They only let me touch his feet.
To ask for forgiveness, they say. I refuse to do so. I just want to touch his hair, because I can still remember how soft it always was. And I haven't touched it in ages. But when I move towards his head, the lady in charge clears her throat and says to me curtly, "Only touch his feet; it causes less pain."
But how can he feel pain at all? He's been like this for the better part of the day. My dear boy. He's only 28 years old. That's young, isn't it? I think it is.
I don't want to touch his feet at all. They actually look asleep; the veins have enlarged and it looks as though he stepped in an inky puddle on his way here.
I don't even need to ask for forgiveness, it's just another one of those century-old traditions which I have never understood and what I have always rebelled against. In mind, at least, if not in action.
He can't hear me, anyway. I don't care what they say. They have said a lot of things before that never made sense, and later on they were proved to be the inventions of a vivid imagination. They make up these things so we are forced to be scared, when the awe we should feel is never developed.
So, I sit down on a folding chair near the entrance. I don't touch the Holy book, nor the holy beads that have been placed on a table nearby. I just sit and look through the searing whiteness of the place and tune out the murmuring of the others in the room. And the buzzing of the florescent light.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Of course, I asked myself why he chose me. Of the millions of matches he could have made in those four years, he waited until he found me. And then he stuck with me. That was the miraculous nature of our relationship. He stuck with me.
I avoided most forms of human contact in those four years. I felt like a misfit, of course, but not more than I had felt when I was at home. The studying helped; it gave me a singular purpose in those four years. I kept reminding myself, "You're not here to have fun. You're here to work, to study, to get a degree at the end of these four years, and then to go back home." And I followed that train of thought for the first two.
But then something happened to me. I realised that, being a human being required me to live me life as fully as I could. And so, I kept in touch with a few people in my classes outside of school. I wasn't able to visit home the last summer before I graduated, so I played tennis with a girl I'd been in the same classes since first year. I even went to the city centre for an open-air art exhibition. I went to the zoo. And I fully enjoyed myself, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster at the time.
To ask for forgiveness, they say. I refuse to do so. I just want to touch his hair, because I can still remember how soft it always was. And I haven't touched it in ages. But when I move towards his head, the lady in charge clears her throat and says to me curtly, "Only touch his feet; it causes less pain."
But how can he feel pain at all? He's been like this for the better part of the day. My dear boy. He's only 28 years old. That's young, isn't it? I think it is.
I don't want to touch his feet at all. They actually look asleep; the veins have enlarged and it looks as though he stepped in an inky puddle on his way here.
I don't even need to ask for forgiveness, it's just another one of those century-old traditions which I have never understood and what I have always rebelled against. In mind, at least, if not in action.
He can't hear me, anyway. I don't care what they say. They have said a lot of things before that never made sense, and later on they were proved to be the inventions of a vivid imagination. They make up these things so we are forced to be scared, when the awe we should feel is never developed.
So, I sit down on a folding chair near the entrance. I don't touch the Holy book, nor the holy beads that have been placed on a table nearby. I just sit and look through the searing whiteness of the place and tune out the murmuring of the others in the room. And the buzzing of the florescent light.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Of course, I asked myself why he chose me. Of the millions of matches he could have made in those four years, he waited until he found me. And then he stuck with me. That was the miraculous nature of our relationship. He stuck with me.
I avoided most forms of human contact in those four years. I felt like a misfit, of course, but not more than I had felt when I was at home. The studying helped; it gave me a singular purpose in those four years. I kept reminding myself, "You're not here to have fun. You're here to work, to study, to get a degree at the end of these four years, and then to go back home." And I followed that train of thought for the first two.
But then something happened to me. I realised that, being a human being required me to live me life as fully as I could. And so, I kept in touch with a few people in my classes outside of school. I wasn't able to visit home the last summer before I graduated, so I played tennis with a girl I'd been in the same classes since first year. I even went to the city centre for an open-air art exhibition. I went to the zoo. And I fully enjoyed myself, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster at the time.