It has been posited to me on several occasions that I, a professor of profundity, have ceased to exist. “Where’s Dr. Suresh,” the curious coeds at the university where I thought often inquire.
My answer to them, the retort that would surely assuage the meaningless void in the pits of their stomachs, is simply that I do exist. I conduct cognitive activity within the neuronal core of my being, therefore, I am.
Unfortunately, it is an answer that I may not deliver myself. And without that answer, how can I expect belief? How can I expect anyone to know of my existence when I no longer seek to prove it?
There was a time, a moment, in my life when to prove my own existence, my own intelligence and influence on this great meaningless world of ours, on this unguided path of Destiny, was my only desire. However, now I find the only need I have is the bare necessity of redemption. If even the greatest of organic killing machines can feel remorse for their murderous actions, then surely I must too.
What is it that causes this great swelling of shame within me? Is it my failure to accomplish any scientific goal, the only kind of goal worth pursuing, with the plethora of data supplied to me by my father’s research? Or was it my utter and disgusting mistreatment of a woman who I found udderly worth discussing that sent me down into this lonely hole of regret and remorse?
“I found him,” an observant and search-capable young person announced, “he’s hiding under his desk.”
I crawled out of my cozy comfort zone and stood in front of the gazing third eyes of my organic chemistry class. “Yes,” I enunciated, “it is me, Dr. Suresh, destiny’s taxi driver and the sole arbiter of my father’s research.”
“Why are you hiding under your desk?”
“Yeah, class started last month.”
“Have you been there the whole time?”
“I love you on Parks and Recreation!”
Good points, all. How could I explain to these impressionable minds the cruelties of the world which I single-handedly uncovered during my own scientific quest around the globe? How could I crush the ambitious desires of these would be do-gooders by revealing to them the true and awful nature of the world, and its inhabitants? How could I face them knowing that I represent that very indecency, that very worm in the apple of humanity, that keeps us from functioning as a wholesome society, a tasty and scrumptious apple pie?
“Umm…where did he go?” the students pondered aloud.
As long as I can remain outside their visual field, blocked from their world view, I could take comfort in feeling no shame, in feeling no remorse, in feeling no anything.
“Peekaboo,” exhorted before getting the better of my childish need for fun and games, escaping back into the depths of the unseen.
When something cannot be proven to exist, does it? Perhaps Destiny is not as complicated as we often believe it to be. Perhaps we are shown what is, and not shown what isn’t. I hope I can remain not shown, for that may be the only way I can ever be shown redemption.
I believe you exist mi amo! Though I am unworthy of your consideration. I shall take your burden!
Have no fear, there is always redemtpion for the bear.