Category: Series One

And another band once said, “A Band in Hope.”

Morning.
Sunlight.
Movement.
Awa-
Sleep.
Sleep Sunlight.
Movement.
Awake.
Morning.

Up. Awake. Up. Okay, maybe not awake. – Have I talked enough about this whole sleeping and waking thing in my writings?

Up. Awake. Up. Okay, maybe it’s time for third person. ttyl

He woke up this morning. At least that’s what his brain told him. At least that’s what he thought to himself. He’d awoken many times before. This seemed like one of those times. And so, he had awakened yet again.

He awakened, he arose, and he made his way to work. There was some struggle between the first and second – and the second and third, for that matter – steps, but he made it. If you want to assign a name to this character, you can, but it doesn’t matter. Like everything in life, the name does not matter, and it will be forgotten. It is not important, and it will be forgotten. Like you, like me, like everything. It does not matter. (One day, at least, probably not tomorrow, definitely not today, but one day, this will be true. And you can hate me, or more correctly, you can hate him – Jonathon, if you will – for bringing this point to your attention, yet here we are and here you are.) But Jonathon digresses. Also, who the fuck spells it Jonathon? But Jonathan digresses.

Jonathan made it to work without much inconvenience. Some mornings he has inconveniences on the road; other times, the road is clean and clear. If only all things in life could be as clean and clear as they were this morning, but like traffic, not many things in life are predictable. Nonetheless, the spontaneity could never beat the mundanity. By the time he walked into the office, he’d already forgotten about whether his ride into the office was botherless or burdensome, and it was another day. He’d experienced them before.

It was time to get to work. Well, he realized he was already at work, but it was time to actually get to work. Open his 15 inch Lenovo Thinkpad and send e-mails like he had a purpose. What more could Johnson want?

“What, what is this little driving edge pushing off into my hand?” John asked himself as he picked up his laptop to move across the office into a meeting room to meet for a meeting [conjuring the colloquialism known as triggered].

Unfortunately for Johnny, one of his coworkers overheard his rhetorical, barely-muttered and not purposely-audible quip to himself. “That’s just motivation right? The driving edge? You’re not talking about that rap song, are you?”

Jon couldn’t think of a response, other than to stare, hoping for the conversation to end, but knowing on the inside, that on the outside, he would have to feign a response with real expression even if it was surreal emotion.

“Oh you know, case of the Mondays,” he replied. “Why the fuck did I say that?” he internally muttered; luckily, this time, he didn’t say this aloud.

“Ha, great movie,” was the simple response prior to the relocation to the meeting location.

“The fuck? Great movie? No shit it was a great movie. Why the fuck do you have to state the obvious?”

Ow, the damn pressing pain again. “What could it be?”

He turned over his laptop and looked. Initially, he couldn’t quite tell. It all seemed so black, so ordinary. He didn’t often look at the underside of his laptop, but this one appeared reasonable, exactly what he’d expect. Below the small battery powering the larger-than-life technology, he hastily examined with his eyes some more, as if he felt it was a waste of time, while slowly moving his fingertips across the bottom, as to not embrace the pain once more.

Then, he felt a sharp indent rise from the smooth plastic, and he proved the search for something there wasn’t pointless.

It was a screw on one diagonal end of the laptop, still tight enough to remain in, but hanging by a thread.

“So, you’ve been what’s causing me this pain?” He annoyingly admired the tiny piece of metal. So mighty in power, but so small in stature. It was created, mass-produced, one of many, more than anyone could ever fathom. Millions – billions, even; 7.7 billion, in fact. This particular part belonged to his laptop; when his laptop would no longer work, it would be tossed aside, but for now, his laptop worked, and he still wanted to toss it aside – except, he couldn’t just easily replace this one, since he didn’t readily have another one available. This was his laptop’s. This was his. With it, he must do what he must. It’s hanging on by a thread. He has only one option.

Now completely zoned out of work, she toyed with the screw – Jan screwed with it, if you will. She fully dedicated herself to this task, knowing she would decide upon finding a screwdriver to screw it back in, as this was her only choice. To leave it there, causing pain, well, that just made no sense. And to take it out, discard it, trash it, and not replace it, well, what if it caused the rest of her laptop to break apart? That, too, just made no sense. It was too big of a risk to take. The fear of something going wrong would keep her from doing so.

