fictionbased

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[fictionbased]

the evaporation of frost

The years roll by and I no longer wonder if I will ever write to you again.

I often go searching for things in my past--for moments pure and untroubled by years of depression.  In part, I believe my more melancholy disposition was forged from a habitual curiosity of people--a desire to see the world “as it really was,” without the filter of idealism or sentimentality.  I believe I used to conflate this exercise with cynicism, believing that I was a negative person, rather a person subject to the uncontrolled wave of emotion that comes with seeing the world for what it truly is. In hindsight, I realize the bleak themes of depression and cynicism are easily confused; however, a lament for something lacking or lost is not the same merely acknowledging the inevitability of said lack/loss.  One means to be affected, whereas the other is to notice an effect.  But maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe they are just extensions of the same wave, both destined to teeter out on the shore with old age.  Both have now lost there bite.  Might I hope then that there is a calm that is to follow?

Even now the idea of calm is a topic I can only wonder at.  Does water know what it’s like to be still?  When frozen, it is changed into something unrecognizable (from it’s former perspective).  For instance, to the flower, the transformation of water to frost is lethal.  Should it matter whether the dewdrop knew of the potential havoc its transformation would bring?  Balance be damned. Perhaps for myself “calm” will always be that--a frozen landscape encompassing frost and flowers, death and peace--an indifference to what little consequence I have on the world.  All my writing and I still don’t know.  Instead, let’s just say that I’ve listened in rapture with politely feigned indifference as people describe long walks and quiet mornings. I imagine they find a place where time is lost amongst the trees and sunlight scatters along a river, where they can feel the damp earth, still and dark beneath the grass.  In that moment, all that matters is watching the leaves blow with the wind.  Would it be possible to come back from such a place?  Or would I choose to remain there, content to evaporate on a blade of grass?

[fictionbased]

a sleeping technique for the anxious mind

Let’s take a stab at . . . nonfiction.

Nearly a decade has passed since I learned this trick (aptly named “the red ball trick”). To begin, lay down and close your eyes. Mentally picture yourself standing somewhere familiar, preferably outside. The place should be easy to visualize; somewhere you’ve visited on a regular basis. (What worked best for me was a street in the city near where I used to work. I enjoyed how empty and quiet it was in the morning as the sun was rising.  I knew every detail of the area so it was the easy to picture.)

Next, visualize a red ball in your hand. Hold out the ball and drop it. It doesn't matter what size the ball is or what it's made of (mine is usually medium sized and a bit bouncy). Watch as it falls to the ground.  If it bounces or starts to roll away, follow it. Don't think about your surroundings much, just follow it. If it loses momentum, tap it with your foot to keep moving.

What happens is that as you follow it, focusing on the object helps you actively block out everything else.  All of the memories and to-do lists and faces of people you used know suddenly stop flashing through your brain. The hardest part is discipline--making sure you (1) actually attempt the exercise and (2) remember that if you get distracted, just start back at the beginning. (This is why the location should be easy to picture, in case you need to quickly refocus your thoughts. The red color also helps keep your attention on the ball.)

For my experience, I was pretty pleased the first time I tried it. During the first couple of days, I would be sound asleep within 20 to 25 minutes (this was after years of borderline insomnia).  After a few weeks, I was getting closer to 10 minutes. I would shuffle the ball around all sorts of semi-familiar places around town, just seeing how far I could go with it. However, after a few months (and on a particular stressful evening), I became annoyed with the ball and the whole process.  I picked the ball up and threw it a hard as I could. The ball flew away at lightning speed, but surprisingly, my mind sped right along with it. Instantly, I found myself in the Arctic, nose to nose with a white wolf. It was the first time since I started that I’d broken the routine. I stared as the wolf-image took form. First it seemed almost two dimensional, but then it started to take a fuller shape. Looking around, I took in the beauty of my surroundings. I picked up the red ball and tossed it lightly across the snow.  A few seconds later, I was fast asleep.

With each night I became faster at getting to the brink of sleep. I realized that the red ball process was helping the visualization aspect of imagination grow stronger. Stunning landscapes I had never seen would effortlessly pop into my mind. Still, depending on the day, my mind would stubbornly stew in old, late night fretting. But, when I finally caught myself at it, I would just pickup the ball and start back at that familiar sidewalk, gently nudging the ball down the street.

