The Three Sages and "I"—An Elegy for Chest Hair

I was in despair.
A single hair growing from my left nipple.
A childhood faith that believed it to be a "talisman."
But today in the classroom, it was cruelly mocked,
and my small universe collapsed with a deafening sound.

Before me, as I hung my head, three shadows appeared amidst the smoke.

"How comical are the troubles of mankind!"
Diogenes, clutching his jar, was the first to laugh.

"It is you who are comical, you cur."
Marcus Aurelius glared, flipping his purple cloak.

"Gentlemen, let us be calm. First, shall we not uncork some wine to mock this poor lamb?"
So said Oscar Wilde, waving his glass with a theatrical flourish.

"A nipple hair is no more than dust under the sun!" said Diogenes.
"But the soul that is wounded by being insulted for it is the very object of salvation," said Marcus.
"Salvation? No, one should simply laugh it off. Tragedy is but comedy if you change your perspective!" said Oscar.

Each in their own way, they mocked one another, foaming at the mouth.
The scene was like a banquet in a royal palace.
But my heart was parched earth.
None of their words had yet soaked in.

Diogenes shouted.
"Do not lament just because you lost a talisman!
You are nobler than the gods even in the nude!"

Marcus struck down.
"Mockery is the sin of others.
Do not let your own soul be defiled!"

Oscar laughed it off.
"The world mocks.
Then, you too should mock the world!"

I stood up.
With shaky, yet certain steps.

"Even so."
I placed my hand on my chest.
The touch of the small hair was still there.
I have not lost myself.

Not Diogenes, not Marcus, not Oscar.
This small, trembling existence,
I choose.

"Let's go."
Bathing in the insults and applause of the three sages at my back,
I decided to head back to the classroom once more.