I heard the words in silence
as a lay in the dark and quiet of my bed, alone with my truest
thoughts, as yet unclear but becoming so.
“Can I ask you a personal
question?”, he asked while she was away from us for a moment.
“If I can can choose
whether to reply.”
“Are you always wrong?”
He must have seen the
reaction in my face.
“I mean, well, when you
were at our place she corrected you when nothing needed correcting.
And just now, as we were working on installing the DVD, you were right
and she preempted you.
I looked up to see her
approaching the table and there the conversation ended. We may never return to it.
Depression is at its best
when its weight is just enough to keep a body quiescent, as though
there's a perceptible lethargy but not sufficient enough to bring
attention to its presence, when the destructive effects of a person's
actions could be invisible to others and even to one's self.
The slowly developing ache
in the gut, a direct result of too much coffee, for example. Seems
silly that a guy would recognize that drinking coffee on an empty
stomach causes his stomach to churn with a nauseating uneasiness, and
that before he takes the first sips he feels fine, yet he pursues the
pain and its accompanying dis-ease. Seems silly unless he knows that
it's killing him, and he wants to die.
But he wants to die a proper death,
in a way society accepts. No guilt on anyone. The
cancer, or whatever, metastasized before it could be diagnosed. So
sad. Millions die from it every year. It must have been his time.
Beats the other alternative, suicide, with all the social
implications that might point back to the real reasons.
Now, a decision is due. The
truth is out, and it has to be faced, like it or not. Does a body
really want to leave behind his life, or is it time to move on to create a new one while he's still here? Can
one judge himself so harshly for wanting to live that he would
willingly die rather than face facts that things aren't working out?
He's seen it before. The
Polish-American postman, a good Catholic, who behaved according to the social
customs of his people and married a woman chosen for him, a women so
stupid as to be repulsive. For forty years he lived with her, and
gave her a daughter who was as bright and as beautiful as ever a
father could want.
For forty years, he lived with a woman who hadn't
the capacity to carry on a conversation - with anyone. His response was
to commit himself to God and the church, where he was seen as good, a
role model and where he could safely escape her. She never caught on,
She couldn't. But either did society, for his actions were always
noble – and understood.
People thought him to be of
poor constitution, as he was perpetually ill – and yet so noble,
preferring to serve the lord in spite of his constant illnesses. His
daughter thought so, too. Yet I was on to him.
The week before he died, I
met him with the family and we spoke a bit. His wife was a striking
figure, short, ill-dressed, with eyes as dead as tree knots. Speaking
to her, it was clear what he's been living with. He told me he was sick, that he'd been so for over a week, this time.
His daughter chided
him on his latest affliction and he replied. Looking at me, he said
quietly. “He understands.” In a matter of days he was gone,
released from his burden, and praised from the pulpit for his
commitment to his family and his church. He was right, you know. I
did get it. I thought about him over morning coffee on an empty
stomach.
Writing in the dark is easy.
Thoughts come and go in quiet streams, meeting to form words and
thoughts of their own accord. If you just allow them to proceed, they
float around each other until the right ones merge together to for
the thoughts that resonate best with you.
Writing in light, be it the
lamp or the day, is much more difficult. The words don't come as
easily. It's like the light of day interferes intentionally with what
needs to be said. Some things should just not be expressed openly.
You understand.