For a few years, I would zip through the air or dive into underwater caves, relishing the pre-dream state and marveling at how reminiscent of reality it all was. To this day I still use this trick when sleep seems to be a terrible inconvenience.  Only now, with a career, social obligations, etc., I’m usually too tired to explore. After the stress of a hectic day, I find I’m more content to stay on the sidewalk for those few minutes before being carried swiftly off to sleep.

[fictionbased]

the fire of inspiration

Here we go again.

I have no inspiration. All I seem to be capable of is writing about how I have no inspiration.  What did I use to do?  Write until I thought of something that skidded past the reel that I found interesting.  I wish I could think of stories again.  The feelings that I had when I could get swept into a different body, in a different time and place.  See what they yearned for, what they had lost, how they fought against a world doing it’s best to remind them of own their insignificance. I clawed at these passing thoughts just as they gnawed on me.  Now though the thoughts are not wrapped in shrouds of confusion.  In becoming familiar they became stagnant.  Epiphanies are rare as the mind becomes over-exposed to experience.  Novelty, when it does happen, fits within the appropriate range of an expected emotion.  Still, I keep at it, whether I mean to or not.  Plus, there is something to be said for the process of trudging through the banal--failing to accept that the yearning for something more was in vain.  I don’t understand the people who sit still and are not mad from screaming inside themselves.  Within myself I have both fire and ice. Of course, to state such is to run into a terrible cliché (which secretly makes me exquisitely happy), but let’s momentarily transcend trite, poetic imagery.  I either to burn in ether, consuming all that I can, or wait, dormant, trapped within in the stiffness of my frozen limbs.  If only I knew how to keep the fire ablaze.  To bad about that cliché though.

[fictionbased]

a conversation with a stranger

The things you say have repercussions, even after they are forgotten.

The conversation has begun.  I am aware of how you carry yourself.  The way you tilt you head when I open my mouth to speak.  You see that I have a polite smile.  When you speak, your eyebrows raise as your eyes appraise my demeanor.  You are curious and I’m nervous.  So much data. Your personal antidote prompts me to ask questions about your childhood.  Not too prodding.  I want to figure out the basis of you. The thing inside that worms through your brain at all hours of the night, when you are watching the road as you drive, not knowing I am there beside you. 

I tell you something soft and moderately personal, watch you process the psychological implications I present, wonder how much of you knows I am preforming.  The act is innocent enough, an attempt to cross the boundaries of our painted faces into a realm of sincerity.  Not too far, sincerity is not always pleasant.  For instance, if you had cut me off in traffic, my emotional response would be quite sincere.  However, as friends, I would feel terrible for having been so sincere.  We know that being both truthful and polite is not always possible.  As much as we fear being deceived, we fear brutal honesty more.  Too many nuances for this.  Perhaps a conversation is like baking a birthday cake -- a chemical process becomes the focus of a moment when all the lights are out and a glow of candles approaches, illuminating the smiling faces around you.  For a fleeting second you know that people sincerely care.  I wish I could give you that moment, that feeling of everyone genuinely wishing you well, but I’m afraid I must go. And please believe me when I say that it was so was very nice to meet you.

[fictionbased]

love unexplained

I can’t explain how much I love him. He is magic.  I want to grow old with him.  It happened so completely that I can hardly remember when I was not in love with him. It terrifies me sometimes, how absolute it is.  Everyone I’ve ever loved before I loved sincerely, but nothing compares.  It was as though I had been playing at love before.  He can crush me, consume me, burn me, breathe me in, all of it, for I am his.  The pure joy that is contained in every moment with him is insanity.  Never would I have thought to ask for the things that make him so beautiful to me.  I can turn to him for laughter and strength.  How deeply I want to protect him and make him smile, to show him how madly in love with him I am.  All of these words, I know how they sound, but it just is.  I always wondered if I would know, and I do.

