In the green years of trying to awaken and discover oneself, who has not experienced the lengthy, mean, intimidation and coercion in the principal's office? The conservative, rigid, and self-righteous violence that was full of love and kindness half a century ago has long since faded, but in fact, the shackles of social standards and morality have never disappeared. Skin so that the rebellious blood can dry up as soon as possible, and sensitive children have always been sacrifices to maintain the old world standards and continue to operate.
As far as youth is concerned, the most terrifying thing is not the suffocating dogma, but the fact that it has been subtly become a part of the dogma. Marcus hates faith, hates the hypocrisy of the adult world, hates being labelled to be defined, the anger inside him, like the comical March of the Volunteers on the record player, is so childish and cowardly that even the roommates who insult him and his lover face There is no strength to hit hard, not even the strength to support my mother who has endured silently for many years when my father wants to divorce my mother. At that moment he looked at his mother's face with the same surprise that he hated the most when an adult saw apostasy.
In the end, neither he nor she could become the selves they had hoped for indefinitely. They were destroyed or devoured by the times. This is the end of most youthful rebellions. The difference between us and Marcus and Olivia is that we have not been able to go as they did. far, we are far more cowardly and humble than them. Talking about the unspeakable dying love on the battlefield, and the long years of torture in the mental hospital, and still remembering that day when he praised him for how beautiful he was holding flowers, are all they can remember.
Looking at myself, I can understand their intentions and helplessness for those "good teachers" who "follow the good guidance" to help me avoid going down the wrong road, but I can't let go of their stifling youth, the so-called growth history, and more It's like a long torture of constantly strangling ourselves; we thought we used to sing and dance without worry, but we never knew it was a lament sung on the grave.
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