A Consciously Cliché Essay, and a Tribute

Before I go into the actual purpose of this writing, I would like to add a brief preface to explain to my rare, unwary reader what they may-or-may-not be reading for the next few minutes, depending on whether or not they (they being you) decide to spend your time on me. There are those out there who would assume that I, being a teenage boy, with all of the associated peer pressure, would never be caught dead reading, liking, and, god forbid, loving, a John Green novel. That being said, I have never in my life been called a stereotypical teenage boy, and I take pride in breaking such artificial societal norms by proudly acknowledging, through the complete anonymity of the internet, that I do, in fact, really like John Green books. So where am I going with this? I just finished reading Looking for Alaska, and while I’m quite aware that I am very, very, extremely late to the party, I would like to toss in my two cents, for anyone who cares. (This is, after all, my own account, and I can do as I damn well please, even if I have produced something which is cringe-worthy even to me.) At the end of Looking for Alaska, protagonist Miles Halter is asked a question. It’s essentially the same question that’s been asked throughout the entire book. At the end of a newer version of the book, which has an updated reader’s guide, John Green himself asks his readers what their own version of an answer to that question would look like. So here’s mine, in all of its raw, “written by an amateur, teenage writer who uses far too many adjectives” glory.

Q. How will you -you personally- ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering? Now that you’ve wrestled with three major religious traditions, apply your newly enlightened mind to Alaska’s question.

In the past few short years, I’ve thought a lot about death, after-death, suffering, joy, and whether or not any of it really matters whatsoever. I’ve probably thought about it more than any teenager has a right to, as it’s a well-known fact that teenagers are young, ignorant, and relatively unqualified to answer the questions that minds much greater than my own have spent centuries pondering. In short, I should have had much better things to do than mope around wondering what happens when people die and whether or not I should care. But I also believe that everyone has to make their peace with these questions at some point, and that because of this, I am entitled to my own insignificant opinion, which I alone will believe despite the multitude of other beliefs of other people, all of which will be totally believed in by them alone, as they struggle blindly through the labyrinth with me.

Some say to believe in God, and in an eternal afterlife. As a kid who went to catholic school, this is certainly what I was originally taught. Some say to believe in nothing. As a person who’s interested in great writers and philosophers, I can count more than one of those who’s believed in not believing. I’ve heard some say that forgiveness, the key to moving on, allows a person to navigate the labyrinth. Many, real and fictional, have said that the only way to escape the labyrinth on your own terms is to do so by your own hand, straight and fast. I’m going to let that last one sink in, because it’s true even if its wrong. There is only one way to truly escape the labyrinth, and we’re all going eventually. And maybe any other solution was created just to make us feel better about ourselves while we wait. And maybe any other solution doesn’t matter because we’re all leaving eventually whether we like it or not.

And maybe it doesn’t have to be about escaping the labyrinth. Because you cannot be alone in it. Everyone else is in there too, clinging to one another as we grope around in the darkness. And maybe the only way to accept that we’re leaving isn’t by rushing for the exit, letting the pain of knowing it’s coming, knowing you can’t stop it, knowing that the labyrinth itself is slowly killing you, drowning in the fear and shame of what you’ve done with your time here, and what you haven’t done, but by holding on to that knowledge that you’re not alone.

I’ve never had anyone close to me die. It’s a rare statement, and I’m grateful for it, though probably less so than I should be. But I’ve though about death, I’ve feared for the lives of people that I’ve known, and I’ve cried more for the deaths of fictional people than I have for real people. I’ve cried over the possibility of the meaninglessness of it all. And I do think that Heaven is just a fantasy meant to comfort us. But I still have to find a way to live, just like everyone else. And so I live by embracing life. There will be an end to my life, and I accept that, and in one of the greatest ironies of my life, I accepted long ago the statement that starts the book that prompted me to write this. When I die, there will be a great perhaps; perhaps I die forever, and perhaps I don’t. And so I love laughing, and I love crying, and I love books filled with fictional characters that are just as real to me as people I know, and I love food and music and sex and really witty jokes, and above all other things, I love the few people I really know. I accept that my life will end, and so I will live it doing my utmost to be good, and to love, and to occasionally get into trouble. Because what other way is there to live, knowing that you were quite literally born destined to die?

There’s also one more thing. I love history, and have since I was very small. I like the stories of people, both the common and the great, the evil and the innocent. I read the letters they sent to their wives, what they put in their wills, the books they wrote and their poems about trees, the moon, love, and everything else. The infinite passions of a thousand million souls, now all dead and gone. Because I think remembering, like loving, is an equally important part of living in the labyrinth. There will be those who you will one day never meet again, and there will be those who leave before you do, and the pain of losing them can make you hate them, hate yourself, hate others, and ruin who they were. But by choosing not to forget them, they don’t really die. Their jokes, the way they looked, the way they made us feel; all of these things can live on in us after they go. So, I say to experience life. Do it for yourself as much as you do it for them. But remember those you miss. Don’t forget them. And when it’s late at night, with the stars shining above you, the calm darkness blanketing the landscape and a warm breeze blowing on the wind, think of those you miss, and while they may not be with you, and you won’t feel them beside you, they’ll be with you, as they once were, all the same. And know then that life isn’t about escaping, or dying, or finding a greater meaning. Because there simply may not be one. It’s about knowing people, and loving people, and being good. And if you can do those things, then escaping won’t seem so important after all.