[fictionbased]

appreciating nonsense

Sometimes I want it all to change.  My personality, my time, my place.  It is nothing more than wanting a different life, yet it feels like more than that. Something missing, something I lost. A trinket I forgot about.  I think I knew who I was better when I was a child, yet naturally I didn’t know what that entailed.  I was always waiting to see, busy adsorbing all the information at my disposal so that I could one day know who I would become.  Now I can feel the mold that I put in place.  How I stopped noticing the details and just accepted what was in place.  Try to be grateful. Do better.  Smile.  All of these commandments and more.  I, too, try to get others on board with this conspiracy, just as they kindly do for me. My dear society: “Live a little, but just a little.”

In any case, all we have is ourselves.  That much I have learned.  People are not all bad, and some are quite wonderful, but everyone has to run.  Even if they didn’t, even if death weren’t an issue and the parties never ended, we’d be still trapped inside our heads, yammering monkey sounds out of our mouths to try to be understood over all of the racket.  So why do we think we matter?  Sentimentality? We must believe we are special, but why can’t we hold onto that feeling?  Why is it always fleeting?  Because it isn’t true.  The evidence is everywhere: buried underground, standing next to you on the subway platform, or flying in the seat beside you in third class.  But we know we are supposed to be special.  So we read a book or watch a show about people who really believe that they are, and that nagging feeling eventually passes.  But what if it didn’t? Staring into the emptiness of our thoughts and knowing that everything exists all at once, entirely apart from you. It’s like looking into a mirror in the dark. You know you must be there, so your consciousness fills in the space where you belong, even though the process leaves you feeling small and weightless. Time waits for you to pay attention to it again, to put the shapes back into their recognizable forms so the universe can feel pretty.

I can’t really say whether I would be better off if I realized that all this was just nonsense. Perhaps that is why I fantasize about having a different fate.  To be someone who can always see herself as special, who can idolize the present, and appreciate her place.  Nonsense, indeed.

[fictionbased]

the inconvenience of dissatisfaction

Talking to people doesn’t help.  I just put on a face and make them feel better, telling myself it makes me feel better.  Sometimes it does.

Funny that the closer I get to taking an anti-depressants the more I want to write.  Fight or flight, right?  Both seem better.  With depression, I realized that I became excellent at outwardly handling things well.  To cope, I made a strong, humanoid husk, now the only question is how to make it real.  I can see depression in everyone.  People keep it buried away, but more often than not it there, and I can’t look because it is too much. Their lives, the little moments to themselves when no one is looking, how they wonder if that voice in the back of their head will grow louder or if the dull hum will be the only inconvenient hint of dissatisfaction.

I know there are thousands of lives within me -- I can feel them beating like a drum within my veins.  The world is inside of me.  I often forget who is here, or how she got here.  Small town, nice boyfriend, a cat that I don’t like, an apartment decorated with things I used to care about, a pill bottle sitting nice and sealed on the table.  I was supposed to be somewhere else.

There is no one I want to talk to. No one lets it out, not really.  We whine and filter out what we really mean, instead hoping to be loved.  “Please love me, even though I don’t know what that means.”  Of course I do, it means accepting me for who I am, even though I can’t quite see who that is, but it doesn’t matter because I am here and I exist and I’m tired of existing alone.

Should I make this into something?  Make this my pill again?  This is as close as I have gotten in a long time.  Is this the fight or the flight?  I can hardly tell. I can try. Putting it out there, making it count.  It did before, at least to me, but regardless I’m not ready to go to sleep just yet.

[fictionbased]

on being and accomplishment

There is a question I forgot to ask.  It was something I overlooked when I was talking too loudly.  I’ve already run out of things to say yet still I feel as through there was something I didn’t quite get to yet.  Asking “why?” is too easy because then there is always “why not?”  It’s dull.  Something more difficult then . . . “Is there meaning?”  But all this produces is a fun little jaunt around in a great big circle until you reach the inevitable response: “Does it matter?” and then the whole thing falls apart in a series of exclamations.  “Think of art, the children!”  “Everyone is alone, you just have to pretend not to be!”

