Why do people feel the need to validate your every action anyway? Aren’t we already phasing out the era of community and “evolving” into becoming individualistic society anyway? What are you really scared about? The cold? The splash? Or the true freedom in letting yourself go? [The side glances of people for walking in the rain is unbearable, somehow.]
While living in this world, almost everyone is in debt to the eyes of the beholder. Your beauty is measured by the perceived reflections of the one looking at you. You responsibility/ hard work is recognized by those around you. Your values are determined by the things that you do and you accomplish. After all, everything is governed by external validation you acquire from the rest.
That’s why even if you adore the smell of a fresh rain in June, it is unlikely for you to walk through the rain. Chasing the validation of others for every inch of a stride is exhausting in reality. But then, where else would you find a joy of skipping a drizzle from one step to another?!
In any case, your worth [your true worth] shan’t be find underneath the will of your observant. Whatever you’re worth for, you find it within the walks of the rain. Within the walks of life in freedom. And life is a journey for more than that. Let go. Breath. And enjoy the petrichor while you’re at it.
It’s yet another quiet day, she thought for herself. She barely made a sound for the past three days. She’s scribing endless notes to relieve of herself the chaos of her head. Her notebook starts with this…
‘If choices are what makes us human, alive, and well, what about the choices we weren’t in charge of? Like being born or the family you’re born into, the childhood we were force to endure, the many things we are not in charge of. The whole lot of things we wouldn’t know to get the hold of. How on earth are we going to explain those?!’
She pondered into the abyss of the light. ‘When did the days become so long?!’ She thought for herself. She has been hoarding the floor for more than few days now. She went on with her scribblings…
‘Breakdowns are not diseases. No one knows how to explain a breakdown. It’s rather easy to tell people you have a headache. Contemplating your life decisions while sitting on the floor can’t be called a sickness by any standard. How much you need to ground yourself to what’s real or not, what matters most or not at all, that cannot be defined as something any normal person would like to do. ‘
It’s easier for most to conclude it as a choice. But is it always?!
‘Today is a bad day. Because I kept seeing the flashbacks of all the traumas, bad days, and moments I had when I was just 11 years old. And the flashbacks of my hospital days where a schizophrenic patient freaked the shit out of me while sleeping. And the most painful sessions I had when I was there. I feel weak exactly like those days. I felt the death in me thriving, growing, overcoming me like no tomorrow exists. While sitting on the floor, I am contemplating, reteaching myself that there’s a different tomorrow. I am a different person now. None of the flashbacks are my reality. I have come a long way only to feel that weak again. And yes, on days like these, I hate the fact that I am way too lonely. I am a coward. And I don’t even know how to talk about it. My mom’s face changed while looking at it. And she was unconscious for the next 20 days or something. I remember calling the doctors around. They shoved me out of the room, then. And I had to walk home in the middle of the night because I didn’t know how to get home from the hospital with taxi. My mom made me promise not to tell anyone that she was sick. So I walked home crying the whole way. I thought she died this time. And there was no one I could call or tell. ‘
‘Of all the days, she doesn’t know why she is remembering this today. She kept seeing the flashbacks all day long. And she kept feeling like that little girl with no one around. The fear she felt that day is crippling her in a same way today. As if it was happening now. She feels crippled, overwhelmed, and cold. And it’s ridiculous because she should be over it by now. ‘
She didn’t want to write anymore. She just added an anecdote that says…
‘If you don’t know what to do, run! Run away from the pain. Hide from the light. Because the light exposes while the dark covers and hides the sores of yesterday. No one knows what a breakdown looks like, anyway. It varies from one another. And madness is merely a choice. It haunts and devours in the most possible wrong times. Life is a victim that can never run away from it. So, yes. Stop shaming people for choosing madness over health or whatever.’
‘‘Order in Chaos!!’, they say. What does that even mean? The oxymoron!’ she sighed visibly. The October cold shan’t hide any whisks of sighs these days. Or she’e full of a cold wisp that stifles the cold droplets a little better. It is true all she feels is coldness that cannot lift off both metaphorically and physically. At any time of the day, she finds herself shivering with innate coldness of existence. She was blaming it on the winter for couple of months. But now that it is summer, she cannot really hide beneath the cold season for whatsoever reason.
All of a sudden, she feels conscious of her surrounding. She reminded herself her name, her profession, the date and the time. Her lucid moments happen once every 2 or 3 hours. For the other part of the day, she is wildly awake with no feeling. It, perhaps, sound like a feeling of bliss. But, believe it or not, numbness is not a feeling you desire to be blessed with. It gives an extra layer of trouble even for mere existence. Specially when mere existence is almost equivalent to dying perpetually.
She paused again to look around herself. She is sitting on the cold floor with no lights or stimuli that would add more to her headache. ‘Am I to assume this is going to get any better?’ She wrote another sentence down. Her sense of existence keeps moving far far away these days as she’s experiencing her madness in the maddening situations for anyone normal let alone a crazy sick person as herself. She was never the one to give in to the exterior shades of life. But these days, it’s rather difficult to subside her own turmoils before settling down the external tremors & tornados. She looked around again only to realize even dark is not truly or fully dark. Her room seems to find spectacles of light rays from somewhere. She’s rather untethered as it’s grounding her to some sort of reality.
Again, she flew within The October Catharsis. ‘If there was a word to define life itself, it would be chaos. And many attempt and fail to create order within it. Isn’t it more adventurous to travel through the chaos rather than maintain it?!’ She paused again. ‘The only fight I need is to battle through the numbness I am entirely succumb in.’ She said this out loud not with her ink. She recluse into her notebook before she attracts another being from the living room. Oh she despises the look of pity and resentment in moments like this. ‘‘It’s better to burn than to disappear.’ Said Albert Camus. Perhaps, he was right all along. It’s definitely better to burn through whatever life throws at you than being buried under the weight of numbness and left for despair that doesn’t life off no matter how you try. After all, what is life if not feeling the gush of emotions once in a while.’ She again wake herself into reality for that sounded immature.
