Because Nothingness is the Antithesis to Ecstatic Hallucinations

Prologue

T hank you, Jarod said .

Amid stagnant air his two soft words, delicately delivered by those dry chapped lips—a tremendous feat considering his manic breathing—blared into and through me. Was it because we were hugging each other tight, heads glued together, his mouth a hair’s breadth from my ear? Or did that long conversation break make me devour them, as any starving man receiving a stranger’s compassion would? What about environs’ intense silence? Could the tiniest decibel ring loud, too loud for my body’s comfort?

Jarod found himself. He declared success, through his spirited articulation. Unknown to him I felt a pain inside. It started small, but had grown stronger over time. I couldn’t ignore it. Its emergence troubled me. A pointed article might have lodged into my bare sole. If so was my body weight drilling it into me? Or maybe our altogether naked, fused, boiling torsos, cooked up from a mile-plus long sprint, were blazing the heat higher and brighter. In all likelihood those few words stung me, for their existence seemed most immediate.

We’re crazy.

He peeled his head away, set it close to my nose. I felt his face flaming heat, even though it no longer pressed against my cheek. At times proximate details disconcert. His newly mended wounds looked in danger of tearing. Crimson globules had already broken through a handful. Again I failed to register his expression. Was I still trying to comprehend chronicler’s previous? Perhaps I should focus less on his forehead lacerations. I uttered nothing. He sensed my difficulty grasping.

This is insane, he said.

Technicolor lips parted and closed. His mouth appeared far larger than other facial parts. On a different day I would have laughed out loud, to his certain bemusement. At present I was obsessing over a couple raw-red gashes and suppressing my distress. Would the floodgates rupture?

Thank you.

He repeated, arms perpetually hot and palmed across my sweat-splashed back. Was I experiencing deep comfort or discomfort? I couldn’t tell. Multiple parts continued to burn.

"Everything you’ve done.

"Bringing me here—

"To this place.

I can now see— he said.

This was too much for me. He kept shoving words into my ears. My frame was radiating heat. Objects looked buckled, twisted. My mind was picturing a torso dripping red. There were too many juggling clubs in the air and I wasn’t born equipped, nor did I originate from a circus family. Whatever my condition I ought to mouth something, maybe a few heartfelt phrases. Or I could take the easy route and parrot back his kindness—some, not everything. But I was heaving non-stop. My secret pain had become unbearable. His forceful clutch inhibited speedy recovery. I drew a blank. Lips remained clammed. My thoughts were jumbled and stuttered. I felt all holed out.

So the inexplicable scene went. Shrubs, bushes, long-blade grass, still air, and silence bounded a lengthy, swerving gravel track. At the end two bare-skinned bodies stood in a tight embrace, ostensibly seeking solace and peace. They were Jarod & me.

1

World loves familiarity. Or so it seems. Urban planners paint kerbs black and white. Street signs usually come in red, green, or blue. Lamppost stems mimic bumblebees’ merry colors. Moronic because bees sting so you will never get within an inch, or trap one in your hands to delight in its cheeriness. Packing boxes? Soothing envelope brown, as though humanity depends on it. Me? Worn white tee over a month-old buzz cut; loose plaid boxers clothing lifelong frugal frame. My apartment? Innocuous wooden door leading into tight living room, with two half-sized bedrooms pointing north, kitchenette and shower lining left, and small balcony carving up west, sized to accommodate four plant pots and one watering can. For the past three weeks my compact home looked a sea of envelope brown. Boxes sat between multiple overloaded storage spaces and packing person’s optimum positions. I deemed my approach clever. Not Pope-sy or Aristotle-sy but functional clever. Only drawback was, it made the task more apparent and thus, incompleteness more incorrigible. For this world’s randomness they appeared disarmingly similar. Mostly quarter-filled, all unsealed, flaps hanging out and about, crying for a gust of wind. It was as if Captain Columbus never retired Santa María ’s tattered sails, indicating ambitious expedition embarked on but eons from being reached .

