Lucid Dreams-Daniel Yetman

Lucid Dreams

Daniel Yetman April 17 2014

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P

erhaps if the bricks weren’t charred, if they weren’t flame-licked, nothing would seem amiss. The man stares at the blackened hue before peeling his eyes away from the distraught scene. He steps towards the heart of the massacre, where the fire burned brightest and the eradication was epitomized. Once, a city stood in this spot, but now all that remains is an inorganic skeleton, scrap metal, and people desperately scrambling to recover their few surviving belongings. Or perhaps they are looters, scavengers who feast of carrion and the misfortune of others.

How long has he been gone? A year? Five years? A decade? He can’t remember. He is afflicted with amnesia—the last moment he can recall is drifting asleep one night when he was 21, dreaming of the fortune that life would surely bring him. He can remember the gowns and tassels—black, with red and white trim—and the masses of people with hopeful tears streaming down their faces. A feeling of unity allied the hundreds of youth with a shared goal of stepping from their scholastic haven into reality. He recalls the feeling of time accelerating and wishing he had more photographs to capture the memories. And amidst the nostalgia, he too shed a tear. He can remember a lingering kiss on his cheek, and the feeling of elation. . . But even that moment has grown foggy.

Where has he been all this time? He presses his fingertips into his forehead, in an attempt to remedy his stupor. He can’t even remember the date, or why he has returned. For all he knows, he’s not truly awake. He has never felt awake, rather, he has wished his life away, skipping all the days that weren’t ceremonious. If he were to write out the entirety of the life he can recollect, the screenplay would be less than a page in length.

He can picture himself sitting on the couch in the living room of his parents’ house when he was two years old, only half awake, watching the hockey players on television hoisting the Stanley Cup over their heads. He can picture his first day of school when he was four, still in disbelief of how quickly his life had changed. He has a vivid memory of losing his first tooth when he was seven, and the feeling of giving and receiving his first punch in a schoolyard fight.

The man can remember the face of his first crush and his first taste of rejection. He remembers getting hit in the throat by a line drive during a baseball game when he was twelve and coughing and choking over his own spit, sure that his windpipe was about to close up. He has flickering memories of high-school, both positive and negative. He remembers the taste of his first drink, not particularly enjoying the feeling of dwindling intellect, and swearing he would never drink again. He can’t remember if he kept that promise or not. And lastly, he can picture shaking hands with a man he never met and being handed a parchment, supposedly representing an achievement. But to him, it didn’t seem like an accomplishment to graduate, but rather the logical progression of events.

Now he has returned, this time alone. He wanders through what was once a garden and sits on a bench with a steel frame. He can still remember the flowers and the birds that jumped from lily to iris in the summertime, singing joyous songs. Like magic, to his amazement, the flowers re-bloom and the grass turns from black to green. The flame-licked bricks of the surrounding buildings return to their original color and even the bench he is sitting on becomes refurbished. Ghosts carrying textbooks begin to walk by sluggishly, and several of the phantom figures even sit down across from the man. A young couple unfold a blanket next to a sprouting maple tree before basking in the sun, which is now revealing itself from behind a cloud.

The man stands, leaves the garden, and walks towards the remnants of the library. The roof has collapsed and most of the windows are broken. The crumbing building only vaguely resembles its previous self. An older gentleman, perhaps in his late fifties, sits on the steps, apparently unperturbed by the ashes that surround him.

“Hello,” says the man to the older gentleman. The gentleman turns his head in the man’s direction and gazes upon him with penetrating eyes.

“What is your name?” asks the man on the steps.

“Alex, and yours?”

“I have no longer have an identity,” he responds.

“I see. Can you tell me what happened here?” asks Alex, pointing to the library.

“Fire.”

“When?”

“A month ago.”

“How did it start?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” asks the unnamed man, rhetorically.

“I have no idea, I haven’t been here in. . . Years.”

“Years?”

“I think.”

You don’t sound certain.”

“Ten years,” Alex says with confidence, even though he has no perspective of time.

“You’re lying, but that’s okay.”

“How do you know I’m lying?”

“Because I see you walk by every day.”

“Every day?”

“Every day.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Who are you?”

“I have no ident—”

“Who were you?” asks Alex.

“You tell me.”

Alex scans the other man’s face trying to figure out why he feels as though he has met this mysterious prophet before.