‘It’s, now, the madness era. Officially. I should build my forte behind my words if I have any chance of surviving it, perhaps I have a better chance with my words than drowning all the people around me, ‘she wrote this as an outro. She signed the piece with pain, tear, and a shade of invisible blood as she wrote it like an ode for her mere existence.
If anyone were to talk about their struggles of the past, everyone would acclaim them the title of a hero. Since they are talking about the deeds of yesterday, everyone shall welcome them with the brace of winners if not a leader to be followed. If one were to talk about the misery of the now, the depth of the agony they are facing, everyone retreats to the edges. The NOW poses a challenge more than a past does. We are, yet, mortified of wounds than scars.
But then again, it is rather easy to talk about things in the past[even for yourself]. It is truly difficult to admit the reality of what is happening than what has happened. Standing in the now, there’s the wavering stance of whether this shall be over or not. Would we ever succumb the idea of life to remain as it is, or should we just give upon the idea of living itself?! The NOW stands for conundrum. It calls out for a decision. It summons all the strength we have in ourselves. Better yet, the NOW damns us to our own future.
If we were to cry about our past, though, the unanimous mantra of ‘The PAST is already in the PAST’ would follow. And we know it to be true. Even if it is dictating the NOW, no one has the stance to blame it. Or to challenge it.
The PAST, the NOW, it’s all us, anyway. It is the fabric that tightens around every bit of ourselves to make us who we are. Whatever that means.
In a mere self awareness, people try to bury their now in their past. Or their past in the now. Whichever one works!
‘The tale must go on,’ she whispered. But the party returned their face to listen. Her whisper had a power to order, apparently. People barely listened to her when she talked. But they heard quite well when she whispered.
‘It’s rather a happy one. It is not like the ones you hate.’ She took a moment for herself. ‘How does the world taste? The real one?’ She posed hoping someone would interfere. The room went quiet. ‘It’s bitter, I must say. If there was anyway a person can taste the world, it would be through reality. Teasing it. Tempting it. Or putting an end to it. In any way, it’s unbecoming. The taste I mean. It wrecks the build of your entity for it falters whatever resilience you build to maintain your end.’
‘I thought this was supposed to be a happy tale,’ she heard a whisper.
‘What makes a story a happy one? The beginning or the end?’ She looked in the direction of the whisper. No one peeped.
‘Tempting a reality is perhaps a valiant action,’ she went on. ‘to the point where reality takes over and haunt us back. Losing yourself, your temper, your patience over the hauling existence but not something that can be captivated is perhaps a conundrum one has to suffer from. In life, losing a thing or two, that truly means dear to you is a lesson. And of course a taste of the real world. The first time I lost something of my own, I felt…well words fail, don’t they?! If it was a taste I must describe, I would say it was bitter. And I thought it would kill me. I thought that was a taste of poison. But poison is not always dreary, is it? I didn’t suck out of the poison, nonetheless. Not late, nor early. I sunk into it to have the real taste of it.’
‘Why would one whine and threaten? For a life that thoroughly thorn? One must not cry nor pity The loving existence of one’s folly. One rather must endure the taste, To forlorn the worst, To accept the best.’
‘For the worst of a taste, we see the eye of reality. Perhaps, a god of all. For the bane of our existence, we might even find something sweet. The thing they call love.’ And she walked away for she cannot see the face of her subjects. The subjects of her story, that it.
‘It’s rather weary to find oneself in a constant state of self-loathing. Dreary, I must say. ‘ She can hear herself blitzing through the conversations. She cannot let the others ask her a question. Or take a notice of what she is saying. This must happen fast. Conversations must end quickly. The things she does to keep herself sane.
It’s yet the second week since she has been dealing with her depression episode. Up until then she has been one jolly manic for long. Maybe, for so long she forgot how her highs are doomed to get lower. Perhaps lower she had ever seen before. And yet, here she is amidst the random chaos where she’s supposed to act like a commoner. She scolded herself for being so harsh, but she cannot help herself except to think how the conversations are so simple more than she would like them to be.
It’s the matter of pain that keeps her awake. Her pain is the constant companion. Her guardian angel that keeps her alive time and time again. In the joyous manic days, pain fools her by hiding itself. But she knows it always assume the place of a overshadowing cloud at the edge. Yet, she is happy. She feels capable of changing the world. Herself. Everything. All of a sudden her wonders change her into becoming a wonder woman. She chuckled for herself. ‘What is so funny?’, said her company in mere curiosity of her unbecoming laughter. ‘It’s just the wonders of life…in my head.’ He grinned quietly out of propriety not kindness nor understanding.
Manic is the her secret power to prowess. All the gratitude she gets for her attempt of existence. She sure seems happy. Smiling all the time. Doing things rather quickly. It is her unattended self that keeps going. But then, there goes the doom of existence. The guilt of breathing the same air like the ton. The eerie of living. And the past few weeks, her two polaroids of moods have been so mixed up. If anyone had noticed, she has been glitching like a system that has failed.
She pinched herself to bring herself back to the now. The now looks damned.
‘What’s it about myself I hate so much? Isn’t it okay to be less of a human from time to time? Why is it so odd to be cared for? How can you be overwhelmed for being given an attention? How can you be tantalized even traumatized by a thought of someone being in your life? Isn’t this the unwritten rule of society?’
‘Does it really matter to be part of a society? Is it really a matter of life and death to do these things? One day I can be there. The next I can’t be sure. The next I am not even sure if I am willing to see the sun. Somedays, the brightness of my days, my life is okay. But the other my horizon cannot go beyond the rims of my blanket. How must one exist when there is a constant dread in oneself? ‘
She excused herself before she said all the nonsense in her head. She nudged herself to take a respite from the noise, the people and perhaps herself. Would she ever take a break from herself though?
‘I would rather die!’ , she said, squealing. She is muffling her smile while keeping herself together. Lately, everything has become tiring she is giving less and less care about her perception, life and whatever she used to uphold beyond herself. And when her long gone friend comes to her and asks if she can pretend to be normal for a minute, all she can say, all she can say was ‘I would rather die!’.