In my defense, packing from a long-lived fifteen years in the same space isn’t easy. No matter how simple that life phase might have been. Job would turn out effortless if I required a cut-and-stich transplant. Hopeful or foolish I opted for something more radical—a thorough overhaul, a total reconstruction. At age thirty-one I quit my job and set my mind on leaving this house, a place I had called home for about half my life, to start a different journey. Not just new but downright unalike. Not any fresh start but a bona fide ‘different journey’. Countless others could have set off on their equally novel voyages, imagining themselves walking on custom-built roads under thunderous rainbows. I didn’t care. I owned every right to demand mine, as I knew thus far only one of me exists. Grandiose proclamations aside, here I was for three weeks now, struggling to fold a single sail into place. ‘Struggling’ might sound too generous. I failed, horribly. Easier said than practiced I only needed to muster a strong enough will to stop procrastinating and get on with the damn job. Was I plummeting into another ‘mind-inclined, heart-choked’ entanglement? Need I deconstruct this emotional clog? Precise reference frames and definitions eluded me, so I abandoned my unplanned exhumation.

I often peered into the unsealed boxes and wondered ‘what made packing these items so trouble-free’. They amazed me. I never thought too long or hard about them. I simply picked them up, dust and web alongside, and lowered them in. My peculiar penchant for questioning boxed items’ commonality quickly developed into a preamble to every onward action. Wasn’t it a total waste of effort? Talk about crawling three steps forward and jumping two steps back. Still I reflected each and every time. As naturally as blood-caked creases on newborns’ faces, or more generally, scratching a stubborn itch. I packed this because I needed it? Sold some soul to attain it? Felt deep affinity for it? It meant something? Do I require that something if it were meant solely for me? Why should it mean anything? Fanatic grilling could continue on and on, ad infinitum. When I did go on interrogating each belonging’s raison d'être—in all but rare instances—my hands froze, nabbing both wit and grit, and I would abort packing. Task had become too arduous thereby exhausting.

For an unfathomable reason I needed to see where my possessions, freshly acquired or owned through life, fit into this new journey. I wanted to attach a motive to each, an intention I could bed with. Mission impossible notwithstanding, to my credit, I accomplished considerable packing over past few weeks. Looking at the largely quarter-empty storages and quarter-stuffed boxes, I ought to afford myself a rapid congratulatory pat. But did I achieve bulk of my packing before asking these questions? Questions I wouldn’t live without henceforth. If I were to chuck them aside, they would raise their ugly heads again, like blown balloons in soapy water. Following such reasoning should I re-pack them? I might avert hours of heartache. Instead of poking my head into a pit and questioning ten objects at once, muddling and fuddling myself in the process, I would hold no more than one article before my eyes to probe its existence. Of course this meant reversing everything I had accomplished and returning to that very starting spot three long weeks back—decided and unpacked. Key difference being, while I had infused bright lights and bountiful hope into my spirit then, I held only sickness and dread now.

Heck. ‘I just have to do it!’ Proclamation sounded so loud in my head I ended muttering it. ‘I vow to unwind three full weeks of anguish in thirty minutes—FL-at!’ Despite a last-ditch push, follow-up declaration came out in a wimp. I barely registered it in thought, less so these ears. With a pounce and in one swift move, I removed my shirt and hurled it onto bed. I shouldn’t let anything unnecessary weigh me down. Was I also shedding my chronic inaction—allegorically? By coincidence worn tee heaped into a pile of anemic-colored shit. I seemed destined for a repeat failure. To contain fast dissipating enthusiasm, I diverted attention from the inauspicious object staining my sheets. Wearing only boxers but nonetheless ready for battle, I strode into kitchen and grabbed a box nearest to me. Excessive eagerness tore two sails and toppled several contained items. I snuffed out an instant groan in my throat. After a hasty patch-up I began pulling objects out of quarter-filled box and storing them into quarter-empty cabinets, nullifying all precious little achievement.

I could activate mental autopilot and focus on regulating my boisterous breathing, or any other random event, such as breaking news broadcasting from the stereo. But alike rainwater seeping through plastered walls, as articles zipped from left hand to right, memory fragments scattered and landed near brain pulses like fine dust to screen static. Sensation disoriented me. Any man who had surrendered twenty years to his family, life skills eroded as a result, and forced to vacate their home to check into some destitute shelter, because wife appropriated all he had put into the partnership including their children—since living with her benefited them more—would intimate packing away one’s possessions hurts, as each item represents a slice of time in his or her life, grievous or pleasing. Same mechanics apply to unpacking processes, replicated or rehearsed.

