POSTS
Exquisite cadaver
By hisham
There once was a boy who was constantly told how to be, how to do and how to grow up. On television, MTV told him to wear lose parachute pants, spike up his hair and lyricise suggestive words. In the theater, movies told him to act suave and to accept everything and anything as the truth. In bookshops, supermarket bestsellers told him to acknowledge the absurd. On the street, drivers rushed passed him, showing him that life had no time for quiet solitude.
And so the boy grew up adorned with more brands than a Formula 1 car. He was Valentino, he was Paciotti, he was Gucci, he was Benz, he was Vertu, he was Panerai, he was GQ personified, but one thing he wasn’t, it was himself. His opinions were those of others. Of Saatchi and Saatchi and HarperCollins.
Until one day, he found himself in a place so far away from MTV, movies, airport bookshops and speeding drivers. There were no iPods, no instant movie downloads, no credit cards, no instant satisfaction. There was only the boy, now a man, an endless field of grass, and a river that snaked by.
“Where am I?” he asked himself.
With trepidation, he moved a little. He didn’t know where he was. “Where am I?” he asked again. “WHERE AM I?” he screamed.
He awoke from the nightmare to find himself sweaty amongst silken sheets. Scrambling to get out of them; he fell onto the floor. His crimson satin pajama reflected the first light of day that broke through the muslin curtains.
He ran down the stairs, out through the door and onto the street. The servants stood aside, agog as they saw him shout “No, no, no!”
Later that day, the man recovered from his stupor.
“This should get him back to his senses,” he heard someone say. Someone old and austere. It was Dr. Khalil.
“Did I…” the man began to say looking at the doctor, his brother, and a servant standing by the far corner of the bedroom.
“It’s alright, you’re OK now, Yousif,” Dr. Khalil said as he pulled out a credit card swipe machine. “If you’d just swipe your card, please.”
“I’ll pay,” the man’s brother said.
Eventually, the nightmares subsided. The man no longer had dreams of being lost in a world with no copyrights or trademarks. He no longer found himself trapped in a wide open space with flowing rivers and green pastures. He no longer had to define himself. He was defined. All he needed was a credit card and a brand new day for shopping.
Sure, this might sound a bit cynical. Or perhaps way too cynical. But the fact remains that so many live and die by what they buy rather than by what they do. Though if left to their own devices, in a green pasture, they might find it within themselves to dream up and eventually follow their own destiny, unlike Yousif above.