing that, as his mother, father, and older sister went on a walk from their vacation home in Oregon, a small plane had crashed into the house killing the still sleeping Sammy, Grace, and their cousin. I could not comprehend the fact that my friend somehow did not exist now. It was out of my element, as it should be for any incoming seventh grader. I didn't know how to feel, what to do, or how to begin to understand it. And the truth is, I still don't. And I don't think I'm meant to. But I know that they are missed. I know that there is a bench with their names on it near under the pines trees at my old school. I know that every year my old classmates and I show up for the Sam and Grace walk, and that there is a foundation helping children afford education created in their names. I know that his family and the community will never be the same. I know that watching Donnie Darko reminds me of him. I know that the drawing of a rose I dedicated to him sparked my drawing career. I know that random memories will pop into my head and cause me to shed a tear. I know that death isn't "fair" and is scary, but it is a part of my life and everyone else's. I know that death happens, even when we wish it never did.
Here is an excerpt of something I wrote regarding my thoughts on death after reading The Fault in Our Stars by John Green this summer. Handwritten in my moleskine of course, a cherished journal of sorts filled with my drawings and musings.
Death. God, why are we all so terrified of death? Is it because it is the only concrete conclusion of life, where the unknown will never become known? A life simply gone, no matter how many half unraveled threads are left dangling. A person who can never be summed up by all of the words the people who knew them could ever come up with to describe them. Nor a song or a poem. A human being cannot be described in full. They are the feelings they gave you and thousands of others their lives ever touched. They are all of the relationships they had, all the smiles, tears, clenched fists and silent moments they ever shared. They are the deep, dark thoughts when they sat alone and wandered to themselves. Death glorifies a person’s existence, but shouldn’t we do that every day? You cant just list all the pretty things a person did or wonderful traits they had and forget all the flaws. That’s dehumanizing them. I for one have my flaws, big or small, it doesn’t matter. Those flaws are an essential piece of what made me, “me”. Humans take life for granted even though it can be taken away in the blink of an eye. We can’t help it, that’s just how we live. We can’t live every moment thinking, “What if this person died tomorrow?” That wouldn’t be living life to the fullest. Sure we can try our best to express how important the people around you are, but it will never describe what it would be like if they completely gone. No more breathing, no more laughing, no more suffering, no more being. And that’s it. They’re gone, with only others’ memories and their belongings left behind. All the little things, like how they smelled, or the sound of their voice, or their handwriting is there, but the essence of their being lost. All the half unraveled threads left dangling and those threads are frozen exactly as is for eternity. Maybe that’s it. Death really isn’t about death, but the aftermath, the legacy. But that doesn’t cut it either because no legacy is accurate of who that person really was. Their flaws excluded and their virtues celebrated. Only small bits of information and memories of others left to form a makeshift representation of that human being. We are so obsessed with being remembered because we’re scared our lives are so minuscule and meaningless that we have made no impact on the world. But who cares? Hitler or Ghandi may be remembered for a very long time, but they made an impact on the world just as everyone else. Even if my impact is very small, it’s an irreplaceable impact all the same. We all leave a footprint, but each footprint is simultaneously similar and indescribably different. No other human being will ever have an existence exactly as yours, and that is a treasure of it’s own. Although we may go through omnipresent troubles and feelings, no other human being could possibly be molded by events, interactions, physicality, relationships, thoughts and motions exactly as you have. And that is simply beautiful. Maybe death is just an ending to another story that has never been told.
One of my strongest memories of death revolves around my friend who passed away in 2008. It seemed unfair that Sam and his sister be ripped away from this world at just 12 and 7 years old. I still remember that Sammy was one of the first friends I used to text on my flip phone in fourth grade (a phone only received for "emergencies" after my parents' divorce). I know a fourth grader with a cell phone, cringe. I still remember how he was one of the three classmates out of fourty-two at my private school able to finish the Rubik's cube at a miraculous rate. I still remember the way his voice sounded, simultaneously rough and soft like a reserved mouse with sandpaper lips. I still remember him asking me to draw one of his legos when he sat next to me in Mrs. Fleming's always-dim-for-no-specific-reason fifth grade classroom. I still remember hearing that something bad had happened in the backseat of my mom's red Toyota with a fellow classmate sitting by my side. And I remember hearing that, as his mother, father, and older sister went on a walk from their vacation home in Oregon, a small plane had crashed into the house killing the still sleeping Sammy, Grace, and their cousin. I could not comprehend the fact that my friend somehow did not exist now. It was out of my element, as it should be for any incoming seventh grader. I didn't know how to feel, what to do, or how to begin to understand it. And the truth is, I still don't. And I don't think I'm meant to. But I know that they are missed. I know that there is a bench with their names on it near under the pines trees at my old school. I know that every year my old classmates and I show up for the Sam and Grace walk, and that there is a foundation helping children afford education created in their names. I know that his family and the community will never be the same. I know that watching Donnie Darko reminds me of him. I know that the drawing of a rose I dedicated to him sparked my drawing career. I know that random memories will pop into my head and cause me to shed a tear. I know that death isn't "fair" and is scary, but it is a part of my life and everyone else's. I know that death happens, even when we wish it never did.
Here is an excerpt of something I wrote regarding my thoughts on death after reading The Fault in Our Stars by John Green this summer. Handwritten in my moleskine of course, a cherished journal of sorts filled with my drawings and musings.
Death. God, why are we all so terrified of death? Is it because it is the only concrete conclusion of life, where the unknown will never become known? A life simply gone, no matter how many half unraveled threads are left dangling. A person who can never be summed up by all of the words the people who knew them could ever come up with to describe them. Nor a song or a poem. A human being cannot be described in full. They are the feelings they gave you and thousands of others their lives ever touched. They are all of the relationships they had, all the smiles, tears, clenched fists and silent moments they ever shared. They are the deep, dark thoughts when they sat alone and wandered to themselves. Death glorifies a person’s existence, but shouldn’t we do that every day? You cant just list all the pretty things a person did or wonderful traits they had and forget all the flaws. That’s dehumanizing them. I for one have my flaws, big or small, it doesn’t matter. Those flaws are an essential piece of what made me, “me”. Humans take life for granted even though it can be taken away in the blink of an eye. We can’t help it, that’s just how we live. We can’t live every moment thinking, “What if this person died tomorrow?” That wouldn’t be living life to the fullest. Sure we can try our best to express how important the people around you are, but it will never describe what it would be like if they completely gone. No more breathing, no more laughing, no more suffering, no more being. And that’s it. They’re gone, with only others’ memories and their belongings left behind. All the little things, like how they smelled, or the sound of their voice, or their handwriting is there, but the essence of their being lost. All the half unraveled threads left dangling and those threads are frozen exactly as is for eternity. Maybe that’s it. Death really isn’t about death, but the aftermath, the legacy. But that doesn’t cut it either because no legacy is accurate of who that person really was. Their flaws excluded and their virtues celebrated. Only small bits of information and memories of others left to form a makeshift representation of that human being. We are so obsessed with being remembered because we’re scared our lives are so minuscule and meaningless that we have made no impact on the world. But who cares? Hitler or Ghandi may be remembered for a very long time, but they made an impact on the world just as everyone else. Even if my impact is very small, it’s an irreplaceable impact all the same. We all leave a footprint, but each footprint is simultaneously similar and indescribably different. No other human being will ever have an existence exactly as yours, and that is a treasure of it’s own. Although we may go through omnipresent troubles and feelings, no other human being could possibly be molded by events, interactions, physicality, relationships, thoughts and motions exactly as you have. And that is simply beautiful. Maybe death is just an ending to another story that has never been told.
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