“I remember you. We went to school together.”

“Yes.”

“But, I never caught your name.”

“I have no—”

“I know, I know. . . But how is it that you have aged twenty years or more while I appear exactly as I did when I was 21?”

“I guess you have a better moisturizer than I do.”

Alex can’t help but feel that this man has all the answers to his questions, but starts to become agitated by the man’s uncongenial responses.

“No, seriously, what happened?”

“It’s your dream, you tell me.”

“My dream?”

“Look at the sky.” The man points up. The clouds are red, with violet undertones. Where the sun should be is a red orb, and there are at least three moons visible. Alex also notices that a thick fog is displaced in every direction, limiting his field of view to about thirty feet. Alex takes a seat on the steps next to the man.

“So I am dreaming then?”

“You are indeed.”

“So you aren’t real either?”

“I exist as you perceive me. And for some reason you chose me as the figure to lead you through the flames.” The fog suddenly disappears and is exchange with fire. The entire city begins to burn again, except for the steps of the library, where the two men converse. “So you are my deity, my Noah, my Socrates, my Clarence—”

“Baby, I’ll be your everything,” says the man sardonically. “Oh look, here come the rest.” “Hmmm?”

Suddenly hundreds of people riding elephants appear from the flames. Each person is somebody from Alex’s past. Some of the people he spots have been influential in shaping his character while others have been passing figures.

“This is weird,” says Alex. “Why elephants?”

“Would you prefer camels?” Suddenly all the elephants transform into alpacas. “Whoops. . . ” and with a shake of his hand the alpacas transform into camels.

“I don’t understand the metaphor.”

“There is no metaphor, it’s nonsense.”

“Then can we make them penguins?” The camels turn into giant penguins with saddles.

“Beautiful.”

Alex looks back to the man, who now appears about 20 years old.

The man points to a woman riding one of the penguins. “Hey, remember her?” Alex’s face flushes.

“No. . . I. . . What is the purpose of all this?”

“You are feeling lost, you are feeling incomplete, you are feeling like your life has no purpose.

I am here to guide you, and to help you reconcile with the past.” “Where am I?” asks Alex?

“What do you mean? You are here of course.”

“No. . . I mean, if this is a dream, where am I currently in the real world.”

“You are at home, asleep.”

“And who am I?”

“You are 21 years old, and a week ago you graduated from college.”

“And who I am in this dream world?”

“You are as old as you would like to be. You can be 30 if you like, or 40 if you really desire.” The man shifts back into an old man, then a child, and finally back to a young adult.

“I feel like ten years have passed since I graduated.”

“Then you are 31.”

“And what happened to me in this dream world? Why do I feel lost, and why am I unable to remember my past?”

“You remember what you need to remember. You remember the people you need to remember.”

“Why is my hometown up in flames, why is the university burned to the ground?”

“In this dream world, in this depiction of your life, the only way you could leave is to feel as though there was nothing left for you to leave behind.”

“So I burned it?”

“You burned it to the ground.”

“And then what happened? You said you see me every day.”

“You came back. . . You came back every day to water the flowers in the garden. You traveled the world, but no matter where you were, a part of you came back each day.”

“And why would I want to come back?”

“Because you didn’t feel complete. You felt as though you were leaving something behind and were never able to completely let go.”

“Well, at least tell me this, did I ever find happiness?”

The man is silent. The world is completely silent, even the flames that that surround them are silent. “You found traces of it. . . Your wife—”

“My wife?”

“And your children—”

“I have children?”

“Two.”

“And how is my love for them? Do they bring me joy?” Alex asks anxiously.

“You pretend to be happy and to love your life, but something is missing. You were never truly able to leave your old life behind, so you have always felt like a piece of you was lost in the fire. You like your wife, but when you look her in the eyes you see a hint of sadness. And you feel like that sadness is your fault, because you remain distant to her. When you look at your children, you are captivated by their innocence. They have her eyes, and they have the same hint of sadness.”

Alex transform from a man of 31 to a man of 45, his hair loses its sheen and wrinkles form beneath his eyelids. “And what happened next?”

“You live alone on the seventh floor of an apartment building. You have been divorced for six years and rarely see your children. Your ex-wife resents you for never truly loving her and being too self-involved. One of your kids dropped out of college after her second year and has been working as a barista for three years. She is engaged to a man closer to your age than hers. You resent him. Your son is finishing up high-school and wants to become a doctor, even though his grades are barely high enough to get into college.”