Good thing we live in the era of sarcasm.
Pain is no longer a dully noted reality for her. It is a companion of hers to be kept all the time. What is it to be alive? If she dare asks herself for a moment, she will just concede to the idea of living in a full of piercing pain. For every breath she sighs, there is a pain she feels. For every glance she receives, there is a dark shade she gives away. And for every pain she feels, there is a guilt of feeling it. Wouldn’t it be easy if her pain was just hers? Why does she need her pain to be accepted within the rest? Why is a physical pain justified, whereas a mental one is not?
If she were to say that she’s suffering from cancer, everyone would sympathize. If she got a broken leg, everyone is running up and down to make sure she’s getting what she needs. What is it about depression everyone hates? What about it? Is it not a sickness? Why does it have to be a visible scar that everyone must see? Why is it so complicated that it should be, anyway?
If she wrote this hiding it in a story or a poem, everybody would love it. It’s just harsh to hear the truth as it is, isn’t it? But then again, who cares?!
We are the damned souls. The ferociously judged. The slightly heard. But faced the world for the full wrath.
The repercussions of our mere existence can never be avoided. For us, living is the hell we have to be drenched in. Life is what we have stumbled upon to know what it reckons. If we had died, we could have had a better hell. Perhaps. But who is to say?
For the great minds we possess, we have been judged. For thinking the way we think, we have been crucified. For the world is devoid of senses, humanity, and reality, we have been cursed. Hushed to be subdued. We are damned for outliving the world through our minds. We are damned for our heightened senses of pain. For the world crisps our agony to atone us for the eccentricity we have unlocked. For the socially constructed bricks, we have spattered into pieces. Our minds might not be the greatest treasuries, but the world banned the likes of us. Damned us to mediocrity and relishes of the superficials.
For the bitter lashes we have received, we are doomed to be an apostate. An exile from life. Our souls soaked the worst of fates, the rages of the rules we live by. If pain scorched us to become what we have become, why are we still damned? Why are we being flogged for the ache we have endured? All we asked was to deserve love, kindness, and patience. But we have succumbed a damnation for what we are.
For the whims of life we have perceived, we have been damned. For the glitters of the world we have abandoned, we have been stricken harsh. For the full darkness we have imbibed, we have been disavowed of the light we need. Our transgression is the sadness we felt. Our fault was the agitation we endured. The panics we have overcome.
What am I saying? Am I meant to judge the world? Curse my way out of life? Blaming others for the faults of my own? Embellishing my pain evermore? Most definitely not.
Yet, this is a sheer wonder. A trial of life for the verdict of pain in our lives. Does the world have a place for the sad and bruised? Are we meant to be caressed for the scars we have plunged on ourselves? Are we to be treated nicely for the share of trauma we have absorbed? Is there a place in the world for the damned and bruised? If we can’t overcome /outlive our pain, do we even have a chance to survive?
Within the whelms of agony, we breach our shields. And we receive the grotesque parcels of existing. But when we find each other, within the depth of our pain, our hearts rhyme. Perhaps, the world is for the fools. But within the strings of our aches, we exist, too. Damned to life, but still, we exist!
It started as a holiday. Nay, it started as a rainy day. The weather has been acting up, these last few weeks. And the day was not an exception. Yet, it was a holiday for it was time for the long-awaited friendship to be once again reignited. The thing about reunions, though, is that one cannot expect or predict how they would be.
In rushed pacing, while trying to forget the missing pieces during the last few months, she (Ti) arrived at the venue. She is not nervous, per se. It is just the exhilaration of reconnecting the dots. And the guilt for being late. All was forgotten as soon as they met. And the day has officially begun.
At lunch, the reminiscence of the past began. Some memories have been forgotten now. Some are still funnier than ever. And most are truly valuable for whomever they both have become today. Lo, the friend, asked, “do you think love is painful?”. “Why should you ask?”, she replied. “I cannot say. If love is truly painful, one must avoid it for all its causes. If it cannot be helped and if one is doomed to have fallen in love, then, the true sign is if s/he feels pain. And that’s…that’s just not right.”
“I think love is painful, yes. But I don’t think pain is the litmus paper to decide whether one is in love or not. Most certainly, many have written and sung about it as if it’s a rare occurrence of happiness. Deep ecstasy. A full brightness at once. A fair share might have connoted that love is, in fact, pain. But pain is usually the aftermath. Not the basic form of it. Anyway, why are you fretting about it? Are you in love? Or are you in pain?” Her eyes were full of smiles ready to burst into laughter.
Lo rolled her eyes and went on. “I think I am just in pain. Or maybe I am in love, but I am not feeling this overwhelming happiness you preach about. All I know is …all I think I know is, I am choosing not to feel this pain wherever it is being shot from. I live in selective denial. I deliberately choose to ignore the painstaking parts of my life to find a serene.” The conversation couldn’t be helped to go on further. But both went on to think about it in silence.
Since Lo was enthused to visit the city further, the tour around the town started. The unending chatters and the cool, cloudy weather were powerful enough to make them forget the crowd. While cruising the main roads, they found a little cozy coffee shop. Lo was undecided whether she wants her caffeine shot or not. In the meantime, Ti was enjoying her coffee.
Lo, again, asked. Or wondered out loud. “I think I am all over the place.” She sighed.
“What do you mean?” Ti looked at her briefly and went on sipping her coffee.
“I mean…look at me, I am more than halfway to finishing school. But I am not even sure whether I will work with it. I am finding, yet, other interests of my own. But how can I be sure whether these newly found interests would remain or not? If you were to look inside my head, you would see how my thoughts are haphazardly placed. Half the time, I don’t even know what I am thinking. I want to be composed. I wish I could see myself sorted. Oh, I need a drink.” She finally decided.
“You know what they say.” Ti went on smiling a little. “As you get older, nothing seems to differ. Except the days are longer. Yet, your age flies faster.”
