Destroy The Sun

A ramble by a haunted mind.

At first glance I am shocked by the glossy, pocket-sized picture: a graduation photo of a young boy in a blue gown. Though this is an ordinary graduation photo, which is nothing to be shocked about, it is the boy’s face that catches my attention, jumping out of the photo conglomeration of that year’s graduating class, as if in 3D. The oddity is that, within an ordinary graduation photo, you would see a young man or woman gazing back at you with the cliché smile of hope or passion for what might be their future. But this boy, or man, has dark, sunken eyes that make me cringe with a supernatural fear, his mouth glazed with metal, his curly hair a dull gold falling over his slanted eyes. The photo makes me wonder about the intimate details of his life: did his mother brush his hair that morning? Did she stay up late with him, as they elaborately discussed his aspirations for future days? Did they talk about the ways he could contribute as a human being? As I wonder what he was like, I turn to my father and state: If I had gone to this school, I would have been friends with that guy. But as I hear my voice reverberate in my head, deeper questions arise. I stare at the frighteningly contorted face of this stranger. He doesn’t appear happy or smiling in the picture, a juxtaposition to the others around him. Then again, I wonder if he’s trying to smile, or show some kind of glee that has been lost within the contortions of his face. I feel such overwhelming sympathy for this man I know nothing about. I wonder if he’s even a fully capable human being. Is he physically, socially or even mentally handicapped, or is it just the picture that gives that impression? Would I have been able to have friendly relations with this stranger? Would I have been able to handle it? I pray to God the answer would be yes as I wonder about his social life, his school work, his marks, his thought, his loves, his hates, everything! I wish to know everything"everything that does not concern me. I am infatuated with this picture. Though it seems almost grotesque on the outside, there are too many questions that lie behind it for one to make such a quick judgment. I think about how a normal, but naïve, individual might look at the picture: Boy, that guy’s ugly, they would say. But it’s not the strange angles in his face that my obsessed eyes fix upon; my eyes lock, instead, upon the possibility of hope within the photo. His face seems to suggest some kind of handicap or retardation, but the blue gown indicates otherwise. It is a representation of capability, a promise for some kind of greater mind. Has he succeeded? Is he smiling? And if he is, is he smiling for his success, or is it a smile forced upon him by an overzealous photographer? I want to know. I want to know everything about him. But then again, do I want to meet him? He could be socially inept, clinging on to anyone who shows him the first light of compassion. Do I want to be the blank slate to which he glues himself? On second thought, perhaps he would refuse the offer of friendship, too broken by past relationships for me to reach him. Perhaps he’s not mentally stable enough to sustain and enjoy social relationships. I look at the face again, a wave of empathy flowing over me for the pain I think he has. I feel foolish, though I still wonder whether his life will be worthwhile to humanity, or if, perhaps, it has been already. Perhaps he has given some joy to a hopeless individual, or has given a reason for his parents to arrive home everyday after their hours are paid for in their dead-end jobs. Or perhaps he has been a drain on our society, our resources, maybe even our time. Perhaps he has been a waste. Perhaps he was able to graduate through a lower level high school, but his poor mental capabilities will not sustain him in the real world, where work and scientific intelligence is the basis for human worth. As long as you drive the invisible hand of our deadly capitalist system, then and only then are you an integral part of society. No matter how miserable you are working an office job where you are not challenged, or valued as you should be, as long as you drive that hand, you are of worth. Maybe he cannot help sustain our system. It’s even possible that he will never be helpful to anyone in the world"just a man incapable of living on his own without tax dollars or a government home. Perhaps he has been a waste, brought to life by a couple of uncaring individuals making drunken love behind some sleazy home-town bar only to find fertilization had occurred. She decides to keep it, but poisons the fetus with smoke and alcohol. Or maybe he came from two loving parents who bread an underachiever through some genetic mutation within their sex-cells. Either way, the question of this man’s niche remains heavy within my mind. I feel tired under the weight. The futility of human existence for those who do not deserve it, do not savour it, but, instead, breed a new race of sexists and bigots, macho men incapable of human compassion, and twits who sleep with every man they meet"all of them obsessing over themselves in an attempt to fulfill a desperate need for intimacy or acceptance, something their over-achieving, workaholic parents never managed to provide. A new breed of extreme lefts, extreme rights, of useless rebellion and religious dependencies, of anger, of hate, of global citizens who decide aggression is the only means necessary to promote peace, of lower level beings clogging the arteries of humanity, of commercialist, money-grubbing people, influenced too easily by T.V and pep talks, and of religious leaders blind to the world in which they are immersed, and, over all, simple-minded fools. They waste not only their children’s lives but they’re own as well. I wish I could kill them. Destroy and eliminate them. Spare the garden from its weeds, so as not to smother the flowers. I am sickened by the thought, but the thought remains. I wish we could destroy the sun and watch in complete darkness as humanity is swallowed up by itself, leaving nothing but my mind at ease. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but as I stand and stare at this photograph, I decide it speaks too much. I pray to a God whose existence I question for the man in the picture, for there is nothing else I can do. I feel slightly foolish, for my thoughts are either too close or too far from the truth, and I pray it’s the latter. But the question still remains: is he the product of a careless humanity’s neglect, or an accidental distortion of the human code?

            Or perhaps, I wonder, was it just a bad picture?