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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1515014
by DRHF
Rated: 13+ · Chapter · Cultural · #1515014
Poetic Story.
The Classical Dream


Chapter One: The Birth

         

         A tear fell from the doctor’s eye, he had never experienced such a solemn birth. His hands were bloodless, and the mother never made a sound. A silent birth without death, and a silent birth without hope. The eyes of the mother showed no glow, she neither seemed joyous nor sad. Such a strange scene, the doctor thought. He had delivered many children into this world, had seen every reaction. Some mothers had been distressed, the burden of the child finally made material. Others had screamed with joy, their one true purpose fulfilled. The doctor had even delivered the child of a rape victim. The girl, no less than fourteen, cried out in pain throughout the seven hour ideal. Every-time the girl looked into the baby’s eyes she would be cursed to always see half of what see hated and half of what she loved. But he had never experienced a birth like this. Throughout the entire procedure he felt nothing in the room. He couldn’t even feel the cold professional sterility of his methodical approach. His bedside sensitivity absorbed into the numbness.

         The doctor removed the glove from his hand, it made no noise, for the world seemed at peace. It was a strange feeling for the doctor, he had always wanted to feel such a complete peace as this. Peace, no it wasn’t peace as he had known, it was different, it was filled with sadness, but he could tell it was the purist form of peace, perfect peace. He thought it strange, this was the most intense stillness he had ever felt, it seemed supernatural, yet he knew he had felt it before. Everything seemed to be absorbed, his person stretched out before him. He was starting to comprehend something more than life had ever taught him, completeness is sadness, tranquility is sad, and happiness can only be found in longing. Longing, what a word he pondered, to search for a completeness, to long for, why do we always have distance aims.

         He wished he could forever be enveloped in this feeling, but that was not his fate, his was the joy of routine, the stoic, his nature was lost, destroyed by training. He had savagely raped his nature and was planning to have it executed through the fulfilled dream of his sterile modern life. Why had he come so far from this peace, how did he know that this was both the true beginning and the true end, and that single tear that now flowered form the mother’s eye. It was the Pandora’s Box, nothing released but a single shred of hope, and a child that could never know anything but completeness and sadness. This child was born into peace, when all the rest are born into chaos, a pick and mix of emotions, overflowing out of torn fragile paper packaging. And so the doctor left the room, walked into his office and sat, he had been touched by a single and pure peace, and he cried for the first time since he was a child.

         The mother lay on the metallic bed, completely motionless. The sadness of the room had removed all perceptions, there was neither cold, nor warmth, there were no black or whites. That one perfect tear had run down her cheek and now dangled from her chin. There was no tickling sensation, not a feeling, only void. She remembered the doctors face, no surprise, no warmth, but she knew something had touched him, and the tear, if only he could remember that, there could be hope. She lay her head back, the child was still silent, she felt no cold, she felt no heat and then she passed completely into the sadness.

         The doctor entered back into the room, the child lay on the mother, wrapped into a bundle. That strange feeling still enveloped the room. He walked up to the mother, her eyes had closed, he felt her, there was no heat, but no coldness either. The tear still dangled from her chin, he wiped it with his finger, it felt so gentle, it had a silk like quality to it. He felt colour radiate from within it, a dark velvet covered his body and a heavy but gentle rain raced through his being. He felt pure hope, lost as he was, and he felt a singular beauty that he knew he would never know again, and so he cried. His legs weakened and he began to tremble on the floor, this is what he had forgotten, this is what we all once knew, this is what he had given up for life to bloom, for pain to blossom. If only he could return, he would do anything to find this tranquility. The tear dried, and the emptiness returned, he felt numbness again, the void during the birth and the mother was dead.

         The doctor had experienced this same feeling at the child’s birth, all hope had evaporated into the void again. That child was still silent, and the doctor had lost all feeling again. He stood back up, all his tears had dried, he wandered back into his office, he had finally understood life, the mother had taught him the meaning, but that emptiness, that void, that sadness, it was haunting him. The tear had shown him pure hope, such perfection, such beauty.

         He knew he had been blessed, a man could live ten lives and never feel such fulfilment, but then it had evaporated. He knew in his heart that he had spent his entire life between the tear and the sadness, and had been shown the purest form. That emptiness, he could only feel that now, and no longer the hope. Hope exists only for a short time, its purity is not designed for our world, it appears only in pure sadness, and is diluted until only a glimmer of its purity remains. Yet men have given their lives for even the smallest traces of hope, and have given gladly in vain. He finally understood when assessing his life that he had only been chasing the void, never the hope. He had studied to work, had worked to provide future peace. Now he realised he had only planned for sadness, and nothing he could do in this life now could give him hope, his dream was over.

         There was a knock at the door, the nurse slowly entered in her usual restrained manner. She radiated a still calmness from her body, a glow of beauty that flowed from her humanity. She seemed young in her years, yet she carried a compassion that stilled the air and radiated a warmth untouched by the ordered confidence of her habits. Her soul seemed perfectly at peace, and her mind at ease with the passing of the days. She was young and beautiful, yet paced and steady. She had a future filled of flowerings, she would not burn brightly and fade, she had an elegant grace. She was the pinnacle of civilisation, balanced and daring, with a splendor that only true craftsmanship can ever hope for. Her hands lay at her sides, delicate and soft. Her eyes glowed with a deep beauty, yet on closer inspection radiated only compassion. The Doctor sat still and was crying.

         She slowly placed her foot into the room. She approached the desk, and as she walked closer she felt a great sadness. She felt a tear forming in her eye, and a tickle as it made its way down the side of her face. She had never seen true loss before, never the destruction of hope, only the loss of things connected. Her right leg rubbed against the other as she lightly tread towards her target, gently shuffling with endless steps to where he sat.

         On his desk lay scattered documents. His head started to tilt until it finally dropped to rest on a closed binder. The nurse didn’t scream, she could tell what had happened, a needle pricked the Doctor’s leg. She fell back, yet felt no pain. She shed no tears, needed no morning. Her training had not played a part in this, it was her humanity, touched by a purity she had never felt. She returned to the door of the room, and closed the door. The Doctor spoke his last breath and spent his last tear, in that moment his hope disappeared.

      The hospital emptied for the night. The remaining staff enjoyed the stillness of the scene. The shop had long since closed, the vending machines the sole suppliers of any needed nourishment. Through the bleak sterile halls a figure could be seen, delicate and powerful lounged on the floor. A blue hat lay at its side, and the figure’s hands lay delicately balanced on the tiles. A single tear dangling towards earth.
© Copyright 2009 DRHF (drhf at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1515014