Search-for-meaning Syndrome

“How much is it? Three euro?”
“Si, signorina, tre,” smiled middle-aged man. “But no photos, prego!”
I nodded, gave him two coins and tried to return smile, which apparently looked phony. Exhausted after a walk from the center of Palermo to the Capuchin Catacombs under merciless Sicialian sun, I were obsessed with abstract idea of “shadow.” So when I left three euro and the man behind, and entered narrow corridor leading to burial catacombs, the only thought I had was “Finally!”
Enjoying chilling air I missed the moment when corridor ended. Suddenly I found myself surrounded with corpses: hundreds and thousands of skeletons and mummies either in coffins or hung in niches in the walls. I expected them to stare at me indignantly, but they looked apathic and indifferent. Their empty sockets and bowed heads were saying “We accepted our destiny.” Features reduced to dust, silent scream on twisted faces, crooked teeth, clumps of hair on the bare skulls made them look as life-size “memento mori.” Outmoded clothes emphasized the time they spent in catacombs. Velvet cassocks of priests didn’t fit desiccated flesh; lace dresses absurdly contrasted with yellowed bones.
I were quietly passing by trying not to disturb everlasting rest of the dead. I went through men’s corridor to cubiculum of children, turned to women’s corridor and cubiculum of virgins, then path led me through professional’s corridor to the chapel and corridor of priests and monks. The catacombs were shaped as rectangle, so I ended in the spot where I started. For a second I had an obsessive feeling of déjà vu and almost did a step forward to start all over again. Illusory glow of the glass floor put a thought into my head “It’s Styx and I’m in the Underworld.”
The catacombs used to be fashionable and respectable way to spend eternity, but now the dead seemed trapped, sentenced to be treated as macabre decoration for dark ride amusement in a theme park. That was the moment when I first grasped the idea of the freedom I had: I could go wherever I want, but what was more crucial – I were free to leave whenever I want. That was the only difference between me and the dead in the catacombs; I was alive and all doors were opened.
“Did you like it?” man smiled at me.
“Yes, it was incredible. Grazie!” I returned him sincere smile.
That modern Charon took three euro not to let me in the Underworld, but to let me back to the world of the living. And I were grateful to him and to the scorching sun of Sicily.