// is there someone out there? a conversation between my six-year old self & my mother //
There is a solemn silence in this place. My six-year old self looks around, attempting to understand the logic placed behind this. This, this place - it's nothing more than a prison. A prison in which songs are sung, water is used as if it was created to be a soul cleanser, and absolute power is given to a faceless source.
A source which has many forms. Forms that are incapable of being regarded as human. My six-year old self looks to the front. People are crying. Why are they crying? My six-year old mind rushes to images of the day my beloved cat passed away - perhaps they've lost their Gizmo too? No.
"They are crying with joy".
Joy? Surly joy is experienced with smiles and laughter, my six-year old mind wonders - not tears and sorrows? "Joy" my mother simply replies.
"For you see" she begins - "they hav-" she stops - "where do you think Gizmo has gone?"
"In the ground to nap forever"
She smiles
"You remember that big book they read from, on Sunday to you?"
"Yes - it was boring with big words I didn't know"
"Those people over there, they have lost their Gizmo too, well - "
She stops again, wondering how on earth to explain the concept of death to a six-year old.
"Except, Gizmo wasn't their cat"
My face clearly displayed the confusion my six-year old mind was experiencing.
"You see, sometimes when a person - well - sometimes people go to sleep forever too"
"Like Ouma?"
"Like Ouma - but sometimes, sometimes really bad things happen, things that people can't control"
"Like a fart?"
"Like a fart - but worse. And well sometimes, when people can't explain why a bad thing has happened, they turn to someone for answers"
"Like a policeman?"
"More like a teacher - an invisible teacher"
A picture of a grumpy, old teacher wearing Harry Potter's invisibility cloak flashes in my mind.
"This teacher - teaches people through that big book - the one from Sunday?"
"Yes. You see, sometimes - remember we discussed how certain feelings feel?"
"Yes."
"Well, you remember how sad you felt when your Gizmo passed away? Those people are feeling it too, but they feel almost worse"
"Oh"
"So they take those feelings and turn to this teacher - and he makes them feel almost better in a sense"
It wasn't until I was eighteen years old that I understood what my mother had meant that day - that people turn to this teacher for hope.
Hope is a tricky thing. For some, it is the only thing keeping them alive. It is the driving force behind their day to day lives and the sole reason they wake up in the morning. Hope is a powerful thing. It creates better - a better day, a better month - a better life, and well people, people latch onto this hope. People latch onto the idea of better, the idea of "things can only get better from here." And well, when there's a faceless figure for someone to pour all of their loneliness and sorrows into - people tend to worship this figure.
A source which has many forms. Forms that are incapable of being regarded as human. My six-year old self looks to the front. People are crying. Why are they crying? My six-year old mind rushes to images of the day my beloved cat passed away - perhaps they've lost their Gizmo too? No.
"They are crying with joy".
Joy? Surly joy is experienced with smiles and laughter, my six-year old mind wonders - not tears and sorrows? "Joy" my mother simply replies.
"For you see" she begins - "they hav-" she stops - "where do you think Gizmo has gone?"
"In the ground to nap forever"
She smiles
"You remember that big book they read from, on Sunday to you?"
"Yes - it was boring with big words I didn't know"
"Those people over there, they have lost their Gizmo too, well - "
She stops again, wondering how on earth to explain the concept of death to a six-year old.
"Except, Gizmo wasn't their cat"
My face clearly displayed the confusion my six-year old mind was experiencing.
"You see, sometimes when a person - well - sometimes people go to sleep forever too"
"Like Ouma?"
"Like Ouma - but sometimes, sometimes really bad things happen, things that people can't control"
"Like a fart?"
"Like a fart - but worse. And well sometimes, when people can't explain why a bad thing has happened, they turn to someone for answers"
"Like a policeman?"
"More like a teacher - an invisible teacher"
A picture of a grumpy, old teacher wearing Harry Potter's invisibility cloak flashes in my mind.
"This teacher - teaches people through that big book - the one from Sunday?"
"Yes. You see, sometimes - remember we discussed how certain feelings feel?"
"Yes."
"Well, you remember how sad you felt when your Gizmo passed away? Those people are feeling it too, but they feel almost worse"
"Oh"
"So they take those feelings and turn to this teacher - and he makes them feel almost better in a sense"
It wasn't until I was eighteen years old that I understood what my mother had meant that day - that people turn to this teacher for hope.
Hope is a tricky thing. For some, it is the only thing keeping them alive. It is the driving force behind their day to day lives and the sole reason they wake up in the morning. Hope is a powerful thing. It creates better - a better day, a better month - a better life, and well people, people latch onto this hope. People latch onto the idea of better, the idea of "things can only get better from here." And well, when there's a faceless figure for someone to pour all of their loneliness and sorrows into - people tend to worship this figure.
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