Upon emptying two big pantry boxes, I crumbled onto ground, legs sprawled, hands palmed on floor—to support my limp frame—face arched towards ceiling, eyes pinned on some nonexistent spot within a pristine white fog. I didn’t comprehend my defeatist stance. Weren’t they mere objects, non-living things? Perhaps this long indecisive day punctured my resolve. Body and mind couldn’t still function as normal. At least I was advancing in the right direction and had achieved in thirty minutes one simple task that cost me four inscrutable hours last week. So I should claim a puny victory—though what last transpired was a whole other story. Exhausted and dispirited I fell to earth, closed my eyes, spun sideways, retracted both shins, and liberated my consciousness. Bright afternoon sky outside miniature kitchen window was turning Mediterranean blue. In no time yellow and orange streaks would cloud my view. These ragged boxes, alongside my haphazardly returned items, would vanish under nature’s black cloak, and tiresome job would cease to exist, no less for a couple hours, preferably forevermore.

Day gained significance at first light. It was the day I tramped into ex-boss’s office to inform of my decision to leave. A full month had passed. Didn’t seem that far back. But as we well know, time waits only in our heads, especially while grieving. I woke up in a peculiar manner, atypical enough for me to recount with ease. I probably resembled zombie apocalypse’s fresh victims. Asleep and dead in one instant, eyelids jacked open, body flipped upright, and mind locked onto next task at following heartbeat. Routine then proceeded sans the obligatory glitch. In fact execution flowed like dissolved fat. On other days, as I kick frame into gear, minor mishaps usually occur. I would bang a knee against the footboard whilst drifting out of bed, drip toothpaste onto forearms, or scrape a few toes against bathroom door. That morning I behaved like a transformed creature, newly born and laser focused on day’s objective. What prompted such move? I finally developed a clear vision of how I would broach the subject at hand, after planting myself in front of him, awkward feeling inside, nonchalant expression outside, and incomprehensible nerves bubbling under but bundled up tight.

You’re not leaving, are you?

He let it rip. Pinpoint observation stunned me. I hadn’t even taken a customary breath in. I wanted to bolt away and lock myself in a magic chamber where invisible hands would reach out and calm me. I couldn’t. Predatory strike decimated all escape routes. Bosses always know when your time is up don’t they? I maintained it wasn’t because of my declining interest at work, recently acquired pilfering hands, or certified expertise at poison-letter writing. All through past decade I tacked my twin professional traits—responsibility and gratitude—on the chest for all to see.

I’d had the same supervisor from the time I started full-time work. In modern societies this happens only in small enterprises, where owner and boss plays dual roles. Owing to cost efficiency he or she will never appear at annual meetings to collect fat dividends and undertake little else, like making sure costs remain covered, employees display exceptional contentment, output gets delivered on time and is of paramount quality, and a million other worrisome responsibilities. By now folks mired in similar life circumstances should figure out I fostered a special relationship with my ex-boss. Hints—Ten years; first job; small firm. He saw me age through one’s supposed productive years. I witnessed him glide down from his peak, though mostly gainfully and gleefully. From a charismatic late-thirties man exuding immense earthly charm and gung ho determination, his infectious spirit dissipated in step with each successive lymphoma cancer battle. He was an unfortunate survivor who combatted repeat tumor revivals. How I wished cancer sounded more rhythmic and harmless.

Why leave?

He chose not to ascertain gatecrasher’s intent. Uneasy silence and tardy takeoff might have said it for him. Perhaps it was as unnecessary as confirming my gender when he interviewed me years ago. He affirmed it from the second I stepped in. Or maybe it was because I closed the door after me. I only wanted to stop others from walking in, interrupting, not hide my shame. None of those prepared words surfaced. His premonition statement shocked them out of my head. I sat before him, arms by my sides, knees pointed forward, and shoulders rigid. He gazed at me, anticipating a response. I clammed up, looked past him.

I understand.

He strained a smile.

"This company owes you.

You’ve always given me—

He couldn’t pin down the right word.

"— loads—

"— everything.

"It’s been a long time. Change is necessary—

"You’re a good man.

Thank you.