If the fear of loneliness is hardwired in us, then why are we also hardwired to fight it? Any of it?  Hunger, love, hate--all just base impulses that serve one survival instinct or another.  What is it to be human, or is that not the goal?  Back to my question hunting--“What is it to be?”  To be, to be conscious is to think, so they say, but that doesn’t seem like much of an accomplishment.  I hate how pointless this seems, trust me I know.  So many people--so many distractions.  Just pick one and let’s move on with it.  Fine.  I stopped reading books because I didn’t want any more stories bobbing about in my head.  Movies, too--just another a pill.  Now check your punctuation before sending emails, fetch that funny phrase, and mesmerize them with simple stories at the party.  But remember, none of that life lesson crap! 

What if what “it” means is to be the best version of me (because isn’t that what I’m supposed to want anyway?).  But what if, in the process, you happen to be told you’re crazy, and you start to believe them because you know deep down most people would agree.  But really, really deep down you wish everyone else could be just a bit crazier on the outside anyway.  Like, just for that one day, when they are all pointing their fingers at you, you curse them with crazy just so you can look back and say, “I’ll get you, too, my pretties, and your little dogs, too.”  Except the reference to dogs is a distraction and is not helpful in this metaphor.

Dusk is here.  That moment just after evening when a grey hangs between the silhouettes of the tree branches.  Night softly creeps in and in that moment the light lingers between worlds, defiant.

Two hours left before bedtime.  How can we make it count?  “We must live all of our life between sleep and work, or was it work and sleep?  Doesn’t matter.  But you matter!  Oh and have fun!  But don’t die!  And if you do, make sure you lived!”  Fucking to-do lists.

Maybe writing is like exercise.  The only way to make is less daunting is to write every day.  It sounds awful, but maybe I’ll try it.  I really don’t know why I try to fight it, as it is the only reason I can think of that I actually stay interested in life. Night has arrived.  How quickly the landscape of the world changes.  Funny.   I went to write in the date just now, and I was off by two years.  Odd how years matter so much less as you age.

[fictionbased]

everything into nothing

He can fill a room with music. I have trouble filling a page.

I used to feel like I could create something, like there was more to writing than a dull procession of words. It was a flame beyond the reach of reason, hovering in the air, burning everything into sparks of brilliant nothing. Then I came to the realization that words were just words -- tools in the trade of cultivating a need for existence. The magic was extinguished and there was no such thing as unicorns.

When I heard those who talked about how it mattered, I would think to myself that maybe it or maybe it didn’t. So what?  Passing the time wasn’t the point.  The point was change and nothing did. The thoughts did not stop. Even when I stopped bothering to write them down they continued to flood my brain, every minute of every day. And to what end? Work, music, education, zen, tv, alcohol – all just parts of the dam to hold back the flood. And no one was saved.  All mired in their own distractions, we continued to go round and round in a merry circle.

The blur of what I was trying to claw at is there, but for now it is all I can do to focus my wits on enjoying the ride. Maybe that is what I am supposed to be doing, but I remain unsure. Lately, I get stuck on empathy. How to solve it all. To make everything horrible go away. But it isn’t my problem. There is no time, just enough to live by. Remember all the distractions we are supposed to be having? Why can’t I say that is really the point when that is all we strive to do? Stuffing our heads with information others have deemed useful. What if a sunrise could just be that? No words to describe what occurs, just to see something as it is. But that’s not the way things are.  We know how the world works, every category and every process is meticulously calculated. Humanity, the supercomputer.  I don’t disagree that the why part still can be interesting sometimes, but more often than not the game quickly becomes dull, and though habit keeps us at it, we silently beg something new. I really must be destined to give my life to either boredom or children. I forgot how writing holds back the waves.

[fictionbased]

following a recipe

Spread out some brittle bones and piece them together one by one.  Pack in a pair of lungs and some meat. Stuff with intestines. Tie it up with veins and nerve.  Seal with skin. Insert two eyeballs and sprinkle on a dash of hair for decoration. For the final touch, add either the brain of a scarecrow or a tin man's heart.

[fictionbased]

quietly removed by a violent extraction

Time has gone.  I stayed too long to notice how short it all was.  The cracks have been etched deep into the surface.  The mundane has become my secret purgatory.  We sleep as worlds within ourselves, connected in the dark, all hopes pinned on the unknown.

What I know, what I have known, is that all this will cease to be.  Fate was extended for a while, but she’s catching up, and my dreams run fast before me. 

