Dead Poets Society

Eyes opening to reality, the brush of wind on your cheeks, sun kisses placed upon your delicate skin;  Life itself is new. A destiny most have when air captures the lungs for the first time, a future yet to be written. Peter Weir's film Dead Poets Society takes place in a prison full of life, color and emptiness. Where futures seem to no longer be written by footsteps you take, but footsteps you must follow.  Welcome to a world of worn reality. Where they follow a path of shadows only to be spilled upon the pages of the real world.

A flight into darkness.

 The painting Fallen Bough leaks colorful audacity providing a sense of tediousness as the birds sweep havoc across the vibrant plain. 

Alone

 From childhood's hour I have not been

As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold, From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view. 

-Edgar Allan Poe