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Face

An epic by Ethan Benenson

His name was Kyle.

He kept to himself mostly,

Never spoke unless asked, and he listened closely.

His eyes were always tired,

Because like a child

He slept in his bed huddled close to the wall,

Trying to hide from the swallowing darkness that made him feel small.

Kyle never went the extra mile,

Always did the bare minimum and avoided any trial —

Not because of anything; he just didn’t care.

It all remained the same,

Nothing changed;

The end was always death,

Some excrement,

Then eternal night,

And an eternity of black maggots eating through you like hatchets:

What you did in your life, it doesn’t matter,

For death is Mother Nature’s sadistic last laugh.

See Kyle liked the obvious.

To him the irrational was ominous.

If the end is blackness,
Why bother with a sarcophagus?

In the face of the universe we’re all nobody’s, anonymous,

So why try to be autonomous?

“To be, or not to be?”

Kyle liked this question-

The answer was obvious.

The problem is human selfishness makes us hang on to this… world.

Here we feel the extent, the heaviness of the darkness;

There, we do not.

No pain,

Simple and plain,

Yet Kyle couldn’t.

It drove him insane.

One night, Kyle had a dream:

He saw a face.

Just a face,

But he knew it came from another place.

Its beauty was blinding,

But its eyes were binding,

Because in them, he saw a certain… depth.

And he no longer longed for the release of death.

His eyes locked on to the eyes of the face,

But the face seemed to stare right through Kyle’s curious gaze,

As if in his body burning a hole,

So it could see something Kyle had long forgotten: his soul.

When Kyle awoke from the dream he was shaking with shame and rage,

Yet another feeling which he thought quite strange.

Kyle again closed his eyes,

And to his surprise,

The shining face reappeared,

Within the oppressive darkness Kyle had always feared.

But then came that inexplicable feeling,

Burning so intensely it left him reeling.

Was it love?

No, for Kyle knew that was not real;

Like a soul, an excuse for animal instinct.

But before the majesty of the face, he felt compelled to kneel,

Despite the fact that its gaze seemed to say,

Its mouth closed but voice distinct,

“Bow, but no bow will ever be deep enough.”

Deep enough for what?

Kyle did not know,

But still, he was awestruck,

And now wherever he looked the face looked back with its bright glow.

That day Kyle picked up his violin for the first time in years.

Its dark wood was stained by frustrated and resigned tears.

He didn’t know why he decided to pick it up this time,

Only that to leave it lying again as he’d done countless times before would be a crime.

He barely remembered how to play;

He stood there screeching and scratching in a fray for what felt like a day.

Why did he submit himself to such pain?

What was there to gain?

Kyle lay down ready to rot and decay.

He raised his eyes to the ceiling,

And the face looked back at him,

And he got that strange, love-hate feeling.

But now, something about the face was not right,

For the corners of the face’s mouth were slightly curled upright.

The face had a faint,

Though unmistakable trace,

Of a smile.

Kyle had never seen such a smile and was amazed by its style;

It had the same style his father’s had when he was pleased with his son Kyle.

Kyle was proud;

His violin, however terrible the sound,

Had pleased his inside face.

Kyle understood that this was how

He could bow.

He stopped playing violin because he had no one to play for and didn’t see any purpose in playing in the first place.

Kyle thought:

What did it matter, if he played or not,

To what ultimate goal did his screeching contribute,

And what was the point if the violin would, whatever Kyle did, refute?

Now, he played for the face,

And his purpose was to pair a smile with its ever-reaching gaze.

Kyle proclaimed to the universe that to escape from nature’s jaws,

One must make his inside face grin like Santa Klaus.

When Kyle awoke from his dream.

His dark world seemed to gleam.

He had never played violin, but he knew

What he had to do.

The face was invisible

Perhaps it didn’t even exist,

But what was right was perfectly visible,

And on it his own gaze was fixed.

The struggle of life,

Is to always choose right.

We know what is right,

Because we ate from the tree,

A choice which thus, must have been right.

The end is not a certain blackness.

It is what you make it;

And so is the past and present,

So it is never too late to save your face from sadness.

Doing what is right,

Is what brings light to one’s life.

Most people do not need to know why they do anything and the purpose their actions serve.

They simply do things because they want to and know they must be done, and then expect in return a reward they feel they deserve.

But true power is doing what you know is right,

Without expecting a reward for your plight.

Work and hope for the Messiah, but on the Messiah do not depend,

For wishful thinking will never give you a means to an end.

Animals do not have this sense of right and wrong in sight as humans do,

And that is why it is even more important to choose right,

Because the only one who can, is you.

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