The Piano Knows Something I Don't Know

I am not Socrates.

I am not Socrates.

Although I couldn't sleep at all, I didn't get out of bed until nearly noon that day. I had already missed my Ancient Philosophy class, and I had no real desire to go to my later classes. Instead, I reached for my phone, opened up my school email account, and asked one of my classmates if there was any homework for Ancient Philosophy. I couldn't bring myself to go to class, but I still didn't want to fall behind.

She replied back relatively quickly, telling me that she was sorry for my loss and that we were supposed to read another one of Plato's dialogues for Tuesday. News spread quickly in Old Haven, but I had no idea that everyone knew about Brendon's death already. I sighed, opened up my copy of the works of Plato, and found the section that I was assigned to read.

Even my homework managed to remind me of Brendon. I thought of how he always used to call me "Modern Day Socrates." It wasn't the most accurate nickname, at least in my opinion, and it brought back all kinds of painful memories. As I read, I realized just how irritating Socrates could be. In the dialogue, he was nothing but an overly optimistic philosopher who didn't realize the horrors of the world and asked far too many questions. I swore to myself that I wouldn't become like him as I hurled the book against the wall of my dorm room. Socrates knew nothing.

I crashed back onto the bed and thought about better philosophers to emulate. I needed answers, and I wouldn't necessarily get an answer just because I asked a question. There was nobody out there to answer those questions anyways, so there was no point in asking them.

I thought of Morals, Values, and Ethics, where we had started to read some of Friedrich Nietzsche's works. He was a better philosopher to follow. After everything that had happened to me, I could believe that life was meaningless and God was dead. It would certainly explain why no higher power would listen to me and why Brendon died even though he was far too young for it. Anything that would give me an answer without a question was good enough for me.

I hardly ever left my dorm room that weekend, only leaving to play at the Aubergine. However, I didn't spend much time there either. I showed up promptly at nine o'clock, and then left immediately after the show was done. There was nothing there for me anymore, and sometimes, it felt like Brendon's death had taken all of the joy out of life altogether. Now, my life was merely routine, with nothing to truly live for.

As the days passed by, Patrick came in and out of Room 27, occasionally making an attempt to console me. For the most part, he left me alone, and it was better that way. I was lost in my own head, letting my grief consume me.

Occasionally, I let myself think of love and happiness, but only as illusions. I knew from experience that love was fleeting, always ending in heartbreak or tragedy. Happiness, I decided, was also a delusion. It was a false emotion that humans had created to get ourselves through our broken lives. Hope and dreams were useless, and I was certain that there was no reason to believe that I would ever find happiness, because it didn't exist.

I couldn't bring myself to go to Public Policy or Principles of Ecology on Monday, but I did manage to drag myself out of bed for Morals, Values, and Ethics. Although I was convinced that I was nothing more than a shell of a human being without my soulmate, I did think that Morals, Values, and Ethics might give me a few more answers, so on Tuesday, I left Flack Hall and went to class.

I sat down in my usual chair, but I barely paid attention to what my classmates were saying. They were still suffering from the illusion of happiness, and I couldn't bear to hear their incessant chatter. I tried to keep the events of Brendon's twenty first birthday from replaying over and over in my head until Professor Caldwell made an announcement. "We're going on a field trip today," she said.