A Gift From The Gods

A Gift From The Gods
Photo By Nicole N, Belgium

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Excerpt from Mahatalbhi II - "Resurrection"

“They say we Egyptians were obsessed with death. That we erected our spiritual temples, pyramids and engraved our colorful hieroglyphs of incantations and spells within and without them for the sole purpose of safe passage through the journey of death.”
The professor spins around and faces Isha with intense eyes.

“But no. We Egyptians were not obsessed with death. It is life. Life was and is our obsession. As is the obsession with every living thing that walks the earth and succumbs to fight or flight to save their skin; camouflages themselves when their life is threatened; tries to prolong the onset of old age with make up and lotions and pills and surgeries. We never forgot to wear our ankh’s, symbols of life and scarabs, symbols of resurrection, around our necks as we never forgot to breathe. No one wants to die. We Egyptians are very much like everyone else in our plight to beat death or make death as enjoyable or even more enjoyable than life. At this moment, we are, for all intents and purposes, supposed to be dead. But here we are.”

Isha tries to distance herself away from either the madness or the wisdom that is spewing out of the professor’s mouth. She tries to use the big vintage desk, set with scratches and gashes from the 60’s, as a wedge between them. She tries to create a distance from the thing that was putting fear and uncertainty in her; the thing forcing her to question her very existence as well as the existence of others who claim to know her more than she knew herself.

“No Professor. I am not Egyptian. I am from Brooklyn, New York, U.S. of A. I am American; and an American from the 20th Century, not 2000 or 1000 B.C. I really think you should leave now.”
Isha’s voice breaks as she fights not to show fear of any kind. But everything she tries to hide is shown in her trembling hands. She quickly puts them in her pocket and faces her nemesis.
The professor packs his few papers away into his brown leather satchel and flings it across his chest, adjusting the strap.

“Be that as it may. You are what you are....my dear Mahatalbhi.” He walks out of the lecture hall swiftly, never looking back.

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