Stillness
Midnight.
A puddle lay still beneath my feet, reflecting the garish moonlight and the gaunt shadow of what remained of me. In that poignant remnant lay a weighted emptiness, unbearably heavy with endless burdens I had been solemnly shouldering for many months. In my struggle for survival was a newfound artistry: I became a kind of Harry Houdini, constantly escaping the grasp of my demons—if only intermittently.
Earlier that morning, in a bid to shed the overload, I stepped out into the late night, desperately hoping for a walk, however far, that would ease the tensions. I believed this service was better than languishing in bed screaming into my shroud. At first, the night offered a soothing coolness, then in a devious change of fortune, the Zephyr, coursing through the night gave way to a colder wind. I began to rethink my decision, first considering a return to the respite of my home, far from the biting cold, but, almost immediately, dismissed the thought as futile: returning would only address an immediate discomfort, not the heavier, existential throes of my days.
I moved silently, with a shiver, by way of the thoroughfare—flanked by a lush green field—that led outside the estate. The path was halved by the security gate, beyond which a T-junction leads to a different estate on the left and about a mile-long boulevard to the right. Right’s always the road to take, I thought to myself as I exited the gate into the open streets, where a lingering eerie silence, speckled by the distant whistling and croaking from the nearby canal, descended. The canal, dubbed Marcopolo, juxtaposes the boulevard but extends far north beyond its reach. An equally long wire-gauze fence separates Marcopolo from the main avenue, superficially protecting one world from the other—although sometimes with mysteriously appearing gaping holes in its chink, Marcopolo is the one that often needs protecting.
The canal, now co-opted for sinister purposes, oozed a putrid stench of festering decay of anything it can carry: plastic waste, cans of soda, bottles of wine, animal carcasses, human waste, and, a resident allowed last April, human grievances. That, I could imagine. For all it portrayed to its purveyors, Marcopolo was all too welcoming. On one particular stroll with a friend who had lamented its neglect and spoken ardently of the beauty it could have been shaped into, I pondered upon its very identity. “Maybe that's just what it means to the people around here,” I said. She looked at me sympathetically and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“A lot,” I replied; and with a heave, I followed up. “A lot.”
When you step out in the dead of night searching for respite—what some might consider a fool’s errand—the predictability of what lurks in that dark becomes an unknown. I understood this almost all too well but still felt no other recourse before I took the leap of faith and stepped out into the arcane night; a far greater trouble lay in the deepest recess of my inner self. Life, in many ways, had become unbearable: the tragic weight of a decade in an unfulfilling career, caustic marital responsibilities, and a religion that didn’t save me, having come down upon me, like a wrecking ball, left me unpacked; lost to the vast expanse of space and time, like Odysseus, the Greek explorer yearning for the shores of Ithaca, his home forever out of reach.
I sauntered with all the strength I had left through the boulevard, even as the trees shuffled and the breeze raged and whistled. At the road’s end was a faint light that felt like a beacon of hope, of a possible sanctuary that, at that moment, was beyond my grasp. It guided me, however, and drew me in oft-momentarily, only to lay me down ever so gently when I needed it the most. As I moved further and my feet became heavier, I yearned for a dash beyond the black hole of survival, of eternity; I longed to transcend that dreadful end to which we must all, sooner or later, succumb; through death; through immortality, to God, if there was one, where I’ll beg for mercy, for survival, for hope, for purpose, and ultimately for stillness—if only.
On the road onward—at the far side of Marcopolo—I came across some places I was familiar with. In stark contrast to the canal on its opposite end, a splendor of flower garden sits peacefully beside the fence that toes the road's beeline. It reminded me of everything that I had left behind in my pursuit of transcendence: a home I loved, a job I acquiesced, a dog whose provision of sustenance had prolonged my search for hope (and hence my suffering), my lover’s irrecoverable scent, my family, my friends, myself. I trailed off for what felt like an eternity, only to be awakened by a loud screech. Every light bulb on the street and in the surrounding houses came on one after the other. I could see brighter. The path ahead was illuminated. Walking into the future seized being laborious and hope, once again, became palpable. For a moment, the universe spoke of serendipity, until it didn't. Interrupted by the blaring of music from loudspeakers, the serenity vanished all too soon.
The music was accompanied by the jubilant noises of werewolves who were seizing the night. They were happy, I thought, and I am not. They've found their place in the very night that I was scouting. My breath grew heavy, my heart racing—the burning enthusiasm to seek and find slowly descended into a taut fear. The music, recast into noise, screamed of terror. A familiar apprehension took over. But I didn’t back down. I had now gone farther than ever and was determined to reach the journey’s end. I submitted to the will of whatever was pulling me forward and moved onward toward the unknown, the one place where there should not be a cry for mercy. In penury, I placed my bet on an end that I hoped would justify the means.
As I walked away and the noise quietened, I came up at a conspicuously big house I had seen enough times—from different angles—to form an opinion on. Five years ago was the first time I saw the Window House (a name I had instinctively bestowed upon it simply because it had many windows). The Window House and what it represented to me remains food for thought: what does the oddity of a house having too many window openings mean to its occupants? Maybe it is an exit for releasing or an entry for receiving; maybe it means so much more or simply nothing. But, what it has always meant to me was an opening, one whose entry was an exit, and exit an entry, a space-time dilation, a distortion of reality, one that was consequentially meaningful yet so meaningless in its naked-eye observation. Still, in that very unfounded and unexplainable in-between lay my reason for survival: that it was possible, even if for a minute, even if all hope seemed untenable.
I was adrift in this contemplation until I almost came upon what seemed like a requiem for a dead feline: three cats, at a glance, almost in unison, positioned themselves as if in mourning. The feline, with its innards splattered on the ground, appeared to have been smashed to smithereens by the wheel of a big vehicle. The cats took turns poking the cadaver, mewling, almost offensively, as if they had seen a memento mori—a reminder of death. Then, startled by my descending shadow, they flee into the nearby shrubs. Clavo saca clavo, I thought, one devil drives out another.
Then, almost at the road’s end, shone the beacon that had guided my movement thus far. It hung from a metal pole that jutted from a fence, its faint glow sustained by what seemed like a single strand of wire, its origins unknowable. The journey’s end could have been the beginning of my transcendence, the end of my troubles, in one way or another. But it was split by an intersection, after which the road continued into a cul-de-sac. It was at that crossing that I faced a triad of choices: plunge into the road ahead, which led nowhere; go left; or travel right. The first option made no sense, and traveling left or right was too much of a burden: I had come that far to find stillness, not to decide upon it. I turned back, towards home, towards the long stretch of road that, once behind, now lay before me, outstretched like a life once lived, mistakes once made, lessons once learned. I contemplated long and hard. Then, hung by my indecision, I knelt on the ground, buried my face in my palms, and wept.