“But I want it to differ!”Lo cut her off. “What is the point of getting older, then?”
“I don’t know. If it makes you feel any better, I, too, am all over the place. I choose to believe most are. There is a console in thinking some other people are going through the same thing you are experiencing. Collectiveness is not a mere coincidence. It is, rather, a true source of comfort in times like this.”
“But I wish to know. I would like to know at least one thing about myself for sure. How can I not know anything?” Lo whined loudly.
“You do know. You are just too scared to start afresh. Change is the one thing we never get used to. And it shows.” Ti is no longer laughing. The rain is starting to tickle again. Nevertheless, both seem not to care.
“True. I never do well through change. Nor during transitions. It always takes me a while to settle. And now, I just…ahhh…all I need is navigation through my head. Maybe that could help.”
Both are quiet, now. But this is not an awkward silence. It was just a momentary lapse into a world of their own.
In front of the city, then, they sat. The streetlights made the night, beautiful. The city looks quite different. The bright light from the big screen fades on and off by the minute. After taking too many candid pictures, they finally set on to listening to music. The cold breath of the night, the quiet melody of the music, and the comfort of having someone nearby made a truly grand combination.
“Oh, I love this day!” Ti slightly whispered. “I wish we could live at this moment forever. Or perhaps we can freeze this moment longer.” She almost whined for this was beyond anyone’s power. “One can only wish for the things he cannot have.” She resolved.
The spontaneity. The unplanned compliance of the moments made an almost perfect day. Why almost, you ask? Because there might always be a better one!
“Hello. My name is Mrs. Krementz, and I am your obituarist,” said an old sinister lady as she walked to my home. I have been on my bed the entire morning waiting to see what kind of person would come and knock at my door. As it turns out, they sent someone who is as old as me except for her attire, her precision of words, and her sharp, confident look.
‘Good God, why am I impressed with my obituarist?!’ I thought. But I kept walking my guest to my living room. She is awfully quiet. And her face couldn’t say anything I might configure.
“You must…”I cleared my throat halfway. I haven’t said a word since this morning and my throat was half closed. She only glanced at me and she opened her bag. I cleared my throat again and asked if she was thirsty.
“Water is fine,” she said.
“So, you are an obituarist. How does it really work? You know…do you find your job a little sad?” I do not know what I am talking about. I am just trying to make a conversation because I am terrified of the questions she might be asking me next. I don’t know why I am terrified though.
“It is okay. I don’t find it sad. I just write it.” Mrs. Krementz replied.
I find myself rolling my eyes in front of my water container. Then I get back to the room with a handful of glasses and snacks.
“I have to know your full name for the form. What is your last name, Ms. Jane?”
“Oh, don’t have one. I only use my first name. Just Jane. Not a miss, too.”
I thought she gave me an odd gaze for a minute. Perhaps, I am imagining it. She is filling out her forms. I can see her excellent penmanship from my chair. To keep myself from odd imaginations and a weird urge to ask about her life I kept cracking my snacks. She seems unbothered.
She kept filling out the forms while asking about my major identifiers as a person who occupies a space on this planet. I could hear myself sigh, but I answered her questions accordingly.
“So, Ms….ehmm…Jane. What sort of tales would you like us to tell when the inevitable finally happens?”, asked she. Her eyes are devoid of emotion or any information I can speculate from.
“Do you think death is the uncanny fate to human beings?”, I asked.
“No, I think death is a gift to the human population. I think it is a gift to life. Imagine if we were going to live infinitely?!” She said it at once. For a moment, I felt like she did not intend to say anything. But I love this game. I wanted to push her to the edge to tell me how her life is. I wanted to hear what people say to their obituarists.
“So, Jane…”.
“Yes.”
“I would rather not repeat myself. Tell me what you want people to read about after you die.” She sounded frustrated.
“I don’t know. I was wondering if you could tell me what other people usually say.” I said bleakly.
“They usually confess to me. Even though I don’t ask them anything. They prattle about what they regret in life. Or the places they haven’t visited. They usually talk about their hopes and dreams in life, you know.” She drifted off into her memory.
“Have you ever wondered what you would say if somebody were holding a gun to your head?” I asked.
“I suppose not.” She answered calmly. “I think about death a lot more awful than I would like to admit. It is my job after all. But I never thought I would die suddenly with a bullet. I guess the immediacy and the nearness of death might illicit a natural panic reaction for a second. Just for a minute. Not a while longer than that.”
The room went quiet after that. She kept poking her notebook. I kept rocking on my chair wondering what she was thinking.
“I remember this guy,” she went on. “He called me to his house just like you did. And he started narrating his hopes and dreams, his biggest mistakes in life, all the chances he did not take in his life…and so on. He was truly miserable. And he went on and said the saddest part of it is I am not resolved yet. I still think I could make sense out of it, he said. For a moment, I pitied him. For another moment, I envied him. And then I asked him where he sought out his hopes from. He stared into my eyes and said hope is the only thing I got. Then, I told him that was what brought him down in the first place. I can hear his confusion growing strong. You have set your standards so high, even death or the terror of death cannot bring you down to the face of reality, I said to him.”
All of a sudden, she stopped talking. She sat up straight and asked, “So Jane, what would you say to the person who is holding a gun to your head?”
“I …I…” She gave me a ‘spit it out already’ look. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to confide in her. For a moment, I felt like she was my oldest friend. I suddenly got up from my chair and asked if she wanted more tea, or a wine perhaps. She nodded yes for the wine and I bought myself a few more seconds to answer my own questions.
When I got back to the room, I saw her waiting for my reply. And I wondered if she were a little bit agitated to hear what I would say. I smirked at myself for thinking I could impress this lady and went on pouring the wine.
“If a gun was pointed at my head,” I went on, “I want to be afraid and maybe beg a little. But I don’t suppose I would do that. I wouldn’t mind dying a year from now or today. You know…” I am looking at her while I am taking a sip. She does not seem impressed or bored. She was just unbothered.
