"Forgive me father, for I have sinned". I blurted it out as we were in the middle of the street, as we were in the middle of our conversation. The subject escapes me now - some triviality that concerned us at the time. Something, it must be said, that had no impact on me, and in no way influenced me to say this all of a sudden. Till this day, I am not sure what it was that I was feeling at the time; to be more precise, what it was that made me say this all of a sudden. Like a flash of lightning, it flew by my mind, and I felt compelled to blurt it out.

I have often felt that I was different. In what exact way, I was never sure, but there was something in me that told me that I was not like everyone else. When I look back on my life, I tend to agree with this sentiment, but perhaps not for the reasons one might expect. No, it was the little things like these which I look at - things that no one else seemed capable of doing. I'd hardly say that I was more in touch with myself, more in touch with the workings of my mind, but there was something that made me feel that, in some intangible way, my existence transcended traditional boundaries. That my life was on a level beyond that of the common man. Arrogant and conceited are words that come to your mind, I presume. Perhaps you are right after all? Perhaps I just imagine such things. On most days, I would agree with you. But then again, there are some days where I feel something - call it a vibe. Something that makes me feel I don't belong here. That day was one of those days.

He stopped, as I expected he would. He merely looked at me and replied, without a hint of sarcasm, "I forgive you." Looking back on that day, I often wonder what exactly I expected him to say. I wonder whether it was my twisted way of getting attention. Yet at the same time, I realize that the occurrence of the event rules out my ever making an accurate guess as to what I expected him to say. No, whatever I guessed would be tainted by what I had heard.

But that's all irrelevant, anyway; what does it matter what I expected him to say? I must apologize, I have the tendency to meander. A condition I feel adds to my charm, in some strange way.

His response had caught me off guard. Was he truly not interested in what I had done? In what caused me to say something so serious out of blue? But what was even more striking was this - was he truly willing to forgive me without knowing what I had done? Time gives me the luxury of being able to consider these items at length. Over a warm cup of tea on a cold winter afternoon, stretched out on the grass by a river, and even when curled up in bed, wistfully garnering the strength to wake up.

Yet at the time it happened, my mind had no time to dwell, to infinitely correct and recorrect its opinions. I simply stared blankly at him. It was funny, really. For all the time I would spend later, musing and reflecting on the matter, none of it paid off the moment I really needed it to.

He greeted my stare with a smile, as though he knew I was not expecting such a response. When I feel in a particularly malicious mood, my mind accuses him of purposely saying something like that simply because he knew the reaction it would elicit. Maybe his curiosity was piqued, or maybe he felt obligated, but he asked "How have you sinned?".

How is one supposed to answer such a question!? At times like those, I wished that other people could see my mind. That the failings of my power of expression would not prevent the essence of my thoughts from being passed on to another. I do not believe I am alone when I say that I experience a joy whenever I express myself succinctly. It is sometimes a battle, converting thought to expression. A lot of times, it is a battle worth waging, but sometimes, especially when you know such a battle is in vain, all one can do is wish that things were different. One has to wonder what the world would be like if we could convey every thought without the need for expression? Is the art of expression both the labour and the fruit? I do not know.

"Where do I begin?", I said. "I suppose first of all, there's the fact that I hate myself". There. I said it. There was no ambiguity about the matter; I had said it for all the world to hear. I waited, anxious for his reply. I never got one. He merely shook his head, sadly. No accusing eyes, no anger, just sadness.

To hear his own son say that such a thing was devastating for him. He had not raised me to be this way; no, he had tried his hardest to instil values in me, to give me appreciation of life and its many colours, to above all be happy. For me to say I hated myself was to say that all his time and effort was in the end a waste. That, in some way, he had failed. True, this was not the be-all and end-all; but this was indeed a mighty blow. With three simple words, it was as if I had ripped up everything both of us had ever done with regards to my life.

To him, I doubt there would have been a bigger sin. For years on end, I was so wrapped up in myself that I never once realized that what I was doing was a sin. A cardinal sin, one that rejected everything he had tried to do for me. Truly, this was far worse than saying I hated him.

We proceeded to walk slowly again, the mood now far more melancholy. I searched long and hard for words, but none came. We simply walked and walked, without direction. All the while, I waited for him to ask the one question I knew I could not answer. The simplest yet the most complicated question - "Why?". I wonder now what I was thinking at the time, saying such a thing without knowing why. Hindsight is a gift that mocks us. The present is always clear in the light of the future.

As we walked, the mists grew around us, and to break the silence, I asked him with total sincerity, as though seeking forgiveness by admitting my ignorance, "What, father, is the meaning of life?". He gazed at me, and simply asked "Why do you ask, my son?". Desperate to take his mind off my previous comment, I started meandering again. But I got so caught up in the question that I lost sight of where I wanted our conversation to head. Where is that, you ask? A fair question, but the only answer I can give you is that it is the opposite of the place it did go to.

Eventually, I got to an interesting point. "Most times, in the evening, as I eat my dinner, my mind is occupied with other matters. Trivialities that keep me from contemplating my own existence. But some nights - some nights, as I finish eating, I stare at my empty plate and wonder why. I wonder if my life is an empty plate. A plate that has potential to be full, yes, but one that is nonetheless currently empty".

The mist grew thicker, and it got harder to see. Clouds had begun to gather, as the grey skies mirrored my own grey heart. I turned slowly to see him pensively think about what had been said. In what seems now to be a lifetime, he slowly lifted his head up and looked to the skies.

"Sometimes, my son, all we can do is gaze into the stars". He spoke no more on the long walk back home.

The sky wept as we walked down roads we had travelled our whole lives.

---

A piece of fictional writing I came up with just now. Hope you liked it. Very little planning, so it doesn't go anywhere, but I hope it displays something likeable. I'm really spent, so I don't have a lot more to say for now.