Jen went to the office supplies cabinet, and she searched. She didn’t really know what she would find there, but she figured she wouldn’t find what she was looking for. After some glances and digs, she gave up this futile search, fruitless. She’d have to wait till she got home to work on it, and hope the pain didn’t dig deeper throughout the course of the next day – eight hours if she’s lucky, but ten more seriously.

One, two, three hours elapsed. A couple taps here and there. She eclipsed the four, five, six hours mark. A few more pokes and prods. Nothing enough that she gave it much more thought, though. It was time to go.

Jennifer arrived home at a quarter till 6. By the time she entered her front door, she already forgot what the traffic was like on her commute home. By this point, it didn’t matter, honestly.

She went to her closet, partly closed for appearances and partly opened because she either forgot or didn’t care to close it all the way – surely a push was simply enough, and again, what was the point, anyway? Did it make a difference in the grand scheme of things?

J digressed, and schemed on their way to finding a screwdriver, pulling out their $50 Amazon toolkit (150 pieces for that price, how could you not?). This time J’s search was an antonym for futile, and what’s an antonym for fruitless – fruitful? But now came the hard part: finding the correct attachment that would fit the screw perfectly and successfully drive it into its home, tighten it, keep it from hanging by a thread.

She thoughtfully looked at the screwdriver bit set, carefully examining it, attempting to guess the appropriate size and structure to fit the loose screw. She thumbed into one of the holes and pulled one of the 12 out. This is the one she first identified. This is the one for which she would first try.

Like a childhood fairy tale, the first one was too small. But unlike most fairy tales, this story doesn’t have a happy ending, and this story isn’t fantasy.

Throwing the first bit aside, she pulled a second: “This will be the one,” she unconfidently yet somehow reassuredly proclaimed to herself. Even though the adverbs didn’t exist per spell check and Google, she created them.

With the second bit, she found herself peering through a looking glass into a different life. In this life, she watched herself dedicate herself to a life of good works and deeds, attending religious services, abstaining from sin, and not giving into temptation. To tighten this screw,
all she had to,
was follow this path.

Did I say second bit? Clearly I meant second hit. She’s obviously high.

Regardless, this size didn’t work either, so in frustration, she pulled out a third, a fourth, and a fifth. With this varying array of sizes all approximately okay, one of them had to be right.

The third found itself – or rather, she found it – to be too large. As she placed the bit into the driver and the driver over the screw, she recounted a kaleidoscope of memories she never experienced but opportunities that seemed endless in the effort to tighten the loose screw: visits to coffee shops to talk about books, trips to craft breweries to talk about music, and the local waterfront sports bar to be on the water while talking about sports. In other words, the pleasures to be attained that would make her complete… but these words wouldn’t be complete without the diets to give her the correct shape, meditation apps to give her the perfect mind, and self-help meets news meets serial killer podcasts, so that she could speak entertainment, spit truth, and know a lot about a little to seem like she knew a lot about a lot, but per inner and solemn and secret introspective reflection, if she were to have looked hard enough at herself, which others never cared enough to do – look past the superficial presentation of someone else, too involved in subjective relationships with themselves and their own identities and superficial presentations – she would have realized she appeared to not know anymore than just enough to get by, hardly a lot about a lot – although the ten minute meditation she practiced per her handy app would never grant her this unwanted discovery. Yet this all would sound so nice, wouldn’t it, and normal? To tighten this screw,
all she had to,
was follow this road,
and post a picture of herself following this road to her socials.

The fourth bit was the next journey, and it was a journey filled with adventures to the net, google searches for local doctors, ones in-network, ones “ah, fuck it” out-of-network, ones currently seeing new patients, ones with a description that spoke to their finder, and ones with 4-5 stars by their name. It started with this, and it ended with a prescription, probably one for a company whose commercials have presented their sales pitch on your television screen before. In the middle of the beginning and the end, there was never a solid connection, except for more adventures while on the net, to search for someone who might themselves offer a solid connection after a few hundred dollar sessions, a search anchored in online advertisement. To tighten this screw,
she went down this route,
and it didn’t work.