I felt horrible. I expected myself to, but I failed to foresee the extent and intensity until it hit me, not unlike colossal hammers sledging grisly zombie heads. If not for a stiff neck from holding myself perfectly upright, I would have folded into my seat. Thing about cancer is—no one states the following without sounding boorish—once it strikes, you can never feel a hundred percent sure treatments and medication will eject it out of your system, no matter how optimum your prevailing condition. Even though his cancer had stayed in remission for a long time, and on odd days like this he looked a little pinkish—cheeks said as much—something in him vanished. A wafer-thin sheen of apprehension (getting tapped out without slightest warning); fear (luck generally ends at penultimate hand); and anger (why in our heavens?) would forever taint his mind.

Inconceivable to many I deemed him closer than a classic father figure, as I had fought alongside him for years. I could always intuit his joy and fears, at times to perfection. I understood him as much as he knew me. After his ‘thank you’ we sat in silence for a few more minutes. It was comfortable silence from reaching personal conciliation. Our thoughts were still running on individual tracks. But if we were to pen them down and lay all out, many would tally. Wasn’t it ironic? As intimate as we were, when it came to a crunch, granted this wasn’t our only chance, we opted not to exchange reasons, plans, or wishes. Perhaps none was needed. All that mattered was in his heart he was rooting for me to reach a better place. In mine I would feel eternally grateful to him.

Environs sustained its silence. I sensed no movement nearby. When I retracted my lids it was pitch-dark all around. I felt incredibly alone. I had curled up like a baby lamb resting on hay, except that this ground was stone–hard and my exposed limbs (in full contact with frigid granite floor) were sensing sporadic tingles. Time deserted me. Darkness had cooed my wearied mind and body to sleep beside a couple empty boxes and more disheveled shelves. I wanted never to wake up. I prayed night wouldn’t fade away, because day would restore reality and compel me to confront my unfinished packing. Barely shifting aching bones I shut my eyes and shoved all thoughts aside—yet again. I returned to the evening before entering ex-boss’s office. I called to mind my rehearsed speech. As key words and phrases emerged, I realized I was in a déjà vu of sorts. In both instances my attempt to crystallize root yearnings drained me. I also reflected on what I truly wanted and the things our world hadn’t seen. For no lack of drama I wanted him to look into me, see past these lungs, and set eyes on my throbbing heart. Problem was, for every presented truth, there exists multiple whys, ifs, and buts to clarify. It will always degenerate into a messed-up twine ball. Bullish unraveling didn’t enlighten me. It only soothed me to sleep, aided by soft looped music and sole amber light.

Two days before the plunge I woke up knowing this was it. I reached a road end. I could jump into open waters and swim towards earth’s horizon but landing site would remain the same. I ought to flip my world inside out. I needed to walk on ice, stomp on fire, and dive into the deep underworld. As a hamster sprinting in Supreme Creator’s play-wheel, I had to fight all inertia, throw a foot out, and crash headlong into Gandaki Gorge. But explanations like these sound way too abstract, like black holes explaining their presence to the greater universe. I struggled to pin down a tangible trigger, such as seeing ex-boss’s life slide from battling cancer, resulting in my realization better to do things now than never. A prod as that would make formulating justifications easier. It could also feel unnecessarily vicious. No one talks about cancers lightly, certainly not to survivors who in their quietest moments still lose sleep over unlikely relapses. So I settled on a convenient and vague argument, along the lines of—‘although work continues to motivate, and I feel as fulfilled and excited as ever, a brand new pursuit will invigorate and further enrich my soul’. Lame reason didn’t last a night. By God’s grace my psychic or thoughtful boss required no such claptrap, as it would negate our unspoken honesty pact, one painstakingly cultivated over a decade together.

Lying on cold hard ground, bones and muscles stiffening from self-willed immobility, I acknowledged my foolishness for not building a landing pad before jumping off the train. Result? My current predicament—frozen in the dead of night, writhing in mental mess. I thought extreme industry would find me a visible forward path. Had I only waded in thorny bushes and muddy marshes so far? In any real world, with two hands, sticky earth and red bricks, I could build a forty-seat classroom in one month, thus contribute to disadvantaged children’s continual education and eventual poverty alleviation. Instead I ended up nowhere and achieved nothing, not counting effortless acts like terminating house lease and calling moving company to supply packing boxes. Where did my infamous drive go?

