Excerpts from the Moon

Excerpts from the Moon

A pendulum swings gently, from pole to pole. The wooden walls seem safe. But bit by bit wood splinters, and bit by bit it breaks. I entered this world swinging, and I've come just as close to what's beyond this life as I have to what preceded it; be it mental illness or a chronic state of existential discontent, something has displaced me.

The world ceases to commence from the point at which I stopped it, and I walk along a stagnant path that reeks of intellectual decay. The people smile in a frozen, lifeless upward curve of wax lips, and my only entertainment comes from the melting around the edges when the wicked facade fails. I carry the flame and I know where to find the wick; it's been a curse to my sociability since I was first poured into the mold.

I self-immolate spontaneously. I walk through this globe of candles as a lit Exodus, a mutually exclusive curator and equal-parts participant in my own "Me and the Burning Bush;" yes, I also answer to "God," "Lord," and the 

like. I light myself on fire, observe myself in unadulterated conceit, and proliferate whatever it is the O Holy side of me thinks significant at the time. I am a living, breathing reincarnation of myself.

Let me rephrase: I was a living, breathing reincarnation of myself. Only the cosmos and maybe the space between my skin and my bones know what I am now. All that aside, this is not a story. It is not a novel. These are words on pages that once meant something. They've been used as diagnostic tools, meant to solve the crimes my mind has committed against my body. They've betrayed my perversions and consoled my conscience; they've been medicated, manic, and horribly muted. Waxing and waning, these are the excerpts of the moon.

"I took her hand and held it, unable to recall a name but certain she was no stranger. She offered it so gently, palm up and callouses softened by the fading light; the roughness of her skin met the worn contours of mine, and the abrasion startled my worried fingers into locking tighter with hers. Timidly I ask where we're going, and she tugs my hand to follow. Still afraid, I ask again. "You don't remember?" she responds, and I detect a hint of judgment on her breath. The street did indeed seem familiar, but only as familiar as any other I'd once been down before. The people seem empty, and their eyes never smiled with their lips. In a moment of uncharacteristic confidence, I considered sharing a true smile with one of the stoic passerby, but the notion quickly dissipated into the expressionless pupil of my guide's matte, dry eye. "Don't expect emotion. What's the old saying? Ah, yes. One's eyes are a window into one's soul. When was the last time your soul had cause to smile?" I was mystified when no incident came to mind. Pleased with my vacant expression, she continued. "These people are not really people. They are like you- shells, frames, meatless structures. The 'real' world is back there," she paused to gesture in the direction from which we'd come, "the solid world, the soulful world." Confused and bewildered, I ask why we left the 'real' world for this soulless skeleton of an existence. "Why do you think?", the judgment no longer masked in her tone. Met again by my silence, she explained, "You had a chance. A soul, a being, a life... it was yours. Most are satisfied with existence. You, however, were not. You questioned, inquired. Excessive contemplation has brought you to me before, and I've walked you down this road many times. It should have scared you, forced you to accept who you're supposed to be. It didn't work. You're back again, and this time there's no soul left to salvage."

Alone in my room, I find myself struggling to maintain sanity. No soul left to salvage? That's not exactly a cliffhanger.  My pen grips the page as my thoughts swell into a fervor. Nothing makes sense now... why does every story have to end at this same equivocal ledge?

The remembered forgot-you thoughts and the pain that never hurt like to creep in through my morning mind and settle over my waking time, sealing off the sun and leaving the grass, the footprints, and the windows to condensate. This mist is confusing; I walk toward it, into it, with all the confidence I have... but for nothing. No bite of cool air or sting of sharp breath, no feeling, and this grey ceiling only parts like the sea to further swallow me.  I don't feel the bruises behind my eyes, and I can't hurt enough to care. I wish I could reconcile the past in my mind, I wish that I could feel enough to fully accept what I won't ever overcome. I wish that to this, I wasn't numb. Someday I will break the floodgates down, someday I will watch with relief as I drown in the experience. Until then, I am untouchable. Don't haunt me if you cannot hurt me. I am very much alive.

"The kid is tempting fate." Hands in my pockets and shoes untied, I shuffled through years of angst-riddled battles of will. I willed my family to quietly resent me; I willed the system to pity me; I willed my mind to violate my body. Years of this—years of fermenting discontent.

Tripping over colorfully indefinable statuses and gripping tightly to whatever sliver of reality remains, nothing is concrete. What sedimentary surface exists beneath my feet shifts with each dynamic mutation, and stability is a worshipped ideal that will never solidify this eroding earth I stand on. The fragile trunks of polluted trees separate easily from the weak soil, and the fruit rests dead and withered on the limbs, waiting for the rejuvenation of an "up" while lifeblood drips monotonously from open wounds. The water appears fresh, clean; however, careful observation will yield a bitter taste and an unsatisfying inability to quench my endless thirst. Some days, it burns like fire down my throat and calls forth tears of acid as the conscience of this place makes a mockery of my despair; others, it freezes in my gut and encourages the disgusting transformation into cold carelessness, a numbness that pains to recall. The only footsteps one may find in the decaying foliage and discordant dirt are mine, tread in circles and frantic, aimless paths, searching futilely for an answer, an explanation, a cure. This environment is not conducive to the perpetuation of human existence; rather, it is hostile and unpredictable, hiding violent storms in unforeseen corners and releasing horrific displays of beauty in fits of deceptive passion. This volatile abode is my home of sorts; its image lies readily in my mind, eager for attention and recognition. This life within self-constructed walls is defunct and substantially unrealized, and only as it remains to be might I continue in this warped, absurd state of being. I cannot survive in the stable world.

There’s a persistent numbness in my ears, a dull pulse in my chest. I can feel my mind churning and in the same breath I can hear my conscience peeling away from the bone. Purpose is lost in empty keystrokes. When did the means of sustenance become so futile? My imagination must not be as good as it once was… I can’t manufacture meaning in this metaphysical wasteland. I can’t pretend to believe in a nonexistent cause.

Restlessness haunts my work days and disrupts my sleep. 9 hours a day, five days a week, 52 weeks a year, I trade my soul in for a cheaply padded office chair and an industry I don't believe in. For what? To live. To earn. Earn the right to my home, my car, my admittedly cherished wardrobe. It's a strange cycle. I need a home in which to rest after long days at the office. I need a car to shuttle me to and from my bed to my work desk. And, of course, I need clothing to represent myself and my company as professionally as possible. The human condition starts to feel terrifyingly robotic as we shift from days of dress-up fantasies to mandatory overtime. I remember being in such a hurry to "grow up," wishing my anguished high school years would be replaced with my mid-twenties overnight; I regret not reveling more in the moment. As the perpetrator of my own demise, it seems silly for me to lament over an adolescence I stole from myself.

It's not all darkness and dead butterflies, really. In fact, my entity has all but shed its former self. Scar tissue remains an anchor to my past, but the weight grows lighter as I gain confidence in separating from the abyss. Courage is more than a word. Courage is the motivation to pursue a positive identity. Today, Gods fell from the skies. Landing amongst the mountains, they've now observed in disbelief the smallness of the world, raindrops brimming in their eyes.