I told him, “you know, they don’t even believe in the scientific method anymore?”
I’d read that somewhere, that possibilities are infinite and testing is finite, so all the faith we put in science is just that – at some point we all want to close up our books and go home. So we call it a day.
He was rigid as I curled my body around him like a koala climbing a bamboo tree. I wasn’t sure if he was waiting to see where my hands would end up, or if he liked my argument.
I couldn’t understand why he was so closed. Why he was convinced of our premature doom. Why he only saw the stars as fixed points and not the sky as a whole – full of negative space that made all the things that worked so much more beautiful in the way they mustered themselves into existence.
There was a poem I liked to read to him, because he was always so sad about failing. And it reminded the reader to think about Icarus and his wax wings and when he fell it was a failure of love – it was because he first flew.
I guess that was the difference between us.
I could imagine myself failing beautifully – with the dignity of someone who has done the one and only thing we are called to do in this life: try.
But he’s a man and a protector by nature. He can only see the crashing into the ocean, not the triumph.