So what did work? She wasn’t really sure, but at some point, for some reason, the fifth bit actually did. It worked the screw back into place, somehow. And for months, it worked fine. Perhaps it was a combination of all of it. Perhaps it was due to the screw’s own natural realignment. Perhaps it was because she just sucked at guessing the first four sizes, and the fifth one was the right one and was so all along, and most other people could have seen that. Except –

Months later, when he found himself at work, pulling his laptop from his bag, he felt a sudden pinch again. This time his memory triggered a reaction and he automatically checked the lower left diagonal of the underside of his laptop, and he quickly found the culprit of the pain. The screw was loose, again. His laptop had a screw loose. It was hanging by a thread. This was its destiny. This was his destiny. He could tighten it each time it came loose, but slowly, and surely, as slowly as the Earth revolved but as surely as it did – maybe 70 times in his lifetime – it would come loose again. This was his destiny. He could not escape what was inevitable. He could only strive to find the right bit each time,
because the alternatives did not make sense.

And so he said to himself, “It’s a metaphor, fool. Abandon hope.”

She turned the lights off to her 24th floor bedroom, with the backdrop of the city silhouetting behind her thinly-veiled floor-to-ceiling white curtains. She had foregone the choice of darkness and easier sleep for the look of charming and relaxing beauty and luxury; the sun would peer in earlier and stay higher yet later, without the comfort of her thickly-draped blackout shades, but she was comfortable with her decision and the sacrifice it entailed.

She turned the lights off to her 24th floor bedroom, to turn the white lights on to her 2.79 by 5.65 personality, followed by the yellow undertones reserved for those embarking upon night mode. It was 10:45 pm, which meant it was time to crawl into her sheets once more, open herself up to a world of infinity, and crawl back into her mind behind a wall of insecurity.

The night’s proceedings unraveled within her head, and the day preceding played before her eyes. During the day, she was concentrated, focused, astutely attentive of the morning and evening’s tasks, and acutely aware of the unnecessary and annoying inconveniences surrounding her. Save for some yawns and the occasional dreary-eyed stares at her dreary-eyed screen, she was awake and alert, too busy to be tired, too busy to think about life outside of work, too busy to be alone with her thoughts.

But now she wasn’t busy, now she wasn’t surrounded, and now she only had herself. Herself, and the consistent connection to the continuous cascade of the perfect lives around her. She meant to escape the void, but she only found herself falling farther into the abyss. She was scrolling, and the emptiness was growing. It was supposed to be a retreat from the stress of everyday life; but the only break here was in her soul’s cavity. She kept scrolling, and the emptiness kept growing until she collapsed under the imagined weight of the perfect pictures of the perfect people leading their perfect lives in front of her. Suddenly the everyday stress of life felt like the retreat.

It was a distraction that couldn’t detract from the unhappiness she shared with herself.

It was a comparison she couldn’t help but making. She had 1,400 friends. At her fingertips were 14,000 photos. She saw a multitude of posts from a host of strangers. She read. She felt. She wanted. She thought, she desired, she compared, and she sank.

She examined herself with a scrutiny often kept for enemies. The reasons she wasn’t good enough were so apparent. Each little mistake throughout the day played in her head. She shouldn’t have said this. She shouldn’t have done that. What did the person she was prolonging the conversation with think? Or say when she left? Probably faking the good words all along, to be sure. That was the only logical conclusion. Obvious. Apparent. Clear.

And then there was the past. Not just today, but the past. Of all the regrets she had for today, she’d been alive for 8,881 days. How many regrets was that? Within her closet skeletons hung like criminals in London in the 1700s. Plentiful and horrific, the only difference being one was displayed for the public and the other was tucked hidden away. Both equally ate at the fabric of being, though.

But more than that, it was who she was as a person, and not just who she wasn’t. She was a bad person. To care about others, she couldn’t comprehend. To really, truly do so. And if she only paid attention to herself, why did she never succeed at making herself good enough? The shortcomings she couldn’t live up to, she observed idly on the sidelines, never knowing how to adequately combat them and woefully accepting them into her everyday life. She didn’t find meaning in work. She didn’t find meaning in relationships. She had a good job but it wasn’t what she wanted. She couldn’t find a partner she liked, or better yet, one who liked her long enough to stick around. It’s because they got to know her. Deep down, she knew her traits and flaws, and she cheered on cataclysmic chaos like it was her job. Like Daisy, she was smashing up things and creatures, careless.