“Do you mind listening to music?” I inquired to break the silence. She nodded yes. But she cleared her throat louder this time and said “Look Ms. Jane…can you just tell me what you want to say in your obituary?” She looked half-irritated, half-relieved.
“Yeah. I am sorry I just don’t know where to start or what to say. Do you have your own notes ready for your obituary? Or your epitaph?”
She, then, got up and started walking directly to the music collection. ‘Hmm..she is not irritated,’ I wondered. She seemed relaxed and at ease.
“I had so many things in mind. I wanted to sound ordinary at times. I wanted to sound exceptional as well. I wanted to absolve the poetic justice of life and death in myself. I even wondered if love could be the biggest force. And then I realized there is a middle ground for everything. I felt ashamed for the times I was foolish and stupid. I felt a little bit boastful for being smart. But it keeps…” she sighed deeply and went on “circling back into something I cannot sum up. It’s not just one thing. It is a little bit of everything and a whole lot of nothing. And it keeps folding me into parts and pieces,” she suddenly stopped talking. Yet, I felt all the words she uttered to my core.
“So,” she sat back on the couch “Jane, tell me.”
“I am not sure what I want to tell you, to be honest. Life keeps happening to me.” I said it more intensely than I would like. “I am not actively alive, you know… Life is passing me by while I am just there looking at it. I, sometimes, feel existential wonder. And the meaninglessness. And again the opportunities and the pragmatic parcel of it. It is sort of a kaleidoscope of all the things that do not fit together. Nor blend. So, I don’t suppose I have one thing or another thing. I just…”.
I abruptly stopped talking. She looked at me. I stared back at her. And we both knew I was not going to say anything further.
After a few months, a local magazine read an obituary entitled “The Paradox” written by Mrs. Krementz.
“Can we have an early dinner?” She read the text and laughed hysterically to herself. A simple coffee invitation has now become a dinner request. The forms of social structures always baffle her. It is not that she is anti-social, but it is the weird conundrum of understanding the unwritten rules of societal signals. While the sudden dinner request rummages through her head, she reminded herself that she is an idiot in this kind of situation. And she replied, a nonchalant ‘alright.’
She considered calling her girlfriend. But she didn’t know what she would ask or say. Undecided whether to ask or talk about it, she fell back into her tasks. Another text arrived saying ‘Where?’. She nudged her shoulders and replied, ‘Your choice.’ Being the “gentleman” he is, he suggested a place at his convenience. Though she hates the place he suggested, she conceded to her fate since she has no alternate preference. Again, she felt like an idiot.
After a few minutes, she left the office. And she could not help but wonder what on earth she would talk about. Her smile is a charm, and her laughter hides her hypocrisy well. Along with being an idiot, she reminded herself she is a typical hypocrite. Then, she laughed at her remark thinking this is probably an overly negative self-perception. But does it matter? She left the question stale and continued to focus on her steps.
As the smooth jazz ran through her AirPods, she felt a sudden serene despite the crowd of the city. And she thought to herself how much she would hate it if this is a date. The relentless interrogation, the awkward small talk, the weird side glance of the strangers, and not to forget the terror of being herself exhausted her before it even began. But then again, who cares? How weird could it get?!
She was interrupted by this train of thought by a phone call. “I am almost there,” she replied trying to sound normal as much as possible. He couldn’t wait for her at the venue alone. He wanted to be there simultaneously with her. ‘ugh, how clingy are you?!’ She thought to herself. She hugged him awkwardly with a painted smile as she got to where he was standing. ‘Perhaps, there is a chance. A chance I would have a smart or real conversation. Huh?! Real positivity!’ She gave herself a pat for being hopeful.
She indeed loves a real conversation. Or a thoughtful talk. Well-versed opinions and if possible academically inclined topics. But the chance of people who want to indulge in a good chat, let alone an hour-long conversation has become a mighty coincidence. In any case, she ruffled her sarcastic notes to keep becoming the normal idiot person she is.
Starting from the moment they met, he is incessantly talking. She is trying to keep up with the talk with a simple ‘hmm’ and agreeing nods. He doesn’t seem to care whether she listens or not. He is telling her about an awkward semantics he has heard in the afternoon. He seems to be annoyed awfully a lot with the minor inconvenience. Or he is using hyperbole to add relevance to what he was saying. She just kept laughing and nodding throughout the way.
While they are sitting, he is telling her how he orders his meal, his eating habit…oh, she is drowning. ‘How am I gonna keep up with this?’ She silently whimpered.
“So, what do you want to eat?” he glanced in her direction.
“Anything that might interest you. I am not much of a food person.” She was a bit loud. Or the place was quiet. Or she is nervous. Who can tell at this point?
After the waiter took their order and left, “We are watching Fast X this weekend!” said he, decided and bold.
“Oh good, the art of flying cars!” said she rolling her eyes. She immediately resented her reply thinking that means she would have to talk about her movie preferences. And she did, both, regretted and talked about her bewildering choices. He cut her off quickly with how he relates the characters with his friends or the people he knows. ‘Such a good listener,’ she rolled her inner eyes to herself.
Then, sets in the awkward silence. She doesn’t seem to salvage the sudden death of the conversation. She couldn’t think of a single common thing to both of them. They are not on different pages. They were just in different books. She felt, while all the other people are in a normal-paced time continuum, the time has slowed only for them. In a very bad way, though.
A moment later (maybe seconds), he started confessing about his job. Then and now. She suddenly knew he was trying to impress her with whatever achievement he could scrap on. Maybe he was successful, but she did not get why that should concern her. Perhaps, this is because of the common idiosyncrasy she doesn’t get. Who can say?!
“Do you like walks?” he inquired. She nodded yes and before opening her mouth he was planning the walks they could take together. And she grinned slightly. For a moment, she felt like a doll sitting there picture-perfect. She is just clamoring over his random comments and insights. ‘Ugh, I hate myself,’ she said to herself.
He is, now, talking about his travels. The strange strangers he has encountered. Normally, she would find this interesting or funny. But, somehow, this doesn’t feel as such. She kept playing the rhythms of her head with her fingers. She is struggling to pay attention. ‘Why do people find these experiences interesting?’ asked her inner voice. ‘whatever this is,’ it smirked.