Body beckoned me to cease all self-admonishments. Speaking from experience—anyone at some point would have suffered one too—if one’s frame rests on an arm long enough, it goes worryingly numb. Lifeless. Like a fallen log. Sufficient time just lapsed in my case. Pricks plagued upper limb. I required no other reason to resolve this mess, once and for all. Thought of death from an already dying arm was creeping in and flipping me out. I needed to hunt down heaven’s guiding light. Could my future lie in the basics? Perhaps I should steer clear of complicated and magnificent solutions. At present grand plans and timetables were impractical. Unfussy rules might form my best route to survival. My life was on the line. I ought to birth something extraordinary quickly, something that would point me to a brighter future.

Order No. 1—

Walk where I’ve not walked. Literal it is.

Order No. 2—

Take my time. I’m in no hurry.

Order No. 3—

I’m not the person I was. I’m whomever I desire.

Astute folks will agree the rule of three always works. Anything fewer feels inadequate. A digit more no one easily remembers. Here and now I lacked alternatives too. These tenets would quadruple in complexity without a serviceable upper limb. Critics may ridicule their imprecision and simplicity. But if they managed to surface so swiftly, they had to encompass my life desires. Landing pad construction settled, not forgetting the need to release my arm within next five seconds, I tackled my other pressing problem. How could I pack everything in less than four hours? In desperation I wrung hot-off-furnace Order No. 3 into play. At daybreak I would cart nothing more than a backpack (bearing barest necessities) away. Objective attained I jerked butt backwards and screamed as bolts shot through me. I regretted inane move. Hours later I dreamt that I passed out from acute pain.

2

Following morning I gained consciousness to three rules encased in bubble thoughts hovering over my head. Sight implied excellent construction. It is oft said exceptional work comes from blessed inspiration or unbending pressure—conflicting extremes in my opinion. Nonetheless I identified more with the latter. I slid forearm across chest to check if it had turned veiny and purple–blue. I could move it back and forth, no trouble. But eyes remained closed so until I opened them, I wouldn’t know it operated functional and looked human too. Bubbles’ unbridled clarity electrified me. My three maddening weeks hadn’t devolved into a complete wreck after all. At last I located God’s famed oasis. I relished that undeserved relief. Other crucial outcome—rules proved practicable. Last within bunch goaded me to leave everything behind, start anew, carve out fresh paths. Would I afford such ideas life prior to last night’s Dr. Death encounter, much less adopt one with passion and determination? I never felt more proud of myself. As should I. Tumultuous struggle was my battle scar, honor medal. I earned my keep. Lord wouldn’t dare smother this glorious moment .

I dismissed all fears of a severe letdown and parted both lids to face the world. Images looked too familiar to feel new. I inhaled twice, hoping morning air possessed a minty twang. It didn’t. Room stayed real, while packed shelves remained a wretched mess. In concert they freed my mind from imprisonment and shoved my frame toward earth’s clicking clock. I peeled the blanket away and climbed out of bed. Routine act jumpstarted many lasts in this house. Last time I slept on this mattress. Last time I stepped into the bathroom. Possibly my final time slumped onto a flushing bowl taking an extended piss, amongst other insignificant things. Should I ease one foot off the pedal to savor their mundaneness? What good would it do? Cruel fact was, the second I exit my rabbit hole, none of the old would matter. Because they served no sensible purpose, only sentimental function. ‘Sentiments’ take after neon-flavored cotton candy. Too artificial for grown-ups’ liking. Overly airy to attract repeat servings. Downright calorie-deficient to satiate the truly famished.