Deep down, again, she also knew this was a convenient falsity. She was a good person. She wasn’t as selfish and rude and careless as she presumed. She was nice, she could be nice, and it wasn’t out of some inner selfish desire to be liked that she wanted to be friends with people and make them feel good, and it’s because if you make someone feel good, they will like you and they will want to spend time with you and you won’t be alone, and they will say good things about you to other people who will then come to you and you will never be alone. She could be nice, she was nice, she told herself.

It was for this reason, she hated herself. She couldn’t decide what she was or who she was. At all times, she was split. At one point in the year, she was the best she could be. At another point, she was the worst person to exist. It was any given month, week, or day. Within the hour, it could change. She wasn’t sure. There was no way to be sure. The only thing that made sense was the only option left, which was to hate herself. So thoroughly. So constant. It was the one constant she could have.

It was really the only thing she had in common with her ego: how much they both hated herself.

*****

She knew when she’d awake in the morning, she would look in the mirror, and she would apply mascara, eyeliner, eyeshadow, lipstick, and blush. And she knew that when she’d fail to be asleep in the evening, she would be thinking about how all of the makeup she can apply, faces she can make, personalities she can present, feelings she can fake, and words she can say – they are all a thinly-veiled attempt to hide herself and be someone else, and everyone can see through everything she is and isn’t. No one is fooled by her disguise, to be certain.

She knew it.

They knew it.

Everyone knew it.

All she could see was the online images and imagined personas of each perfect little person and perfect little life. And all she could do was want what they had and feel incomplete with what she had.

Everyone else was perfect.

She wasn’t.

They were.

And so she longed for her blackout curtains. Something to hide the light from coming in; the morning, too early, she hadn’t slept from the night before. She needed protection. Instead, the corners of the room only crept closer, the walls got smaller, and the ceiling caved in. She was trapped alone with her thoughts, only wanting some rest and reprieve in the form of sleep. But, although tired, her salvation was here – once she was successful after struggle to rise out of bed, it was time to start her day all over again. She would be distracted. She would be busy. Too distracted and busy to be alone with her thoughts. She wouldn’t have to worry until it was time to end her day all over again. She had at least 12 hours to go. Likely 16. Salvation. She could deal with the little inconveniences. She didn’t have to worry about later, now. And in 24 hours, she’d be back to this same point. This same distraction. This same salvation.

And so she knows she’ll never break the cycle. And it will only build and get worse. The insecurity will only build and get worse, until it converges on infinity, until she can’t take it anymore, and until presence diverges from existence. She is not there.

wanted to talk about again?

You know, I don’t particularly remember.

Well, why not?

You know, I don’t particularly know.

Well, when did it all start?

When did what all start?

What you wanted to talk about.

I already told you, I don’t remember.

Okay, I gotcha. Maybe we take it from the beginning then. Let’s start from the beginning.

Okay, but I don’t know where the beginning is. I don’t know where I am. Come to think of it, I don’t know how I got here.

It’s alright. Just calm down. It’ll be fine. Just talk.

Alright, alright. Fine, fine. I’ll just calm down. I’ll just talk. I guess…
I guess.
I guess it all started when. Isn’t that how the story’s supposed to start? “I guess it all started when?” Kinda funny, right? You can already hear it playing out in your head, in front of your eyes, or really, if it’s playing out in your head, behind your eyes, unless it really is truly outside of your head, in which case it would actually be in front of your eyes.

…
…
go on.

Are you sure? I can stop. I guess it all depends if you’re going to continue patronizing me. I wasn’t the one who asked to be listened to. I don’t need to be heard.

No, please do continue – you were saying…

Yes, yes, I was saying.
…as I was saying:
Sometimes life is like a loading screen. But not an XBOX 360 loading screen. More like a Windows 95 loading screen. It’s got dial-up, and I’m just waiting for it to start. I hear it calling, seeing if it can make a connection. The noise isn’t pretty. It’s staticy. It’s calling out, and all it does is want to make a connection.
You know those apps these days?

Apps these days?

Yeah, you know, like apps on your phone.

You mean just like, apps on your cellular device, like Safari, Maps, and Facebook?