The tedious conversation went on and on for about an hour or so. She, at some point, remarked that talking incessantly is entirely unimportant. He seemed to agree with her, yet continued to feel the silence with his unending chatter. The more they stayed together, the more the conversation went stale. And the more he was trying to tell her he understood what she was saying better than her, the more appalled she was by his strong assumption. She twitched her face once or twice with the strange conclusions. But she conceded to keep herself rather quiet. And she was convinced this was not a date, at least not for her.
While saying their farewell, she decided this would be the last time they hang out. ‘It is about to end,’ she sighed deeply. But then, to her surprise, he said he had the most fun. She stared at him confused and said, “Really?”. He gave her an assured yes. She remarked the sarcastic, “Oh great. I am glad,” and went into the crowd. And she thought, ‘Maybe I was not the idiot. He was. And is an idiot. Maybe this was a date with an idiot!’
“I detest that I live far far away from the sea. I always want to feel the calm sea breeze across the contours of my face. And I live in the city, anyway. No lakes or seas whatsoever.” She was cut off the moment she took a breath between her words.
“You know where we are right now, Jane?” She peeked through her glasses to glance at her. They are back to reality.
“Yes, Doctor. I know I am in a hospital.”
“Wonderful,” Sylvia replied. “I want you to tell me the story you mentioned last time. Can you do that for me?” Her sincere voice was not that sincere with the look she keeps giving her. It has been 2 months and she feels like she has gotten nowhere with her therapy. It was on March 4 she was nudged to visit the clinic for an afternoon and her surprise visit was changed into an admission. Before she knew it she was in a hospital with the likes of her. And today is May 5th.
“So, tell me, Jane. Why do you feel like you got two options only?” Sylvia insisted. She is the senior psychiatrist and she is not friendly at all. She reminds her of her mother to some extent. But she never consciously admitted that fact. Sylvia cleared her throat to make Jane start talking.
“Yeah. I remember what I said. But you know…” she hesitated. Sylvia drops the paper on the table to give her the common guidelines on how this would work. This time Jane cleared her throat and started to spill her gut. At least she pretended to.
“I know. I know how this works. You don’t have to remind me every time. It is just … I feel like I am trapped. My ultimate choices are either to be mad or broken. I don’t want to be considered mad. That is loud and noticeable to everyone else. Nor do I want to be broken. I don’t want to feel the cracks in my life with every step I am taking. More importantly, I don’t wish to be concealed every moment of the day as if I am made of eggshells. But the other choice is not better either. Look at Sarah, my roommate here. She is mad. And I am her only friend. I am the only person she talks to. Everybody seems to be afraid of her. I don’t want to become her. I don’t want to be mad.” Jane pressed her hands on both sides of her head to make the headache stop. She knows it doesn’t work. But it never stopped her from doing it. She feels like she can catch her overflowing thoughts with that simple act. As if that would ever work. Suddenly she scoffs and looked in Sylvia’s direction. But Sylvia said nothing except push her spectacles back to their places.
Jane kept staring at the ugly grey wall for full two minutes. And she started talking again. “Look, I am not saying this is just for me. I think the whole world is trapped in some time capsule. Maybe we are living in some weird simulation. But I look at everyone and I see their brokenness written all over their faces. Some cover it with humor. Others conceal it with productivity. And the rest have some good denial stories to bury the pain. And the mad, the openly mad are either yelling on the streets or locked out in a madhouse.” She giggled after she called it a madhouse.
Sylvia explained how she must stop calling it that. But Jane wondered if Sylvia was explaining this to make herself feel better. Who would like to work in a madhouse, anyway?!
“Go on,” said Sylvia.
“I think that has covered it all. I don’t think there is another way to exist in this world. You keep telling me that I will get better,” she started pulling her sleeves down while she crosses her legs on the chair. It was getting late. The sun is setting and she wanted to get back to her bed so badly.
“So, you don’t think you will be healed? Is that it?” The doctor called back her attention again.
“What is healing, anyway? You just survive this world until you cannot. Why do I have to drive myself crazy for something hypothetical? Something which doesn’t exist? Are you healed? Are you completely fine? Am I going to be you when this is over?” She was raising her voice now.
Sylvia ceased taking her notes and looked her in the eyes. She knew she hated that. Jane hated to be recognized as an alive person. She felt more dead and unnoticed in the entire universe. But Sylvia didn’t break eye contact. She kept looking at her.
“I cannot take this anymore!” She is yelling now. “You have to let me out of here. I can’t do this. You are wasting your time and you know it. Look, you can help Sarah or that other girl. Or someone else. Just not me. You have not failed. I am just tired and I am making you waste your time over a lost case.” Her voice broke. But she did not cry. Deep down, she believed in what she just said. She knew that she was a lost cause.
“Is that why you tried to kill yourself for the 4th time?” Sylvia finally uttered the elephant in the room.
“I was hoping we would not talk about that today,” Jane said half smiling.
“Why are you smiling? That is not remotely funny.” Sylvia seemed cross now. Jane knew she had heard about the recent attempt and that was why she was attempting to fill the conversation with a jargon.
“Go on, let us talk about that. You think you’re trapped and you don’t have a choice. So, you should be punished with death? Is that it? Oh, and you’re the justifier? Let us talk about that, shall we?” Her attuned voice is weirdly irritating. She wished she was yelling at her. Or blaming her for the unspeakable deed. But she suddenly laughs and started talking.
“Wait, why do we feel like death is the unspeakable topic?” Jane continued. “As if it is sacred. I can talk about death. I am not scared of it.”
“I don’t want you to romanticize the idea as if it gives your life a purpose,” Sylvia said for the hundredth time.
“But if you think about it, it does. Truly. Do you know how many people change their lives when they know the estimated date they have left to live on? Do you know how death is a true motivation for anything we do? Do you ever wonder that we are dying more than we are living?”
