Rammstein: My Will to Go On

By Addie Craig

CW: references to sexual violence, discrimination, violence.

I'm having a crisis. Specifically concerning what to major in. Which translates to the rest of my life. Because my mind has warped this decision into ruling my existence thus far. 

College has liquidized my routines. I have graduated from the very established routine of my childhood to the eerie dawn of adulthood. The structured relationship of class and work remains, yet I only have myself to give direction and drive to my future. Since this change, I have found that instead of charging in some direction driven by righteous passion and the reassurance of post-grad opportunities, I have procured a stool with which I meander around and sit on at the mouths of various paths forward. I peer into the hazy distance and envision my futures in the mist. I consult my parents, friends, teachers, peers, palms, birth charts, cards, numerology, and dreams. I try to attune my ear to my heart, my head, and the chatter of gathered individuals walking past my seat.

All the while, as I sit and think, and think, and think some more, and maybe lay down for a bit, and perhaps stare at the road behind me, I form a routine of not knowing. Being in a state of flux, seemingly indefinitely, becomes a veneer, a thick coat I don to ignore the nudges from others to proceed one way or another. I can brush off well-meaning advice for passing empty sentiments and nestle deeper into my seat. It's terrible and very stupid. I very much recommend keeping your head down and following your feet to your old age.

Ending this prolonged metaphor, I do not know what I'm doing with my life. The entity of college seems to be extending whilst accelerating me to the point at which I must accept the underlying crisis that my present and past are, in fact, my life. I cannot exist on multiple planes yet also cannot exist while experiencing life from a distanced relationship akin to a protagonist and reader. Hozier was right about the whole mid-youth crisis. 

Earlier this semester, I fell into a rut of feeling isolated, uncared for, and trapped within my consciousness. I considered transferring. I was uninspired and had bouts of aching nervousness in my stomach. I sat deep inside my head, disconnected from my body, unable to rouse my costume of bone and muscle to participate in the present.
The entire month of October felt like a steep hill I couldn't help but tumble down. I had decisions to make, and the oncoming November carried innumerable due dates. Yet I had to live actively.

My rise to action occurred a week after the so-called "Fall Break" (four days my ass) when I went to visit a friend at another college. Her parents were visiting the same weekend, and yes, you don't have to tell me that was a bad idea. I am all too aware of my mistake. Long weekend short, after her parents tag-teamed the dissection of my aimlessness, I realized I never wanted to go through another conversation about not knowing what to do with my life, falling into a rut, and thinking my life is shit. Because it really isn't. What really happened was that I stopped trusting myself to lead my own life. And when I arrived back outside my dorm, I awoke with new eyes to the beauty of my surroundings. I remembered why I chose this silly little institution as the place to pursue higher education. Wellesley does not owe me anything beyond that: an education. Recontextualizing my intentions at this stage of life helped me recognize where to allocate my focus. 

As of late, I've found a distraction that blinds me while forcing my feet forward: Rammstein. I'm sure the German Neue Deutsche Härte band didn't intend for their hard metal music to be the main soundtrack for a twenty-year-old woman with an identity crisis. And especially not one of the few things that bring her joy after a period of such dismal numbness. But maybe that's exactly what Rammstein is for. Maybe within all of their songs about incest, rape, homophobia, perverts, child arsonists, prostitution, sadomasochism, old men, sailors, homosexuality, and the occasional Oedipal complex, their true ambitions are to help young women process their own mortality. Or, at least provide enough diversion that these ladies move forward instead of languishing in the suspended non-life of their college routines.

Rammstein provides delusion and escapist fantasies that make me fall in love with my own mortal condition again. Their song "Pussy" fills me with such unimaginable and inexplicable euphoria that I can't help but dance ahead into the glooms of the future. This inner joy becomes a sustenance I can easily hand out to my friends and peers. Finding a sustainable source of happiness wrenches me out of my inner anxieties and deconstructs the false barriers that I put up between myself and others. Rammstein is the olive branch between my divided selves. In discovering a new source of enjoyment, I am reminded of my collective passions, which may or may not now include Till Lindemann's voice. And biceps. And the little wire muzzle he wore during their Sehnsucht era. 

Now I'm not sure if I've totally resolved my crisis, but I feel that I have at least taken some steps forward. I have gained the strength to start moving in a direction. I must remember that I can always cross the wild to another trail, and I trust myself to find my doom.

Addie Craig '25 has, in fact, declared an Art History major and can currently be found doing her best Till Lindemann impression to herself as she walks around campus. From the December 2022 issue.