His Dying Time

       The dim morning light softly entered Mr. Emit Gniyd's apartment at approximately 6:15 A.M. A faint, cobalt blue wave of drifting luminescence washed the place indiscriminately, serenely adorning it with a certain aura of romanticism it had never owned before. The day was Saturday, though it could've easily been a Sunday just as well. The test results from the biopsy were lying on the kitchen counter.

      A small package of brand new razor blades was lying on the coffee table, and alongside the ashtray, a thin piece of paper with a few lines written on it glowed distinctively as it shined away. The sliding balcony door was pushed open, subsequently allowing for the salty winds of the southwest to gradually make its existence more conspicuous as it blew past the lifeless objects around the residence. 

      The furniture decorating the apartment looked as one big shadowy unit; a large asymmetrical silhouette that physically existed exclusively around the edges of the various rooms, silently protruding into the space that surrounded Mr. Emit Gniyd's scrawny anatomy, like a coral reef cave surrounds the rambling fish.

      It was then, at around 7:30 A.M., that Emit broke away from his stance and dragged himself to the nearest sofa. Upon sinking on the velvety surface, his muscles briefly succumbed to the pleasures of pure relaxation. He dropped the pen and lit a cigarette in order to fully exploit such a sporadic chance at peace. He basked in the fathoms of cold, thick silence. Framed photos of children playing with a tall, robust man in military uniform blinked from the sombre depths of a bookcase that was standing beside him. He stared at the pictures and smiled as he momentarily slipped into a state of reverie. Eyes wide open, yet his gaze lost in time.

"Untitled." Whitley, England - Andrew McGeechan

     Suddenly, the phone on the far end of the countertop across from the kitchen sink rang without quell. Emit was then forced to return from his daydream. The vexing plead of that plastic monster was ignored, as it had been ignored invariably throughout the past week. He then turned his attention to the coffee table in quite a special manner, as if somehow, that coffee table had been his only real focal point all along.

      He extended his arm and took hold of the razor blades. He unwrapped the small, rectangular knives and stared at them as they fanned out on the palm of his left hand. The stainless steel glared as his hand trembled. Emit was growing weaker with each passing day. The pharmacy bottles were all empty and the medicine had proved to be useless as the pain grew more intense. 

      The coughing made him feel like a feeble old man. He despised such sensation with the passion of a thousand moors. His shoulders were now a vestige of what once was a powerful man. On the other hand, his mind, unlike his overall physical appearance, remained strong; maybe even outstandingly strong for a man who had to incorporate the word adenocarcinoma to his lexicon just 3 months ago. Emit was a devoted family leader, a loving individual. He was a strong man indeed. His conviction, however, laid somewhere else at this point in time - somewhere around that coffee table, to be more specific.

      Emit picked a single razor blade and stood up with evident determination. He walked to the kitchen and read the case review one more time: 

"CT scans of the abdomen confirmed multiple bony lesions in T7-8 and L3, suggestive of metastatic disease without evidence of further metastases. CT scan of the chest showed a 3 × 2.5 cm lobulated mass, located in the superior segment of the left upper lobe. There was also a 3 mm nodule in the posterior segment of the right upper lobe. CT scan-guided bone needle biopsy was performed, diagnosing metastatic adenocarcinoma in the vertebral body of T7."

      Apparently, the path had been set. He didn't want to drag his family with him any longer.

      He squeezed the thin leaf of paper and crumpled it to a tiny ball. His hands were like fire. The case review was at once destroyed. Emit was convinced; he was determined. He approached the sink and worked the faucet. He then picked the razor blade with both his thumb and pointer finger and proceeded to twist his left wrist so that it would face him directly. He wasn't even shaking. He placed the blade on top of his now white-greenish skin and looked up. 

      The phone rang. He didn't pay attention to it. His breathing was erratically increasing. His heartbeat metronomically increased as the air blew by. He squeezed the blade and then shoved it against his wrist, tilting it so to make a precise swiping motion across the skin-patch. Blood dripped over the kitchen sink. The water washed the crimson liquid as it fell from Emit's arching knuckles. Tears were falling from his eyes. Not a single word was uttered. 

      The phone rang. He shuffled to it and suddenly gained perspective of what had happened. He looked at his wrist and then cried in desperation. He dropped the razor blade and then, just then, the pain began to conquer his body. Time was no longer real. Life was no longer real. It all looked as if he was about to rise from a deep nightmare. How much longer did he have to stay there? Why is this taking so long!?

      It was then, at approximately 8:30 A.M., that Emit pulled a drawer open and grabbed a kitchen knife, stabbing himself in the stomach with one powerful blow. It was then, at 8:32 A.M., that Emit, upon feeling the icy iron strobe slash through his torso, hurried to the balcony, and with much determination, decided to jump.

      The police rushed Emit's apartment, where he lived with his wife, Cynthia, at around 8:47 A.M. Upon inspecting the residence thoroughly, a note, along with an old pair of dog-tags, was found. It had been left on top of the coffee table. The note simply read: "I'm sorry. I love you with all my heart."