“Okay. Okay. You know what I want you to talk about. I want you to tell me how it felt.” Sylvia sounded a little irritated this time. Her monotonous voice was out of sorts.
“Surviving it is not fun at all. I am dreading it. As I am dreading this conversation right now.” Jane continued to smile.
“Look, Jane. I know it has been hard to stay in this institution. But if you keep doing this, you know I can’t let you go. Most importantly, there is nothing called beyond help. You are not beyond help. Just let us help you. You know you can be helped.”
Jane swallowed a sob at that sentence. Sylvia kept muttering the usual reprimands about life. And her medications. But she was zoned out in her tiny universe. And her head was buzzing with strange voices telling her how she can masterfully escape this place. For now, she has given up on the idea of killing herself. It seemed far-fetched. 4th time was not the charm. At all.
“Jane…Jane…”Sylvia almost touched her with her pen.
“Yeah, I am listening.” She cleared her throat again.
“Even though the so-called ultimatum exists, you can always create your third option. The key is all about managing it. Don’t let either your brokenness or your madness overflow over you. Madness can be beautiful, too. Brokenness can sprout. It is all about managing it. And that is what we are trying to do, here.”
“Yes, doctor.” She quietly muttered. She just wanted it to be over.
“Good, I think we can go on from here next time. Can you promise you will take your meds in front of the nurses?”
“Yes, as long as they don’t bother me with their history taking day and night. I won’t make progress within 12 hours, we all know that!”
“I will tell them not to bother you with that. Anything else?”
“Yes, don’t do rounds on me either. I am not a prize stock to be looked at. I am just depressed. I won’t talk about it in front of ten people anyway.”
“That was just last week. We heard from the other patients, too. It won’t happen again.”
“Good, then.”
“So I shall see you next Thursday?” Sylvia marked her calendar.
“Sure, where else shall I go anyway?”
“Jane!”
“I am kidding. I hope you will tell me about that ultimate healing state, though. Not the medical jargon. Just your thoughts. Off the record, if you want,” she covered her mouth slightly saying the last sentence as if it is a secret.
“If you promise to keep writing,” Sylvia smiled.
Jane rolled her eyes and left the exam room with her head bowed and her hoody covering half her face. She crossed the tiny bridge to her room and hid herself in the bed until the urge to yell that she prefers to be mad than broken passed. “1…” deep sigh. “2…” deeper. “and 3” It was gone and her earphone was loud enough to drown the voices in her head.
My wings are unclipped, now. I can see my wings spread. I think I can fly.
“If you haven’t forgotten how to,” her inner voice deliberately reminded her. She can’t go on and give her a little speech now. She is cheaply optimistic. Naively driven. To fly. To let go of everything and just fly.
The last time she could fly was in her cage. She never knew who got the lock of the key. All she knew was she had to practice fluttering her wings before she forgot how to do it at all. Her cage of sadness was unlocked, rather dissolved, a while back. She couldn’t tell how or why. She was out in the air all of a sudden.
She considered building her cages back. Maybe erect them loose in case she regretted their existence. Because freedom smelled like a trap more than a locked cage. The air suffocated her being. The possibilities drove her wild. She, yet, didn’t know how to live in the open after living in the shadow of all the eyes that have been gazing at her. She killed them all. She drowned them in her sadness. Maybe that’s why her cage dissolved. Pain never disappears, it abides in others.
After a while, she went back to her cage. She never left it, to be enitrely honest. She never built the bars back either. In her imagined reality, she was still in the cage behind the bars. Truly enough, they existed for her. No one gazes at her now. No one is there. She is truly alone. Whether imagined or real.
But, today. Today is a new day. She can see her unclipped wings. She can see herself soaring beyond the heavens. She is neither happy nor sad. She is just optimistic. And she burst her imagined reality into disperse.
Her inner voice yelled, “You can’t fly, you can only flutter.” But these efforts are proven useless. She thinks she can fly now. It is just a matter of time before she discovers whether she can or not.
“You do realize the clock is ticking, then,” said Dolly lifting her legs upon the chair. “I see you are making yourself rather comfortable.” Angel continued. “So what?! I built myself a home at the top of a tree, and I knew the tree was hanging only for two decades or more. Sue me, I love life with an expiry date.”
“Yes. Yes. You symbolized a house at the top of a tree to mean what? That you’re a misanthrope? No…no, that you’re a philanthropist and this was you doing the world a huge favor?!”
“Ha ha, Dolly! I do not condone your sarcasm. I will never expose my secrets of why I built my own house. I wish to see you boil yourself in prospected theories of why I did what I did.”
“Oh, shut up. This is not the time for drama.”
“For shame, Dolly. For shame! In the last 23 years, we have made our lives great with drama, enlightened speeches, and great judgments of ourselves. And now we are at the end, you wish to leave me stale?! Is that what you are up to?”
“I am not one for avoiding drama, of course. But I am, for once, denying denial. We can be sentimental or true to our innermost thoughts since we are literally to fall apart by falling down from this tree.”…Another huge crack broke Dolly’s speech and the floor. They are hanging slightly now. Yet, both seem comfortable at their post. Dolly is hugging the book she was reading for the last time. She folded her arms tightly around the book, almost hugging herself. She can hear her heart racing. But she is not scared of death. She was never scared of death. ‘Dying is the most natural thing in this world,’ was the title of her old notebook. She romanticized death and passion way too much back then. But right now, she figured her body is only reacting to extenuating circumstances around her.
“Okay, if we were to deny denial right now, what would you suppose to say?” Angel inquired.
“I would ask you a series of questions.”
“Like what?”
“Why do you like stories?”
“Because, the universe is made of stories, not atoms.”
After a bit of a gasp, Dolly continued to ask. “Were you ever part of your own stories?”
“In those, I wrote or the one I lived?”
“Whichever?”
“In the one, I lived in, I was barely part of it. For the most part, I was an outsider. A third person to the moments and happenings. I am usually too passive to take part and be present while happening. I bet if I was ever part of the stories I wrote, I was the gutless, cowardly creature whom every reader would hate.”
