Everyone can sing, anyone can whistle
There are people who are filled with such horror at the idea of a defeat that they keep themselves from ever doing anything.
-- "The Ethics of Ambiguity", Simone de Beauvoir.
The air is chilly, but not too cold. Still, I pull my beanie down over my ears, clutching at my umbrella. The school bus seems to be running late again, or perhaps I had left earlier than I realised. Overhead, clouds tightly woven hanging like a coat waiting for winter — it seems as if the sun did not rise today. But watch, mankind persists in heroic defiance; the streetlamps glow orange, headlights slice through the darkness between traffic signals alternating red, amber and green — or blue, if you are Japanese.
The rain coats the world in a silky gloss. The roads are cling-wrapped, sprinkled with red and gold confetti, and my new jeans are peppered with the demise of raindrops ...
He had asked me the night before over some squabble about pop literature, "You think a layman like me could be a scholar?" And in my perhaps-naive, optimistic way, I said, "Sure, if you're determined enough." He had laughed at me, striking out with sarcasm. So, he could sing like Pavorotti? To which I gave the answer given to me by a music teacher, words I have carried in my heart for ten years, "Everyone can sing, just not everyone can sing well."
Again, he laughed. Perhaps at my passion to live, to surpass existence. From this distance I could see the gaping emptiness inside him, but it frightens me more that he had grown up with it, gotten used to it, and now he can't see he had become little more than a shell of a human being. And he would gravitate to me, having nothing to say, having no thoughts. He didn't understand why I would bother listening to him, with all the pointlessness, the pain of lacking. I knew. When you live a life of passion, when you ride your days on fire, people are drawn to your light, but when they are not aware of themselves and their humanity, if they get too close — they could very well get burned.
"What are your dreams?" I'd asked. He had no answer. He didn't think he could answer. He merely told me I used nice words.
Posted by sniffles at October 21, 2003 10:33 PM