On Dreams and Other Existential Conundrums

          And now you open your eyes. And now you’re awake. And then the conscious part of your day starts, too. There is a dancing light filled with flaky dust particles that penetrates deep into your window. Its warmth is undeniable. The day seems to be reaching out to you. The immediate future sounds auspicious, or at least that’s what the weather lady leads you to believe. A short moment later, you ignore her predictions because, as you’ve seen it on previous occasions, she just gets paid to play with your optimism. You shower, you get dressed and finally get ready to go out there to grind for half a day.

          You spend the following 8 -10 hours invested in a very particular state of mind where everything you are asked to do seems to be conspiring against your master plan of dozing off. You pray for the hours to die soon, as you despise the clock face with a passion that is usually credited to prominent religious figures. The present dies again, and again, and again, as the plain hands of that infamous, time-telling device just keep on turning. The torture is over. It is time to go. You are now filled with a new sort of energy, a kind of nourishing substance that feeds your interior with exquisite anticipation.

          You now get to the car. The energy evaporates like ethyl alcohol. You’re passing out. You manage to get home safely. You get off the car and, as you open the door so that you come into the house, you feel a softly mannered sense of accomplishment padding your shoulders, as if the wind itself were trying to congratulate for surviving yet another day. That feeling, too, soon dissipates. You are home. You nap. You wake up. You have dinner. You watch T.V. You go to your bedroom. You go to the bathroom and you brush your teeth. You hit the bed. You pass out. The end.

The Persistence of Memory - Salvador Dali

Repeat cycle (weather may vary).

Repeat again.

Stop.

Fuck this.

You wake up.

Stop.

Were you dreaming?

          
          You open your eyes. You feel but cannot see; there is no color, no light. Your eyes go on full tilt as they continue to see nothing, your pupils dilate with no success; the darkness around you is inescapable. You go back to feeling, and what you feel is overwhelmingly making its presence more and more palpable. You feel the fear in the back of your neck. Your senses become as susceptible as an open wound. No images, only tact and textures adorning your imagination. Suddenly, you forget about reality, you forget about which world you are in and, most importantly, you feel as if there is no conflict between these antithetical worlds. A dichotomy is created, a line as thick as gossamer now separates your previous visions of the world. No such thing as being conscious or unconscious - you are the moment.

          You feel. And you feel until your entire body is nothing but a feeling. There is peace in this newfound realm. There are no bars, no walls, and no limits, only feelings. But now you see something swelling in the distance, a glowing spot that can’t really be looked upon directly. You are now thinking, thinking about what you feel, and you feel that there is something terribly wrong with whatever awaits you outside of this dimension.

          The problem soon becomes evident, and that problem is that there are no limits, only self-defeating illusions that chain you to a post as you stare into the horizon of possibility. You get used to the post, and to the chain that contains you and, in an effort to deflect pain, you simply accept this repressing condition as nothing more than a rule to which you have to comply. You conform to rules and to limitations that tell you to stop feeling.

          And then you grow more and more frustrated; you feel that the moments are to be spent in rituals of grateful compliance, for you think that what you feel is completely illogical and therefore you repress it by squeezing hard until there is no more resistance.

          You are scared of change; you are frightened by the idea of complying with non-compliance. But what scares you the most is that if you actually do fight these besetting conditions then everything you know will be torn to pieces; you need of this comfort, you need familiarity and repetition. You need all of these things because they have you floating, and you see it too. This is the framework of your life; this is the prison of your life.

          The room is dark. No light paints the walls, no colors to look at, nor any signs of physical confinement due to the simple fact that you cannot see anything but the harsh black screen that stands perpetually in front of you. You go back to feeling. And you now start sweating. You feel the dampness of the bed sheets, and you feel the slight stir of the air around you. Soon enough, there is little to feel. Suddenly, a muffled horn cries from far away, echoing from unfathomed distances. The sound eventually becomes more apparent. Its presence grows more and more persistent. There is something really frightening about it, a somewhat shrilling quality that makes its persistent presence more and more real. You try to make sense out of this pathetic noise and, in a fraction of a second, you finally understand - you make some sense out of it all.

         Now you’re entire body is flushed right back into reality. You are shoved through a tube and pinched back into the world you claim to live in.

         And now you open your eyes. And now you’re awake. And then the conscious part of your day starts, too. There is a dancing light filled with flaky dust particles that penetrates deep into your window. Its warmth is real. The day seems to be reaching out to you. The immediate future sounds auspicious, or at least that’s what the weather lady leads you to believe. A short moment later, you ignore her predictions because, as you’ve seen it on previous occasions, she just gets paid to play with your optimism. You shower, you quickly get dressed and finally get ready to go out there and think for the rest of your day.

It’s ok, it doesn’t matter what it was. But then again, what was it about change??