I don’t remember the dream, only that I was about to wake up. Slipping out of unconsciousness, I could hear voices whispering nearby. Only the wrong thing happened.  I began to realize I was conscious.  I had already forgotten what had happened but I kept my eyes shut, listening.  The voices were still there, but only murmurs in the background.  Other sounds began to surface.  I could hear the leaves rustling outside on their branches and I began to picture where I was, opening my eyes to the morning light.

[fictionbased]

an unconscious subscription to fate

I’m done with so many things.  Searching.  I wish I were done with that.  I don’t suppose I’ll ever be.  For some, there is no hesitation.  They know, even if they think they don’t.  I have seen all the paths I didn’t want, which in turn has formed the one I’m on.  But never mind that.  Onward, straight-ahead, with my trusty breadcrumbs to accompany me.  I know that soon, too soon, the path will change its course. 

I could write out everything the way I wanted it to be. I could fake it and pretend it was the best way, the only way, but even this isn’t what I meant to say.  This persistent duality will later take the blame for my regrets later when I try to sleep.  I’ll search through the reasons for all the crooked routes I took when there were others that were sunny and straight.  Eventually I’ll sleep and forget I my realization that it was the only path I could take, my unconscious subscription to fate. 

I want to put this in a way that can be understood, but I’ve stopped caring about that for the moment.  For the present, watching my step has consumed my interest. 

[fictionbased]

imagining negatives with preconditions applied

Leaves float on sand colored milk.  The tea has gone cold.  I know I should tell you, but the words never come out the way I want them to.  I change my mind too much.  I’m fairly sure I don’t love you, and that you deserve to know – of that much I’m sure.  What I don’t know is how you’ll react.  The thing is, I don’t want you to react.  Either way, your response will be something I can’t control, and I don’t like things I can’t control.  What I should do, what I shouldn’t do, et cetera and so on.  I’m a good person by most measures of the definition, which makes me worry about the inadequacies of said definition.  People should trust themselves to be more judgmental, though that is a very rash statement.  I use rash statements all the time and therefore can usually never escape contradiction (as illustrated by the use of the words “usually” and “never”). 

Regrets are lovely.  It’s hard for people to understand those who are not them.  The only way they get close is by trying on another person’s shoes (as the saying goes).  To feel compassion, we pretend that others might be similar to us, which in turn appeases our inclination to be self-serving.  The problem is that we are limited by our own experiences and thus forced to rely on our imagination (a very risky business).  The result is that we try to reverse our perspective and thereby run contrary to our finely crafted intuition.  It doesn’t matter what precondition we apply, the effort creates a negative effect.  The reel plays and everyone sees the big picture, but in truth, reality has only been suspended momentarily.  We like our camera too much to notice how little we actually perceive. 

Someone with eyes pressed to a magnifying glass makes a joke to a person with a telescope standing at the top of a hill.  He says, “My goodness, how far you must see!” while he chuckles to himself, knowing that he sees far more.  The other obligingly responds, “But no! What vast details you observe!”  Neither cares that no compliments were exchanged.  They both smile from their differing heights, mistaking helicopters for flies and teardrops for rain.

[fictionbased]

tilted heads

By the third day everything was fine. On the first day she forgot to take her medication. She felt normal, but chided herself for forgetting and promised to resume being responsible in the morning. In truth, she wanted to prove she could go one more day without it. Walking to the bar from the train station, she didn’t feel anxious or out of place. At the bar, the music coming from the stage was exhilarating and she drank to the solitude around her. Occasionally she caught the prying eyes of a stranger from across the room, but she tried not to let it rattle her. To her, each stare remind her that they would be there to witness her falling apart. As she stood up to order another drink, a man turned around to face her. He smiled a greasy smile, and in a causal manner, reached his hand out and lightly caressed her butt cheek while telling her how pretty she looked. Without ordering anything, she turned around and quickly slipped back into the crowd of people. In the bathroom, it took an application of lipstick to compose herself. In the mirror she smiled at the silliness of her reaction. From the pay phone in the bathroom hallway she called the man she’d been dating on and off for several months. He said he’d meet her there and she hung up. She was fine, she told herself, she’d wanted to call him anyway. When he arrived, she was herself again; there was no flaw in her routine. It was thrilling how little he knew of her.

