His very sense of self completely departs from reality.
This is (and perhaps always will be) one of the most disturbing scenes from any movie that I have ever seen. Because every time I watch it, I ask myself the same question: "Am I John Nash?"
As far back as I can remember, I have felt a sense of king-ly greatness. Deep within me stirs a prophecy that foretells great feats, and I know that I possess unique skills and abilities that will make this prophecy a reality. This is a cornerstone belief of mine, and it gives shape to my actions. I sing to myself the triumphant song of my own future, and dance into accomplishments that others didn't think possible.
This is (and perhaps always will be) one of the most disturbing scenes from any movie that I have ever seen. Because every time I watch it, I ask myself the same question: "Am I John Nash?"
As far back as I can remember, I have felt a sense of king-ly greatness. Deep within me stirs a prophecy that foretells great feats, and I know that I possess unique skills and abilities that will make this prophecy a reality. This is a cornerstone belief of mine, and it gives shape to my actions. I sing to myself the triumphant song of my own future, and dance into accomplishments that others didn't think possible.
But then I watch A Beautiful Mind and am seized with terror. Are my prophecy and strengths as unreal as Nash's delusions? Are they just megalomaniac dreams made incarnate in my mind and nowhere else? Am I just a normal man, indistinguishable from a billion others?
My life’s accomplishments so far would seem to be evidence toward this hypothesis; I am no king--I bear no extraordinary strengths. My belief in my own future of greatness seems nothing more than a feedback loop of dreams and praise, a warped perspective carefully nourished on grandiose interpretations of mundane experiences. It would seem that my life is an "emperor's new clothes" situation, me parading foolishly down an Avenue of Reality I neither see nor understand.
These are old thoughts, old nightmares that torture me from time to time. Today, though, I asked myself a new question: does it matter? After finally passing through the terrible scream of death, if it is revealed to me that my accomplishments, strengths, and relationships are all delusions--will it really matter?
Living a life of royalty seems like a good way to pass these decades of life, even if Reality is snickering at me in the background. And anyway, John Nash is still a Nobel laureate.
My life’s accomplishments so far would seem to be evidence toward this hypothesis; I am no king--I bear no extraordinary strengths. My belief in my own future of greatness seems nothing more than a feedback loop of dreams and praise, a warped perspective carefully nourished on grandiose interpretations of mundane experiences. It would seem that my life is an "emperor's new clothes" situation, me parading foolishly down an Avenue of Reality I neither see nor understand.
These are old thoughts, old nightmares that torture me from time to time. Today, though, I asked myself a new question: does it matter? After finally passing through the terrible scream of death, if it is revealed to me that my accomplishments, strengths, and relationships are all delusions--will it really matter?
Living a life of royalty seems like a good way to pass these decades of life, even if Reality is snickering at me in the background. And anyway, John Nash is still a Nobel laureate.
If pride is the only casualty of my folly perspective, with joy will I dwell in the imagined halls of my own greatness.
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