Turbulence

Well, I first knew of the event when the leader in Book Box TNH forwarded a link about the event. This year, due to the pandemic, this conference is held online and are open to students from all over the world, which is great because I do not need to travel to Australia in order to attend an offline conference. I had known of this for quite a long time, but I lingered and did not sign up, when I decided to sign up, it was just three days left. And payment had to be made, knowledge had to be absorbed, preparation should be made. I still have homework from my school, meetings from The Torch, so my schedule became so busy, but I managed.

On a silent night, alone in a dimly lit room. The thought of fatherly love hits me as I am trespassing upon the land of everything that life can become. What kind of a father will I be? I have never thought of becoming a father before. Whenever we are faced with a hypothetical question, we usually consult our imagination. I envision myself having a child of about 6 or 7 years old. We will walk the road to the park near our house, and sit by a lake to watch the sunset. We will have an ice cream together, laughing as we comment on the flavour we’ve just savoured. I feel a sense of warmth, and joy, and… disconnection? I squint my eyes, trying to dive deeper into the emotional landscape that the imagination provokes. And all I can feel, is a vast distance between me and the child. I cannot feel related to the child. What is the secret ingredient that allows a father to be telepathically connected to his child?

All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms; And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lin’d, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.