Yeah, you know, like apps on your phone.
You ever get that split second where you click on it and it hasn’t opened yet? You ever feel that utter misery over the tiniest of delays? That split second between anticipation and gratification? Impatient because it’s not instant?

Yeah, I suppose, haha. That, and the red bubbles.

I fuckin’ hate it, man. That’s the stuff nightmares are made of. Well, that, and talking on the phone.

So what are you up to today? What’s your plan after this?

I don’t know. Continue doing stuff, I guess. Continue doing things, I imagine.

Continue living, I assume?

Something like that. I don’t really know how else to put it. What really else is there to do?

What were you doing before you came in?

Living, I suppose. Not much of a whole lot though. Maybe some things here and there. Stuff and things. A little boring, but things.

Why are things boring?

I don’t know. I feel like ’cause I’ve seen them all so many times. Seen them all play out so many times. You know those movies that you watched as a kid? Those movies that you watched 100 times? They’re re-fuckin’ makin’ them now. They’re re-fuckin’ makin’ the movies you’ve already seen 100 times. They’re not remaking Pulp Fiction – thank god – but that scene, you know, that scene where Marsellus Wallace talks about Pride? Well, fuck Nostalgia. Nostalgia only hurts. It never helps.

So you’re not nostalgic for anything? You don’t ever yearn for anything from the past, look back fondly on cherished memories, long for something beautiful you once did or once had?

Cherished memories are just that, and nothing more. There’s a difference. And you know what happens to those cherished memories? At one point, I will be the last one who remembered them, and when I no longer remember them, they will die, and when I die, at some point, there will be a last time someone remembers me, and at that point, my spirit will cease, and my DNA will be for naught. To think otherwise is worse than futile – it is to be arrogant about our place in this world. Although, I’ve gotta give it to us.

Yeah?

For being such small blips in the entirety of history – on Earth and in the universe – we’re doing a wonderful job of defying our future and destroying our planet right now, recently, in the past X amount of years. We’re egotistical pricks, but at least we’re good at this.

That’s one way to look at it.
-You never described the difference, by the way.

The difference between what? The irony that we’re nothing but that we’re wrecking something that is something?

No, no – between nostalgia and cherished memories.

Oh yeah, that’s right. I guess the difference is one is a noun and one is verb. I have my cherished memories. Memories of really good times, really fun events, spending birthdays with friends at the park, Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners with relatives you seldom see, recess, first days at school with new shoes and new haircuts and seeing all your friends again, getting new video games or even better yet, a new video gaming system.
-But I’m not nostalgic for any of that. I don’t want any of it back. It happened, it’s over, I cherish it, but it’s in the past. Except, I guess –

You guess what?

I guess I am a little nostalgic for certain feelings that I once felt so greatly and purely at the specific time. Having so many friends, not having drama among them, and not knowing the pain to come with failed relationships, fallen-out friendships, and all of the fleeting pleasure between. To love the relatives you don’t often see and not yet have a full appreciation for who they are. To enjoy playing imaginary games on jungle gyms; to even have the time to play games or have the imagination to conjure fiction. So yeah, I guess I’m nostalgic for that. I’m nostalgic for the fact that there were once days where I could do these things, and when I did these things, I didn’t feel empty. I at least felt something, and in the memories I’ve generally held onto, I’ve usually been happy. So fuck Nostalgia, it reminds me of what I don’t have anymore. We’ve got all the high speed connections we could want in our houses and nothing but static in our lives. At least me.

How long would you say you’ve felt like this?

Long enough that day by day the memories fade further and the feelings begin to diminish until they disappear. But that isn’t my worst fear. My worst fear is that one day I’ll have lost all of my memories and the feelings that accompany those memories, and I won’t remember what it’s like to feel. And if I don’t remember what it’s like to feel, how will I ever be able to know it again? The void will be eternal, as eternal as me – which is fleeting, fleeting like the memories. There’s a lucky little beauty in all of it, though.

What is that?

Why, weren’t you listening? I said I didn’t need to be heard, but you acted like you were listening.
The void will be eternal, as eternal as me – which is fleeting, fleeting like the memories. Insignificant, we are, but significantly, the most important piece: one day the void will fade, and diminish until it disappears, and with it my spirit will be gone, and no one will think of me again. The void is only temporary. We are not permanent.