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.
I'm in love with your opening lines to this passage. As an interpretive response, it would be great if this piece moved into a more focused concentration on observation, supporting itself with details from the scene that led you to that lyrical opening statement.
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