The Thong of Kells

"Isn't it strange", I said, "that we work and work, and then when we finally have free time, we don't even know what to do with it? We just look for different ways to kill it, because deep down we only want to get rid of it."

"What do you mean?" he said. "If you don't know what to do, just go and see the famous places in the city. Don't try to over-intellectualise things."

"You mean tourist attractions?" I asked. "The 'places you must see before you die' sections in magazines? That bullshit?"

"Yeah," he said. "Why not?"

Maybe he had a point. And I didn't have any better ideas, so I said, "Okay, I'll give it a try."

I found a list of places to see in the city, and the Book of Kells was at the top. Some ancient book kept in Trinity College. I like universities, so I thought, what the hell, I'll go there.

I bought the ticket, took the train, and got off at Trinity. It was a sunny day, which is rare here. I thought at least I could get some vitamin D even if I don't enjot the museum.

I went to the meeting point for the first part of the tour. There were already a few people waiting. We all just stood around doing that thing people do before a tour: pretending to be interested in the surroundings while waiting for someone to tell us where to go.

After a short time, the guide arrived. She was a student doing a degree in history of art, or something like that. I remember the joke she made about how the only job she would be able to find after getting her degree was this one. There was some truth in it, which made it a bit sad, but we all laughed anyway.

She showed us around and told some stories I don't really remember. Some of them were probably interesting, but all I remember is that the place was old. And I don't really care about age. To be honest, I'm more in favour of building new structures with better technology. Better materials, better air conditioning, better toilets. There is no need to worship something just because it is old. But what the hell do I know? Not much.

The first part was short. After a while, we said goodbye to the guide, and she sent us toward the "main" part of the visit, the Book of Kells. Just before leaving, she reminded us once again how old the book was, as if the book had personally invented time.

I have seen many hundreds of books, if not thousands. So I know a thing or two about them. The first thing you learn about books is that what matters is what is written inside them, not how old they are. Age alone doesn't make a book wise. It only means nobody threw it away yet.

But so many people kept saying how great the book was. Maybe there was something I didn't understand. Maybe when I saw the book, everything would make sense.

So I walked through some old library. It smelled like old wood, which was fair enough, because everything around me was old and wooden. It reminded me of the house we used to visit in my mother's hometown when I was a kid. I hated that house. And I hated that smell.

Anyway, I kept walking, and then there it was.

The old famous book. 

I looked at it. I saw an old book with some colourful drawings and some writing I couldn't figure out. 

It looked back at me and saw a guy in his mid-thirties wearing sweatpants, also not really worth preserving behind glass.

I thought, how can we even be sure this is the actual old book? They could easily put a copy there, and no one in the group would understand.

And the book probably thought, who the fuck is this guy, and why is he making this my problem?

Then my first question led me to another question: if I can't even distinguish between the fake and the real, then would it even matter?

Luckily, the book didn't answer, so I walked on.

Then I reached a section where they had made busts of famous people. They looked like marble, though they were probably cheap plastic, and they were having some kind of discussion. I guess it was some AI bullshit where they created scripts as if each of them were defending arguments in their own style. I remember Socrates was there, because I love Socrates, mainly because of how ugly and annoying he was. He always reminded me of a kid in the neighbourhood who never has anything to do and comes to play whenever you ring his doorbell.

After those scary busts, there was the gift-shop bullshit section, which I skipped, and then I was outside again in Trinity College.

For a moment, I stood there trying to make something out of the things I saw. I tried to feel different, you know. Wiser, more cultured, happier, sadder, anything. But the only clear emotion I could identify was hunger, so I decided to find a bench, sit down, and eat whatever I had brought in my backpack.

It was still sunny, but there was a bit of wind, and in the shade it was cold, so I found a place in the sun and took out some nuts and protein yoghurt.

So there I was, spooning yoghurt into my mouth, eating nuts, and pondering things, when a young woman in her early twenties came and stood right in front of me. She looked nice, but there wasn't anything extraordinary about her. Everyone can look nice when they are twenty-three. It takes guts to look good when you are forty-three or fifty-three. So I didn't pay much attention.

But then something happened.

She raised her arms to take a photo of the rugby field.

At first, it was just a regular act. People take photos of things all the time. But because she was wearing a short sweatshirt and low-waist pants, when she raised her arms, her back and belly opened up, and I could see the pink thong she was wearing. It was one of those thongs that goes high over the waist bone, with fluffy edges. And you could see it going between her ass.

That scenery came like the sun after heavy rain and shone upon me.

It was only a quick glance. A revelation in an instant. But it contained five hundred years of knowledge. It gave meaning to all the stupid hassle I had gone through that day. Waking up early. Having a breakfast. Brushing my teeth. Shitting and wiping my ass. Paying for the ticket. Taking the stupid train. Travelling for forty-five minutes while feeling worse than shit.

All of it made sense.

Life, death, my birth, the callus on my feet.

I understood why the gods had wanted me to go on that tour. The epic moment of the day had happened, and it had revealed all the mysteries of the universe.

I was there for a purpose.

Someone needed to witness that scene. Someone had to see that pink thong and carry the burden of memory. Someone had to preserve it, not behind glass, not under museum lighting, not with a little plaque explaining its historical significance, but in the only way such a thing can truly be preserved: by writing it down like a man who has finally understood why civilisation exists.

The Book of Kells had survived for centuries because monks bent over it in silence, decorating its pages with colours, patterns, devotion, and probably back pain. They had preserved their vision and passed it down to ordinary people, who now paid money to shuffle past it for a few seconds and pretend they understood something.

And now, in my own time, on a sunny day in Dublin, I had been given my own sacred manuscript.

Not written in Latin.

Not painted in gold.

Not protected by glass.

But revealed beneath a sweatshirt and a pair of low-waist pants, right between two young, firm ass cheeks, where all the knowledge of the day had finally gathered. And like the monks before me, I had to pass it on to my people.

Now I am thinking about all this as I write these words, while out there people are enjoying their lives. This sacred story is not for everyone. This story is only for the men who have read more books than they have seen pink thongs. For the men who have walked through old libraries and understood nothing. For the men who have paid for culture and received only old wood, a very young guide, and a gift shop. For the men who have searched for answers throughout their lives, only to discover that wisdom does not always come from books. Sometimes it appears for half a second above a pair of low-waist pants.

So let the tourists have the old book.

Let the historians have the glass case.

Let the gift shop sell its magnets.

We have our own artefact.

And I feel proud, because I completed my quest. I know what I saw, and I wrote what I saw.

The Thong of Kells.