Mortal Glory, a Forgotten Beauty

- From my lungs I cry laughter to the roof of the night! From my eyes, salt and water write an ode to joy upon my face! I throw my hands into the air! I shout! I understand, “Life is wonderful!”
- An old man gives me a funny look, and I answer him with a hand on his shoulder, “Life is wonderful!” I chuckle, at myself, with the world, “I don’t expect you to understand me. I don’t know how I could express to you what it is. But Life is wonderful!”
- I move on, in these moments so precious. I progress towards the end of it all, for I know this will end, and it will be forgotten forever and ever. That’s wonderful too. Nobody need remember this, not even God. As sad as it may seem, knowing that soon, tomorrow, or in a few hours, I will have forgotten all that I now understand. I will remember only that I understood something, but won’t be able to put my finger on what it was. This is not the kind of thing that memory records. When the memory ends, so will this me, and that other me will be left standing with a look of confusion as sweet as that of the old man.
- I feel more than joy, I feel sorrow as well. I feel everything I could ever need to feel. I am living my life, knowing every experience, every sensation that makes up a fulfilled life. In these few minutes, I have had a worthwhile, nay, more than worthwhile lifetime. That other me who shall stand confused, he shall live many more years. His body shall pass away and he shall continue through the spirit world for all eternity. He shall do all this, but he shall never understand me like I do now. Nobody ever shall, not even myself again, for I will die, and I will not continue through the eternities. I’ll be as a corpse in an atheists eye, going to the grave forever. It’s alright. It’s wonderful. A am a mortal part of him, a part for which he has always been living, though he never knew it. Even if I’m the only one in his whole eternal existence, even if I’m the only one in all the eternities together, it was all worth it.
- Who is that? I ask her name.
- “My name is Jezebel. I play violin.”
- I furrow my brow, narrow my eyes. She isn’t real. “A name,” I growl, “And a shallow profile. You’re just a character, easily invented, easily written. You’re a phony!”
- She smiles in a doll-like way, “So, what do you do?”
- I stumble back, these words, this question. I have been asked what I do, what I like...
- (Years ago:
- Q: What do you like to do?
- A: Uh... I like to... read... write... listen to music...? Who am I?
- Less years ago:
- Q: What do you like to do?
- A: Uh.. I like to.. read.. write..? Who am I?
- Recently:
- Q: What do you like to do?
- A: Uh. I like to. read. Who am I?
- Presently:)
- A: I stagger. I sway. These words have cut my eyes open. What do I do? Who am I? Are my answers not as contrived as hers? Is my profile any more sincere? Or am I just as much a character as her, written up:
- This character’s name is... How about Jezebel... And Jezebel... She works at... no, she plays violin. Yes, that will make a good character. Jezebel, who plays violin.
- Am I any more real? Think now, who am I? What do I do? What do I like? What did I do as a child? What was it like? What have I experienced? What is my life? ...Who am I?
- I have no idea. I can only list off facts I’ve memorized about myself, but none mean anything more to me than those I can tell you about Tom Sawyer, Hamlet, “Call me Ishmael.” I don’t know anythi-
- I notice a masquerading man is mirroring my motions, the shaking of my hands, the pacing of my feet. He wears a facade of my desperate questioning. I glare at this taunting man. He looks nothing like me, and makes a mockery of my motions with his play. I turn away and then,
- I see my reflection.
- Though it is pitch black, though my eyes cannot actually function in this lighting, I know that the mirror is there, and so I see my reflection. As always, it looks nothing like me. I clutch my head, I growl and try to shake away the discomforting lie in the mirror. Finally I avert my eyes from the unbearable looking glass, and I see the masquerader again.
- When he imitates me, why should I call it a mockery? Because of his appearance that is so unlike me? So untrue? He is no less like me than my own reflection.
- I look down at myself, but it’s too dark to see, and even if I could, I’m on the wrong side of my eyes, looking the wrong way.
- The old man stands to the one side, and on the other the masquerader. Jezebel, the violinist, stands on the opposite side of me from my reflection. Every feeling I know to exist, very subtly, swirls around in my head as my energy fades, and I sink to the ground, slumped against a wall.
- I open my eyes, and in the faint blue light, I look around the bathroom. I’m forgetting already. What was it that I was experiencing just a little bit ago? Precious moments? A lifetime in a few minutes? Well I knew they would end. I close my eyes.
- The old man wants to know what that was all about. What did I mean, “Life is wonderful?” What epiphany had I experienced? Now I’m as clueless as him.