Courage and Pity

The coffee, the papers, the cigarettes. Henry settled down as he rubbed his eyes, trying to wipe the sleep away. He had no recollection of responsibilities that awaited him today. He could disappear and it would be alright. And just like Camus had foretold his story, he felt like drinking coffee, subscribing to L'illustration, or killing himself. It would be all the same. Too many choices were laid out on his breakfast table, each resembling a certain desire of his young old soul. Cheese - yes, he wanted cheesiness sometimes. Jam - yes, sugar and glue-coated emotions were also on the list at times. Bread - so solid and soft, so boring in taste and delicious at once. And sardines - crammed in a box and usually dead and sliced; a comfort zone only a few would appreciate. He spilt his coffee on the papers - everything but haphazardly, set the table ablaze, and went for the door. He did not care about his belongings - a free man is a man that does not hold on to memories and tacky souvenirs. A real man went for the sea, with its uncertainty, predators and preys. A real man threw himself into the sea or under a bus, into the embrace of a speed train or a fish tank of piranhas. It would all be the same. His eyes mirrored the fire, and he could feel his hand shivering away his worries. A real man did not worry. A real man was ruthless and unpredictable. And a real man owned his courage. He controlled it. But what he called courageous, Matthew, Peter, and John labelled as cowardly and foolish. But he was Henry, not Simon or James. Not any of the 12 holy names.

A few days later, his body washed up the shore of an unknown land. He was buried under a huge cross that was too heavy for the corpse and soil underneath. And till today, his soul whispers those songs of redemption he had always hated. He saw courage. The rest of the world saw pity. And it was fine.