Dead Poets Society and Walden share a passion that sets the soul on fire. They reminded me why I first loved philosophy: because of fear. Fear of being ordinary. Fear of falling short of the writers I admired, whose words seemed carved in eternity while mine felt transient and small. I chased brilliance the way others chase security, convinced that only genius could justify my existence.
But then came The Odyssey. I struggled through the verses, stumbling over each line, unable to match my classmates’ rhythm. The language felt ancient, distant, even cruel in its demands. And yet, as I read, something shifted. The story’s weariness, its longing for home, began to echo within me. I was no longer chasing meaning; I was feeling it. For once, I felt alive—not for my achievements, but for the trembling recognition that I was part of something vast, human, and enduring.
That night, walking back from the library under the dim glow of the streetlamps, I knew: being alive does not come from genius, or success, or even understanding. It comes from the stirrings of the soul—the quiet moment when a book, a thought, or a story reaches into you and finds something still beating, still capable of wonder.