I have a dear friend, recently deceased, by his own hand in protest of one of God’s many great crimes against us:
that cruel dictum, “Ten fingers and ten toes” so thoughtlessly prescribed by His indifference.
This friend of mine, he was meant to be born with eleven fingers, and he has known this for as long as he could count.
A musician, he was haunted by wondrous compositions in desperate need of just one more note.
He dreamed of songs he could conceive of but never play, and this crushed him.
He travelled the world in search of remedy. He spoke to mystics, to alchemists, to surgeons, to anyone who promised him an answer. Some charged fealty; others merely currency. He was always willing to pay.
The spiritualists offered lies at worst; tortured metaphors as best. Those great doctors of science, they give him only a crude approximation of what he lacked, a costume of flesh.
Over decades, his hope dwindled, his avenues for exploration grew fewer, until he reached an inevitable conclusion, and he acted accordingly.
I mourn for my friend, who was denied his true self, and I rage against all those who deny him.
I also count my blessings, for I too was born wrong. But not like my friend, who was meant to be born with eleven fingers.
I was meant to be born with nine.