In the morning, she was still contained. He made breakfast and would smile at her whenever she spoke. His smiles kept her at a distance that made her feel safe, yet anxious to wonder when it wouldn’t be enough. That day when one of them would want the promise of more than the other could offer; a violation of the unspoken rules that came with living in the moment.

A weariness set in as she finished her coffee and tried to guess how much longer they had. She imagined their little playground surrounded by an electric fence and knew that soon she would start daring him with electrocution.

“Children are bastards,” she said aloud, no longer listening to their conversation.  He looked perplexed at her remark, but didn’t comment on it.  She made an excuse to leave and they both promised to contact the other soon.

On the streets, the air crushed her from all sides with cold. Her short breaths reminded her of the medication she still hadn’t taken. The weight in her chest was painful. A deep breath assured that she was fine, and she ignored it.

It took her three extra turns of the lock to open the door to her apartment. All over her bedroom floor was the clutter from the night before. All of the mess she had avoided in her need to escape. Hanging her coat on the back of the door, she started transporting objects to their proper places. It was an old trick she used whenever she needed to sort out her thoughts. It wasn’t so bad. 

“I’m fine,” she reminded herself. In the back of her mind she remembered cleaning her apartment with no impulse tied to it.  She brushed the thought aside and and told herself that she was just taking precautions.

An hour later her stress was high and the mess in her brain had only gotten worse. She stopped herself. Picking up the phone, she started to dial the number of the man who’s place she had just left; three digits in, she put down the receiver. When she picked up the phone again, she was calling her ex-husband. They had married a year after her mother died. He had helped her get her life back together. They had always been friends before but they both soon realized after they married that they would never be more than that. When he brought this to her attention she didn’t deny it. She knew he only stayed friends with her for her sake.

When he picked up the phone she told him about forgetting to take her medication and how much cleaning she had tried to do. By the end of the conversation, she’d agreed that she was being manic and assured him that she would take the medication right after she hung up the phone. “You should come in tablet form,” she teased. She felt reassured, knowing that he cared about her best interest; however, but she forgot her promise the moment she hung up. With one swift click his voice disappeared into the deafening silence. Her emotions wanted to trick her, to tell her that she couldn’t stand up to the quiet.

Afraid of losing control, she grabbed a pillow and laid down in the middle of the floor.  She awoke in darkness to the sound of the telephone ringing.  The voice belonged to the man whose house she’d left that morning. He said she sounded tired and that he just was calling to make sure she’d gotten home safely. Overwhelmed by a need for intimacy, she told him about the anxiety that had started to weigh on her throughout the day. He listened quietly, but the more she talked the more exposed she felt. The rules came back to her and instantly she stopped talking. Cautiously, he asked her how often this happened. Desperate to change the subject, she said it was rare and that she probably needed to eat something.  After that, she’d be fine. His voice was kind as he said that she was just stressed and needed to calm down.

A minute later she was off the phone and in the bathroom. Her eyes adjusted to the brightness of the light. With the tilt of her head, her hand was at her mouth and everything really was fine.

[fictionbased]

seashell flowers and starfish skies

I can barely move. The cold is coming. I called it to come. The wind brings droplets of rain that shoot like missiles straight for my eye sockets. I close my eyes to a horizon decorated by bonfires. Smoke trails up my fingers as they burn in ice. I've run out of escape routes. I'll cut the out mold from the ripples in my flesh and feed it to the birds. They normally eat oysters but just this once I don't think they'll mind.

There is no more. I won’t have it. No more. I should have gone that way first, but now I just need to get through this. I am. No more. No more letting this slide into the back of my mind. I am the vaporizer of my thoughts. I didn't know they kept coming here to die. There was a trap door, and all the thoughts I was saving for a rainy day escaped. Today was a rainy day and I realized it too late--that I'm lost, with no memory of how I got here, staring in to the tunnel I know will lead nowhere. Instead I’ll claw at the dark. When my eyes are closed nothing exists--but that isn't true. In reality there is more there than we can ever accept, and occasionally the light breaks through to show us.

Horrid light--it's the same as time, always moving forward, no regression. Eager to push its victims into a world they do not want to see. I don't want to see my future, but to think that someday I’ll have no choice is almost harder to bear. 