“I don’t see much of a difference between you and your characters, then? Did I misconstrue?”
“I cannot tell. I believe my character would be more alive because of the ink that traced her in great detail. I, on the other hand, is the unfinished piece where the idea of me is alive only in the head of the artist. While in reality, I am the portrait you would never show to anyone else.”
Dolly closed her eyes and tried to compose her next question. It felt like she is stalling the last hours with words. And then she heard it. The rain is starting to pour on their hanging home. ‘This is it,’ she thought to herself. All of a sudden, her mind was engulfed with nostalgia. Rainy days were always her favorite. “Do you think the self is a misconception of our own perception?” She almost whispered the question while resting her neck on the couch.
“Oh, yes. More often than not, I think we perceive ourselves in the wrong. Ideally, in a way we would like to be perceived. Or the right standards as put by someone else. I don’t think we ever managed to get close to our true selves no matter how hard we try.”
“Do you think, then, the perception of others about us is true”
“Well, I think that is the paradox. Who are the others? If you ask your nemesis, your menace would suffocate you till you die. If you asked your friend /lover, your flaws would be overlooked greatly.”
“What if you asked both?” Posed Dolly.
“Huh?! I have never considered that. But yeah, why not?”
A lengthy silence splashed in the room. The room is getting cold. The rain is creating a rhythm with the air, the earth, and all the unfallen things in the room. Both are humming a song without opening their eyes.
“Why do you think they build ledges if it weren’t for jumpers?” Angel laughed at her own thoughts.
Dolly slightly smiled and said, “There are few who seize their days at the last minute, perhaps.” She smirked.
“Carpe Diem, indeed” nodded Angel. “Isn’t life more of letting go, though, rather than seizing?” She added after a while. The crack is extending fiercely. Quickly. They are looking at each other, their tiny home for the last two decades, and then the town. It is awfully quiet. The rain is getting stronger, now.
“I would like to believe it is both,” said Dolly after a while of contemplation. “Or maybe you seize while letting go. I don’t think there is ever a moment where you ultimately be one of the two.”
“Hmm…that is probably true.” Angel conceded.
The room is empty now. They are probably left with few minutes. They are both wondering whether to speak or to absorb the moment as it is. “Moment of Candor,” Dolly broke the silence. “Solitude was never the enemy. It was the isolation that was brutal. I often think we, probably, judged ourselves harshly. And I think we could have managed to obtain solitude without necessarily isolating our lives in its entirety.”
“Was that what you intended to say at the last minute?” Angel arranged her spectacles.
“Not per se,” Dolly hesitated. “I think it has been dawning on me for more than a while I think.”
Angel quietly sat on her couch. She is not hyped as she was few hours ago. She is just there, also not there simultaneously.
The next day, the magazine was read as follows:
An elderly tree has been found fallen as a result of the heavy rain from yesterday. According to the reports, a woman was found dead while hugging a book inside. The neighbors couldn’t recognize this woman even though it has been apparent she lived in that tree for more than two decades. The posthumous notes found have shown that the woman kept every record of her life including the very last minutes. A heavy box was also retrieved which was labeled as “It is all a story!”
I got up from my bed because I thought I heard a slight knock at my door. Rubbing my eyes to awaken myself, I stumbled the whole way through the door. For a second I thought, did I dream that? With my hesitation intact, I reached the door. To my relief there was no one at the door, only a lonely mail smeared on the ground. I looked left and right only to find an empty hallway.
It was an invitation to a party. The mail, I mean. I couldn’t think of anyone who would address my name in such an elegant manner. Nor anyone who would invite me to a clandestine party.
I am an art reporter. I would like to be an art collector. But I don’t own much wealth to buy all the works my eyes set upon. I travel and write about the masterpieces I get to see. But today, I’m invited to one of the secret art gallery openings. Being nosy as I am, I have heard about these events. I was never somebody enough to visit, though.
‘How should I feel about this?’ I asked myself hopping back to my bed again. Honored? Happy? Terrified? I inspected the mail. I felt like there was a secret map lodged in there. Or a riddle to find the venue. There is no detailed information. It only states I’m invited and the dressing code is enlisted. So much for my inspection. I yawned and drop the mail on my desk. I, then, lay on my back and started thinking.
‘Can this be some kind of joke? No, this is way too sophisticated for that.’ I asked and I answered for myself. ‘Do they want me to report for them? Who are ‘they’? Maybe this is all a dream and I am about to wake up. Or maybe my whole life is a nightmare and I am finally waking up from it. If this is real, my whole career could reach a milestone.’ I stopped the rattle in my head. I picked the invitation up. I read it again for the third time. I still couldn’t find a clue.
‘Before it began, where did it begin?’ I uttered this out loud. My head is buzzing from exhaustion. My eyes are itching from the few hours of sleep I got. ‘Before it began,…’ My voice trailed off. I didn’t know precisely what I was referring to. As for my writing, I don’t recall where it began. For journalism, I don’t know where that begins either. Maybe the better explanation is my yawn birthed a new dream. I was exhausted of life. My exhaustion forced me to yawn which, became a new ‘dream’. A new reality, perhaps. Is there an ultimate beginning anyway? Or is everything in a loop? Can I really know where what began?
‘Wait,’ I posed. If all life was part of a dream, as Edgar Allan Poe mentioned, ‘A dream within a dream’, then mine is a nightmare within a dream. What else could a yawn birth, anyway? Yet, why would a nightmare be all negative?
I was pacing right to left, now. I don’t recall when I get up from my bed. I paced back and forth to clear my head. ‘Why am I thinking about this, now?’ I halt and asked myself. ‘Oh, the party!’ Weakened mirth engulfed me. At that instant, the slight knock at my door was repeated. This time I was sure I heard it. I almost ran to the door. There was another mail, but no one was around. To my relief, so much detail was inscribed in this one. I saw my invite was in fact a reality. ‘This is real, too real,’ I sighed.
Unabridged Manuscripts 