There! I just broke my crystal-crusted Order No. 2. An utter disappointment. Old habits seldom perish. Jaguars never transform their spots. I ought to cram cotton candy down the throat and drop dead. So much for my ‘different journey’. Someone should brand me a fraud. I rebelled against ‘needing actions to translate into results’. Yet at the next instant I balked at wasting time on unproductive thoughts and processes. I revolted against ‘eradicating uncertainty, wanting perennial control’. Till now I formulated strategies to all my undertakings, be they optimum box placements (to maximize packing efficiency), or tedious questions (to ascertain each item’s onward purpose). How about ‘not labeling and categorizing the new and indeterminate to feel safe’? I always discovered and deciphered. In part to thwart threats. At times to heighten confidence and self-worth, whether or not deceiving or transient. Perhaps I should surrender to heaven, convert to an ardent follower or observer. Witness where things terminate. Exterminate all interventions. Play prey and predator—in spurts or turns. I pulled away from washbowl tap, raised my chin, and glared at the harrowing reflection. Where did those sparks go? Despair overwhelmed me. Water beads streamed down cheeks like tear streaks. I breathed harder and faster. Nil effect. No new energy. Frame continued weakening. Further reproaches gushed in. Who diminished my resolve to enjoy a long joyous life? What flattened heartbeats’ peaks and dips, slowed them to a steady tick? Was I living less in our physical world and more in unending yearnings and regrets? Must some life-threatening illness inflict me too? Supreme Creator could still admit me into paradise after answering such calls.

As I began descending into my imperviable world, doorbell rang a four-note chime. It might never shriek again, at least in my presence. For no useful reason I prayed for it to clang once more. Sorry if my pesky wish sounded like death row inmates’ plea for deliverance. Shrill notes broke purposeless gaze. Figuratively they airlifted me out of a solitary mind maze. I could have stayed in this stance otherwise. In time I would collapse into a rotting heap, eyes and mind fresh and intact. I possessed none of ex-boss’s telepathic powers. Through simple deduction I knew rare visitor was my landlord. She had always been a courteous middle-upper aged lady, too polite to grant my dying bid for a twice-chiming doorbell. I adored its concise melody. Maybe she would let me keep it.

Quick clothing change seemed imperative. I slipped on a faded grey tee, one that had graced my back countless times. Opting for the most acquainted when delving into uncharted territory discomforted me. But I had no time for a rigorous internal debate. I shouldn’t make her wait too long. Insanity could inspire her to buzz the bell a second time, which would melt these knees and invalidate my view of her esteemed upbringing. I then selected a dark-colored, hardy pair of jeans. The moment I slipped them on, I reversed my actions and kicked them aside. I couldn’t deal with a whole old me again at this new dawn. I scampered straight for the other extreme and dug up a pair of bright-painted bottoms. I had never worn it, because I would never acquire an article like this. It looked somewhat reflective at specific angles, an abysmal match to my comfy top. For now I would stomach it for me. Next I pulled a backpack out of closet’s top shelf, any I could reach, as it bore no significance to one’s journey. I stared at its opening and thought about the contents. Over succeeding sixty seconds I bagged five tops, two pants, three undergarments, several pairs of socks, and my essential cleaning items.

By now my engine was running at speed, all thanks to early visitor and flat’s bewitching doorbell. I stuffed key travel documents into bag, as I needed them to traverse borders. To my amazement I thought nothing about ditching both beat-up cell phone and laptop. I even considered binning them. But there was no one around to convey act’s symbolism, and it would only complicate removal person’s job. Kindness breeds compassion. Champion bug spreader was waiting outside. All prepared and ready I took a deep breath, opened the door, and invited distinguished guest in. Mismatched clothing and featherweight packing embarrassed me. Still I put on a friendly front. Being an ever-courteous person she flashed mild surprise at the full cabinets and empty boxes. I expected her to spotlight lessee’s outrageous failure. She disappointed. Reminded of my host status I stepped forward to shake her hand. She reverted to her usual politeness and smiles.

Landlady hesitated entering at first. After some tacit cajoling she inched in. As if querying others’ unfinished business violated privacy laws, she glanced around, scanned the photo frames decorating living room shelves, and emitted soft mouth-closed sounds. Interiors hadn’t changed for years. Her demeanor made no sense. Why couldn’t she suck up familiarity’s comfort? Would she ever get close to unrelated people and objects? She waited for an explanation, not knowing I needed time to engineer our concluding exchange. How should I thank her for sheltering me? Could I reach forward and hug her? Was it appropriate conduct for distant acquaintances? Under this bizarre circumstance and lacking clarification, she might scream and bang me where it hurts. Conservative approach appeared wisest. I requested her to take a seat. Earlier smack from breaking Order No. 2 commanded me to fulfill my promise. Kids remember imparted lessons, though many require painful reminders after. Again she resisted. Her reluctance showed. She must have anticipated a speedy exit after picking up the necessary. I insisted she hang around for a chat, asserting another opportunity