I once had a dream that I was
martyred.
There are only a few things I remember about that dream:
the small details. The first thing that comes to mind is how my own brother
took a knife and carved three long gashes into my face. I remember screaming
for him to martyr me; I remember yelling at him to give me more. I remember
that I wanted welts on my back from whips, and gashes on my face from knives
before I died. I wanted to be martyred, that was easy to remember.
But for the life of me, I cannot remember what his faced
looked like, what kind of expression he had, holding that knife. I remember the
exact feeling of deadness in my limbs: It’s the same feeling I have when I wake
up each day. I remember how weak I was. But for the life of me, I cannot
remember what my brother’s expression was while I dreamt of martyrdom. It is
this that probably disturbs me the most.
One
of the many things that I have discovered while studying this art of
expression—what we falsely call an English Class—is a rather simple
observation. My favorite word in the English language is the word “rather”.
I’ve found that I use it constantly in essays, just instinctually. Allow me to
provide an illustration: It’s not that I simply like how it sounds, but rather, it’s what the word does that is
important. The word “rather” highlights the ability to make distinctions and to
recognize detail. The root of the word means “more readily”, “more willingly”,
or “more truly”. This small word not only allows us to parse out those small
distinctions, to comb out those small details, but enables and furthers the
search for truth.
When I tell people that Wednesday was my last normal day
of school, and Monday is my last day… like… forever, they ask me if I’m
excited. “OOoo, are you excited?” they say. My first reaction is to yell out
“No!...I’m not excited… Rather, it makes me sad to know that not only is this
the end of an era, but I have not made the era into what it could have been”.
Of course, to avoid strange looks, I lie through my teeth to admit that yes, it
is a little exciting. But what I have realized that it is not for the fun of it
that I would do this whole thing again (for some parts were distinctly
not-fun). Rather, I feel the obligation to learn, to get that sentence just
right, to state the truth just as it is, precisely as it is. And I know I have
not. I, like Oskar Schell from Extremely
Loud and Incredibly Close, find myself surrounded by detail and simply
trying to take, keep, and make sense of those that I can.
Do you know what’s funny? The word “detail” doesn’t mean what
we think it means. We think that it means the little things that are set apart
from the whole. The root of the word, however, is this: the combination of the
prefix de, which means “entirely”
with the suffix taillier, which means
“to cut in pieces”. This origin of the word creates a meaning that is more
along the lines of metaphorical puzzle pieces. Pieces that we weep over when we’ve finally managed to
put together two or three out of the pile.
What
I have found is this: that the origin and heart of all our bitter-sweetness—especially
about endings, like this one—is that we are, and have been, awash in a sea of
detail, and we only have the capacity to take in
a
mugful or so
each day with our morning coffee.
And
although we may always cry out for more, we always find comfort in those we hold
in the silence of our minds, though they be at 2 in the morning, found in the
sock drawer—all forgotten, or flitting about a rare hum of a woman whom you
thought you knew.
The
only thing I can say is seek these out,
and join me in the great puzzle as we put the shattered beauty of our lives
back together.
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