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Tuesday, May. 18, 2004 - 9:31 p.m. RIDING ON A JACKASS It was Palm Sunday, and that particular morning of the retreat, I was exhausted. The night before, I must have gotten two hours of sleep. My eyes were bloodshot, my hair was matted, and the white shirt I was wearing was slightly soiled after I had helped load into a truck all the leftover food, chairs, etc., that we had used during the weekend. We all gathered in the assembly area for the Sunday service, with its ceremonial palms and burning incense. To my right were the two paralytics, falling asleep in their wheel chairs, as they were as tired as I was. To my left was my prayer-mate that would grin whenever I looked in her direction, leaving me to believe she was harboring some sort of crush on me. I just held my palm limp in my hand. I just wanted this weekend to end, I thought, so that I can go home and get into my bed. As would be expected on a religious retreat of this nature, the closeness of the group grew from handshakes to hugs as the weekend moved on. So, instead of greeting each other during the service with a generic handshake and how-do-you-do, everyone indiscriminately embraced everyone. Following suit, I did the same until I saw a girl standing right in front of me with no one hugging her. And so I walked toward her, opened my arms, and gave her a hug. It was innocent at first, yes, but the impact of that hug would leave an indelible mark on my soul long after we parted. I suddenly felt the divine embrace of an angel, as though I were in contact with some heavenly being that had come to visit me after a weekend of intense prayer. Her face radiated with a happy, yet serene glow, and a warming smile that for a second wiped away the groggy misery from my head. We introduced ourselves with absolute comfort and ease, but we had to fall back in line with the rest of the service. So goes the story of how I met the gorgeous retreater. However, calling her “gorgeous” is just a term of endearment I have used thus far to identify her as a character in this diary. More appropriately, I will call her “Angel” from here onward, mostly because that is how I truly identify her. I find “gorgeous” to be far too a superficial term for any girl I have a crush on. In fact, from an appearance standpoint, some guys might argue that she is not gorgeous at all. Of course, most guys are blind to real beauty anyway. The truth of the matter is that she is just an ordinary person, but for some reason, I seemed to have placed Angel on a pedestal far above other human beings. She has become a symbol for me, a symbol of a dream that I have always longed for, but for the longest time refused to believe. This dream that there would be a woman out there who was perfect for me, that I could love with all my heart and mind, and be willing to spend the rest of my life with. Yet, for some reason, the yearning for this dream has had no relation to any of the feelings I have experienced on any date I have been on thus far. In a sense, Angel has become a victim of mere circumstance, caught in the dream pipe of a man who is so disenfranchised with his journey for love, he wants to believe anything, even if this belief means projecting his dream onto her. Angel very well might have a boyfriend. Angel very well might look at me when I ask her on a date and decline. Or, better yet, Angel might date me and turn out to be the devil in disguise. Such is the dilemma I face when I am to approach her to tell her what I feel, no matter how convoluted or illusory those feelings might be. No matter what happens, that instant when I approach her will be the Experiment’s defining moment. |