He calls it Rose. They say it is not, that it does not even look like one. They say that they want to throw it away, even destroy it. He says that would never happen and that they will eventually understand why. He spends most times when home just sitting motionless before Rose as if in a trance sometimes, other times, gyrating sideways, slowly, as if in a transcendent frenzy. They do not ask him why he does what they say in private appears to be evidence of a disturbed mind. They do not need to as he tells them Rose tells him what to do.
They admit that they sometimes consider but are scared to seek medical help for their only child. That he is only seventeen is what they claim may explain his behaviour, what they say adolescents do, even sometimes being more specific, in particular when dismissing his proclaimed intuition to change the course of history, he often says piques him. But he admits, to their patent horror, it tells him this should validate the tasks it assigns as being crucial and urgent.
He delivers its messages with a smile. He says that is the way things should be. They tell him how it is impossible for him to receive the messages, that only people who need psychiatric help hear voices from other than human beings. He disagrees. He says he hears it and feels its pain. They dismiss his claim. They insist it cannot feel pain. He says that is part of what it tells him to say, to let people know that it feels pain too.
They ask if that is why he does what he does, why he claims to know what to do to stop the pain. His answers often digress they claim, which he says is reason for what he does to start with, to prepare them for what is yet to come in ways they would comprehend what he claims inevitably is the way. They listen to him apparently attentively as they say privately to figure his pain, so they will not proclaim he needs expert help after all.
Something he says one day they say makes them see things a little differently. That he is sad when it is silent they say tells them to give up trying to rid him of Rose. He says he wants them to be happy too, that they need to accept that he hears it and that there is nothing wrong with that. He says that there are many like him locked up and jabbed when in fact they are just the way they are, part of the mix he says we deny is what makes us who we are and why our triumphs and travails inform wither we head.
They still do not appear convinced of their son being in dialogue with Rose. In fact, they refuse they say to call it by any name other than the generic. He says it lives, feels, and remembers pain, which he knows because they go through moments together, even those that are laden with pain. He says he does not blame them for not being able to see the meaning of his intercourse with Rose. He seems to exude hope all the time he talks about his friend, as he sometimes calls it, which he says drives his desire to deliver its messages, as it says he should.
They seem to notice though, they concur when he insists on hearing what they sometimes tell him still boggles them about Rose that something seems sublime about it, how it glows with a calming hue in which even they admittedly revel. He says it is in communion with them how it feels they would understand what it tells him in words. That, they say they cringe to hear him say, still wary of an affair they say sometimes dealing with perhaps they tarry to their own detriment, not oblivious they admit of the pain imminent delaying easing his own.
He says all that will change, that Rose will speak to them too someday, it says. It is clear that they do not believe him, let alone consider that day vital enough to even anticipate. They say they worry not about anyone but him what he says seems to suggest he is making some progress after all, the missive sinking in. They admit that they notice nothing untoward about him besides the occasional mumbling he claims tells he is in a conversation with Rose. They say that he claims he is developing a new way people will eat and drink in future does not faze them as much as seeing him sometimes purport to dance to the music he hears it sing.
Nothing seems to change though he says as far as his plans go. With a schedule in progress he reassures them waiting will not be in vain. He says it takes time to change history but that it is simply that in the end, the new day no longer relic of the past, a truly brand new day. Sometimes he says he wonders the ease with which something so profound yet we miss, actually manifests to those able to listen to it and its kind. That his tasks he claims reflect the complexity of that ease attuning to a latent reality as many he affirms see it attests to the indeterminate nature of things that would be evident in the end he also does.
He confesses to the rigor that attends an attempt to escape from history that pervades the emotions he sometimes shares with Rose, both he says aware of the imminence they seek in a paradox of pain, just as much torment as that they seek to rid. Yet, he is eager to work things from bottom up, the thrill he says of tinkering with the atoms and molecules of his architecture transforming nature rudimentary relative to that accruable from the transition itself.
He says as it does too, he anticipates when there would no longer be pain, when all would relish the bounties of the new day without the burden of the emotional pain of doing same to another unable to ease his pain, the resultant agony, which he says not even Rose enmeshed in a soup pot as digestive would unlikely then be able to communicate.
