There
is a feeling like the clenching of a fist
There is a hunger in the center of the chest
There is a passage through the darkness and the mist
And though the body sleeps the heart will never rest
James Taylor
Shed A Little Light
“The
stench of death hangs over us from birth to grave,” said the old man.
“And
beyond,” said the young skeptic.
“And
beyond?” the old man asked.
The
skeptic smirked and was silent.
“No,
not beyond,” the old man said. “The rarefied air of heaven is clear and clean
and sweet.”
The
skeptic smirked and remained silent.
“The
stench of death cannot invade the heavenly places. It’s not that death is not
remembered; it’s that it’s no longer important.”
“No
longer important?” The skeptic was aroused from his smirking slumber. “Why, then do we so strive to ignore it?” The
skeptic’s eyes became tinged with anger. “Death is the crime of crimes,” he
said, then spat on the ground. “It is most definitely a curse. The stench is
simply a reminder, a most morbid reminder. You of all people should know that,
as close as you stand to it.”
The old
man now smiled. “A curse?” he asked. “I thought you didn’t believe in curses.”
“It’s a
figure of speech.”
“But
your anger is real?”
“Yes,
it is real.”
“And
you are affronted by the smell of death?”
“Who
isn’t?”
“Then
you are most assuredly affected by the very curse in which you don’t believe.”
The old man moved closer to the skeptic and spoke in a whisper. “A figure of
speech does not arouse such passion.”
“Why do
we allow ourselves to speak like this?” asked the skeptic. “There is much
beauty to be taken in. Why must I be forced to attend to such ugliness?”
“So you
wish once more to ignore it, by attempting to deny death’s importance?”
“Of
course,” said the skeptic. “But you are in error old man: It’s by ignoring
future ugliness that I attest to its importance now. It is by
attending to beauty now that I laugh in the face of death before that criminal
act is perpetrated upon me. I steal beauty from ugliness. I steal life from
death.”
The old
man laughed. “You, my son, are a fool. There is no escape. Life is given to
you. Death takes life. You may choose to ignore death, you may cover the stench
of death with roses or lilies, but even the flowers lose their scent and death
still overtakes you. You cannot ignore it. That is not allowed!”
“You,
old man, are embittered by what you think you’ve lost. I am in no such
position!”
“You
are hanging on a twisted thread over that position as we speak,” said the old
man. “Please remember—as I said before—the stench of death hangs over us from
birth to grave.”
The
skeptic started then slumped. Despondency crept over him. His face twitched as
his skin crawled. The skeptic arose wearily to his feet. “To be aware like this
is to be already dead,” he said. He began to limp away.
“Please,
stop,” said the old man. “I’ve upset you and for that I am truly sorry. Please
oblige me in my old age and sit next to me. Allow me to tell you a story.”