The Open Room

“What is the one thing that you hate again?” the old man asks. “What do you mean by hate?” she responds. “Hmmmm, I mean that thing you can’t stand…or that you can’t bring yourself to love even if you try?” “Come on, Hate doesn’t always mean something you can’t love.” The man scoffs and flips a book that seems to have the meaning and definition to everything the human brain has ever come up with in order to understand another human. He reads on…

“Hate (verb): To feel intense or passionate dislike for someone or something. Hate (noun): An extreme aversion; the opposite of love. Synonyms: Detest, despise, abhor, loathe, execrate. Antonym: Love.”

“Huh,” she says. “So hate is everything listed there but love?” “I mean, how could you possibly have it in you to love what you can’t welcome?” “Yes, yes, that I understand. But what if you actually hate it because you love what it’s on the other side of Hate. I feel like Hate is what stands in between you and that thing you love but have lost, can’t have, don’t understand, or simply terrified of because you think it’s out of your league. I think Hate is a corrupted memory created by fear so you can’t be too hopeful.” Let me ask you this, what do you hate?” she turns the question back to the man, who no longer looks certain.

“I…well…I was going to say a lie. Actually, yes, I hate lies.”

Before she can cut in, he goes on “I also hate it when people are selfish. I hate injustice. I hate imposters. I hate…I hate…what was it…yes, I hate hypocrites. But most of all, I hate my past and anyone who brings it up.” Just as he speaks the last one, he slowly understands what she meant. “I may have understood your point,” he smiles. “I think I hate lies because they rob me of the truth. I hate injustice because they make me feel weak. I hate imposters, maybe because they expose me. I hate, hate, hate my past because I hate how careless I was with it and I am not ready to change it. I hate anyone who brings up my past because they show no mercy.”

They both fall quiet for the time being.

“And you, young lady, what do you ‘hate’?” he asks, again.

Again, and again, and again. That’s how many times she thought of her hate for time. Not time in its entirety, but the time that gave her all the hope that was in life at 5. The time that didn’t feel like prison at 14. The time that showed no mercy at 17. The time she surrendered to at 23. The time she simply watched at 27. The time that keeps changing just when she learns to keep up with it, at 30. The time she accepted for what it is at 33.

“I…I am not exactly sure. Maybe I hate how young I always am next to the present, and how I am always the oldest to anything from the past, and how I may or may not belong to the future. I am always running after time. Some days to catch it. Some days hoping to outrun it so I could get to whatever awaits me on the other side first, just to get a glimpse before time changes it. Some days, I run just to keep up with it and slow down. To walk with it. To observe it. And if I could…to love it.”

“So, what is on the other side of this Hate for you then?” He looks away.

“Everyting that I have ever dreamt of becoming. All those who somehow managed to live my dream life. You dare to remove this hate from me then you’ll find regret. Take away the regret and you’ll find this untamed passion. She lets out a sigh. The man repeats what he read for her. But this time, not even looking at the book

“Hate (verb): To feel intense or passionate dislike for someone or something. Hate (noun): An extreme aversion; the opposite of love. Synonyms: Detest, despise, abhor, loathe, execrate. Antonym: Love.”

“Then what do you think the antonym of hate is?” “I know it can’t be love. Love cannot be the opposite of hate simply because it exists in greater abundance than that of hate. Antonym means what that thing cannot be. Can hate never become love? Or can love never become hate? I don’t know.” She shrugs.

The old man goes on, “I think the opposite of hate should be emptiness.” “Emptiness?” The girl looks confused. “Yes, emptiness. To not feel at all. Not detest, despise, abhor, loathe, or like you said, fear, love, regret, resentment, or lack of knowing. but to not be able to feel any of this. To have a large space that can only be filled with nothing. To have this huge open space that stretches between you and what you love. Allowing you to see, or even reach your hands, but never feel.”

And for the first time, there stood the time proud and tall between them. Between a father and a daughter. And for a moment, together, they hated everything it was going to change in the next minute. For one, it frees into the unknown, and for the other, it steals everything they have ever known.