#also glimpse into normal life at welton outside the usual rp bounds happening (wanted to include the blogs ive been interacting with as

[pinnesasong]

It was quite the chilly wind that went past by, followed by the curling of lips into a shallow grimace. The boy didn't anticipate how chilly the morning could get. Vermont was beautiful, he ought to stop forgetting his cashmere coat more often. Let there be the sound of rustling—the rustling of paper, these old notes from an akin-bygone era. Of irrelevant pages torn from books; of young men parading on the school grounds for an unorthodox class session. Stick remembers the hint of confusion that sprung up in his mind when Mr. Keating decided to take the class outside the walls of their classroom, and outside the school building itself, onto the world below. For the first time in a long time, true, unadulterated freedom dared to look him in the eye. A little rude, he muses. Why here? Why now? All he's ever known was the confinement of tradition, the stasis of convention. 'We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry, because we are members of the human race.'

Nevertheless, with fondness, he traces his finger on some of the words, which he scribbled onto the parchment of his late semester's English Literature notebook. From dark, black ink shines forth a radiant spark that sizzles in his mind. Like a sparkler of warmth and vivacity set against the backdrop of a cold New Year night. The retrieval of a memory that captured him, the other Poets, and the whole classroom in varying degrees, in boyish inspiration, in vivacious wonder, in child-like wisdom. For a moment, Stick's heart aches with the familiar feeling of missing Mr. Keating. It even felt a little bit unfair to him too—Was he, or anyone else, ever to impact him in the same way that he was able, for them? 'And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering; these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love—these are what we stay alive for.' He often wonders how The Captain is doing these days. Is he back at the Chester School in London? Does he still teach literature, and if so, still working his magic to enchant these new students of his, just as he's been enchanted himself? Questions swirling like a snow flurry in his mind, he sighs deeply, leaning his head back on the tree trunk that he's been sitting against all this time. Stick stares at the bare canopies of the leafless branches of the tree, the sky above a fluttering swirl of cloud, snow, sleet, and blue-ish white matter that he doesn't know how to describe. He's not a meteorologist, nor would he ever want to be one, sorry. Maybe Richie could be a meteorologist; for he's the science to his art, anyway. Or even Stephen Meeks, the techy guy who can create a radio and speak Latin. Another exhale of breath occurs, as he closes the notebook, smiling at it softly. As his eyes focus on the distance, on the dock by the lake, he could see Neil and Todd, practicing lines for his upcoming audition, alongside a bickering Richard and Charlie seated near the water, it's probably homework. Or exam answers. Or both, Stick thinks as he giggles inwardly at the absurdity of their friendship. His lips curl upward as he registers the genteel moment—Neil's theatrics and histrionics are raw, passionate, authentic, and brilliant. So unlike his, he muses... But that's enough self-pity for the morning. These are his friends he's talking about, and he wouldn't trade them for the world. Grabbing his notebook and satchel bag, he stretches as he starts to walk towards them, setting the stage for a new day in the story of their lives.

Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary.

DEAD POETS SOCIETY dir. Peter Weir