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| Переслано из: <MILO> |
When this dam broke, it ought to have been a coronation of sorts. Nicholas was anointed to ride the ensuing waves to fame, acclaim and permanent political influence. Or so we all assumed. In fact he is nowhere to be seen. I would go as far as to say he is outright uncomfortable viewing now, arrestingly diminished since those days he dazzled us all.
His emotional hygiene is visibly poor; he struggles to last the ninety minutes. No doubt as you read this he sits hunched over a phone in that cluster of dark rooms, in Illinois, of all places. He appears indifferent to his movement's movement in the sun, the moment he has been waiting for to stop pantomiming morality and embrace chaos. The day Schlomo finally gets what's coming to him.
And Nick cannot be happy at it, because he does not know how to be happy for other people, and also because it will soon be time for that anxious hour of snapping and swearing, because soon he must confront the task ahead--soon he must pretend again, for just this one more show, that somehow all his cruelty might be paid back in a windfall of love, that somehow his story might have a happy ending.
This tragic little tableau is one hell of a bummer. My friends, we have had a front row seat to self-sabotage and squandered promise so shocking it feels Elizabethan--and it is, this Shakespearean slow-motion suicide. Heed the fate of Nicholas. Choose beauty, truth and goodness instead.