General Relativity (11/?)
anonymous
March 24 2010, 00:21:25 UTC
XI. In What Respects Are the Foundations of Classical Mechanics and of the Special Theory of Relativity Unsatisfactory?
There was something very wrong with him.
The chant repeated itself in Matthew’s head as he washed the dried come off of his stomach, scarcely hearing the sounds of morning, such as the chatter of students outside the dorm as they went to classes, the whirr of Kiku’s blender. Instead, he let the shower water drown out noise, shelter him in the porcelain box where his thoughts could be isolated. Because something, somehow, was very wrong with Matthew Williams.
There were many things about Matthew Williams that people would agree were wrong.
The first: his unnatural and uncanny habit of hiding. Once, when Matthew was only five, he’d knocked over a picture on accident and broken it. Terrified that he’d be punished, he went to hide in the house. His parents had called the police and a search had been ongoing for three and a half hours before Matthew’s mother opened the linen closet and screamed in surprise-he’d been tucked on the lowest shelf next to the folded terry robes, sniffling to himself and hugging his white bear.
The second: his inability to stand up for himself. Matthew’s grade school years were full of bruises and muddy knees from wedging himself under the merry-go-round. It wasn’t that Matthew couldn’t hold his own; in a scrape, he had a nasty sucker punch. But he didn’t like confrontation, not really. And it was hard to say no sometimes.
The third: he was gay. Okay, that was self-explanatory. His parents had given up on it, but when he came to college, he realized that it was the sort of quality one expected out of an English Lit major with curls and a shelf of works by Henry David Thoreau.
But these were all things Matthew understood about himself and chose not to fix. Today, he found himself staring into the abyss of something he had idea how to cure, no concept of how to fight.
There was something very wrong with him.
The chant repeated itself in Matthew’s head as he washed the dried come off of his stomach, scarcely hearing the sounds of morning, such as the chatter of students outside the dorm as they went to classes, the whirr of Kiku’s blender. Instead, he let the shower water drown out noise, shelter him in the porcelain box where his thoughts could be isolated. Because something, somehow, was very wrong with Matthew Williams.
There were many things about Matthew Williams that people would agree were wrong.
The first: his unnatural and uncanny habit of hiding. Once, when Matthew was only five, he’d knocked over a picture on accident and broken it. Terrified that he’d be punished, he went to hide in the house. His parents had called the police and a search had been ongoing for three and a half hours before Matthew’s mother opened the linen closet and screamed in surprise-he’d been tucked on the lowest shelf next to the folded terry robes, sniffling to himself and hugging his white bear.
The second: his inability to stand up for himself. Matthew’s grade school years were full of bruises and muddy knees from wedging himself under the merry-go-round. It wasn’t that Matthew couldn’t hold his own; in a scrape, he had a nasty sucker punch. But he didn’t like confrontation, not really. And it was hard to say no sometimes.
The third: he was gay. Okay, that was self-explanatory. His parents had given up on it, but when he came to college, he realized that it was the sort of quality one expected out of an English Lit major with curls and a shelf of works by Henry David Thoreau.
But these were all things Matthew understood about himself and chose not to fix. Today, he found himself staring into the abyss of something he had idea how to cure, no concept of how to fight.
He wanted to ask his teacher out on a date.
Not. Even. Happening.
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