In the end it's just all one kid's sick dream, really, isn't it? It's just one of many theories. One of many.... Is that all Donald J. Darko was really? One of many? I mean, it's not every day that you escape certain death and get told the world is going to end by an overgrown, psychotic mammal. Sounds like some kid's sick dream, which brings me back to my original point. He's a sleep-walking, mildly psychopathic, absolutely, unusually troubled sixteen year old who gets a girlfriend, saves the world and uncovers a suspected paedophile. Makes you wonder what's real and what's imaginary.....
Donnie Darko's about to find out.
Donnie's eyes are prised open by the morning sunlight. He glances over to the clock by the side of his bed. He sighs and clambers out from under his sheet in abstraction.
He squints in the early light, lost in the depressing fact that he was no one. He was one of many. Everyone thinks they're one of a kind... that they have something no one else has. Donnie had long since realised that there was no point. Whatever you could do, someone else could do better. His life was but a blur. Endless days sinking into pointless nights. His flayling hobby of scrawling out stories filled with interesting charcters and spontanious plots, illustrated with his doodles at the side, depicting every word. But what did it matter?
He chuckles to himself as he wonders down the stairs, wishing maybe for the last time that his life could be as brilliant as his imagination, and thinking of the endless things he'd say to everyone who'd ever pissed him off. So everyone did this, probably?
He gets the cereal out of the cupboard and puts it down on the table before taking out a piece of paper and a pen from the table.
Oh bleak miserable life... just the epitamy of a depressed teenager's dream. Donnie loved how it sank into oblivion compared with the Middlesex he wrote about.
But then nothing could ever compare to the Donnie Darko he wasn't. Or maybe was... but he just didn't know it yet.