Shelves and porcelain unicorns fall to the floor; a teddy bear smelling of peanut butter. It winds up with a metal gear but there's no tune. I don't remember the tune. It didn't play anymore after it came out of the wash. It was my fault for covering it with peanut butter. I remember it was Thanksgiving and I fell asleep in the car with gum in my mouth. When we got to the house, he put peanut butter in my hair to get the gum out. I loved the smell. After the wash the fur was too coarse and I didn't want it after that. I was learning to learn from my mistakes. How much of myself can I take back? The memories don't measure up. They're not enough.

[fictionbased]

the unraveling of a purpose

My hair is flat against my face. Brown eyes trimmed with red. The blanched face of a mental patient stares back at me in the mirror. A blue smock completes the picture. I was cooking, or about to make tea. The porcelain cup is out next to a small spoon, sugar, and a tea bag, all waiting for the process to begin. White mushrooms on the counter with the white wine. I take a swig of wine as the kettle boils. I fill the cup, two fingers from the top. When I turn around, I'm facing the mirror again. I ask what to do next. “Stay focused,” I reply. At the fridge, I find the container of milk. Half a gallon left. Good. Not too empty and not so full that I'll feel like I have to eat three bowls of cereal tomorrow in an attempt to beat the expiration date. Maybe I should have cereal instead. It would be less work. I need to calm down, I tell myself, but I am calm. I turn around and take the milk off the counter, putting it back in the fridge. I try to remember what I was doing again. Damn. Going back over to the fridge, I wonder whether there's an herb that I can put in my tea for concentration. Nothing comes to mind. Chamomile, perhaps? It doesn't matter. A splash of white liquid goes into the seeping brown abyss and I'm back at the refrigerator. I compliment myself at twice remembering to put the milk away. I was cooking. I turn around and then turn back again to open the refrigerator door and take the fish out. Yesterday I had defrosted it in a hurry, but then decided to make pasta instead. Today is either the day for eating fish or throwing it out. It’s flabby and moist in my hands. Unraveling the plastic,my fingers soak up the scent. At the sink, I remember the application sitting upstairs on my desk. Twenty minutes ago I came down for an address. My hands find a towel and then rummage through a stack of papers for the envelope. I toss it in plain sight on the living room floor and feel a draft. The thought of turning on the heater reminds me that it would be more be cost effective to put on a sweater, which reminds me that I've reached the third day consecutive of having meant to do laundry. I tell myself to write it down so that I won’t forget, but I know I will so instead run upstairs to gather a pile. The washer fills with water and I set the timer as I add the necessary chemicals. The smell of laundry soap reminds me of the fish. The stove is on. I don't recall turning it on, but I grab the large pan dump the wine in with the meat and mushrooms. It starts to simmer and let the sense of accomplishment wash over me. For an instant I'm caught up with the feeling of having nothing to do. After the moment passes, I realize my tea has gone cold.

[fictionbased]

an example of a life well lived

"This isn’t like the movies," you said to me." The dramatics, always wearing your heart on your sleeve." I interrupted you then. I said it wasn't just my heart. I also had most of my intestines, both my lungs, and something that might be brain matter was pinned on there as well. I didn’t even get a sarcastic smirk. You went on about how things were normal most of the time and that everything in life was just a collaboration of a few highs with quite a bit of downtime in between. I was tuning you out after that.

Afterwards, I called her and told her about what you said. “What do you expect,” she said, “he’s always been like that.” Only she didn’t say it. She listened to the words coming out of my mouth and then gave the appropriate reply. I loved her for it.

That night I said, “I love you,” as I crawled into bed. “I love you too.” He replied. I knew it made him content to hear me say it, though it made me want to scream. Not because I didn’t love him. Maybe. If I did or didn’t, I didn’t want to know, but I thought I did. What I needed was something to remind me that there was something more than the automatic. Perhaps I needed him to not say it back, so that I could wake him up after he’d had fallen asleep to tell him he’d forgotten. Maybe then I would have mentioned my fear that we were falling apart.  Then, feeling safe and secure, I would have been content to fall asleep. I just realized how silly all of that sounds. It’s something I would have wanted years ago. Now I think I would have just gone to sleep.