Alex turns into a man of 65. His hair thins and begins to turn snowy white. His figure slims down and he appears as though he would break at the faintest touch. “And then what happens?” he asks reluctantly.

“You had a stroke a couple years ago. You have three grandkids and you got married again. Your wife also has two kids, but you have only met them a couple times, because they both live abroad. You recently retired, and spend the majority of your time reading, writing, or coaching your grandson’s peewee baseball team. Your ex-wife passed away several years ago but you didn’t go to the funeral. When your new wife asked why you didn’t go you said it was because it reminded you too much of your own mortality. You have been having trouble breathing recently.”

Alex tries to transform himself into a man of 80 but instead turns 21 again. “Did I not make it that far?” he asks. The other man shrugs.

“Is that the good life? Is that the life I always dreamed of having?”

“It is one of many possible outcomes.”

“Yes, if nothing went as planned. How boring.”

“C’est la vie.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Fine, I lied. You graduated collage when you were 21, traveled the world and met some of the most extraordinary people who have ever walked the face of the earth. You married the love of your life when you were 27, which was two years after you went to the Olympics for the first time. When you were 33 you got your first book published and it sold millions of copies. You soon became famous and your writing career took off. You had two kids: a son who would eventually follow in your footsteps as an athlete and play professional baseball, and a daughter who was equally as beautiful as her mother. She became a neurosurgeon. When you turned 50 you and your wife moved to Europe and spent every second month visiting new countries and falling even deeper in love than you were 25 years previous. When you were 73 you were awarded the Nobel Prize for literature and were named one of the most influential people of your generation. You died peacefully on your 100th birthday in your wife’s arms and the last words you whispered were I love you.”

“And how do I make that a reality?”

“You let go.”

“Let go of what?”

“The past. You let go of the past so you can look ahead to the future.” Alex turns to the people who continue to walk by. Some of them smile and wave and others seem completely ignorant to his presence.

“But who will water the garden if I leave?”

“The gardeners.”

A man approaches with a neutral expression. Alex recognizes him as one of his close friends during college. The man stands silently, as if he is waiting for Alex to speak first. Alex turns to the older gentleman and looks on expectantly.

“What do I say?” asks Alex.

“What have you always wanted to say?” asks the gentleman.

Alex turns back to the other man. “Umm. . . I always thought you were really nice.” The man doesn’t respond; he continues to stare blankly.

Alex sighs. “I mean, I always thought you had an ingenious way of looking at the world and completely revolutionized the way I think. You inspired me, and I never got a chance to tell you how influential you were in my life. So. . . Thank you.”

The man smiles, nods, and disappears. A feeling of warmth exudes over Alex. He even managed to smile. The gentleman next to him gives him a look of approval.

A woman appears next, and this time Alex has an easier time expressing his feelings. “I am incredibly glad that we met, although I have always regretted not getting a chance to really pick your brain. I have met very few people who are as motivated as you and I think all that you have accomplished is absolutely amazing.”

The woman is replaced by another man, who towers over Alex in stature. “There was one day when I was 18, we didn’t know each other very well, but you told me that if I ever needed somebody to talk to you would always be available to listen. I never expressed it, but that meant the world to me.”

Each confession feels more natural, and Alex grows increasingly more enthusiastic. “I think you need to give yourself more credit, you are an incredibly kind person and you deserve to be happy. So find what it is that gives you joy and never let it go.”

“I know we have had our differences and that I probably gave the impression that I didn’t care for you very much, but I want you to know that it was only because I was jealous of how happy-go-lucky you were all the time.”

“You were always able to make me laugh, and I know that wasn’t always easy. I am sorry if I ever made you feel worthless, it was just because I had such high standards for you.”

“I wish you all the best, and I hope you and your family find true happiness.”

“You were one of the most influential people in my life. I am so incredibly glad that I had the opportunity to meet you. It’s funny how our lives turned out, but no matter how much time passes we will always have our friendship.”

“I didn’t know what to think when we first met, but you’re not such a bad person. Thank you.”

“I hope you find whatever it is you are looking for.”

And then he is met with the most difficult goodbye. He can feel her brown eyes gazing upon him long before he sees her face. He tries to avoid her gaze and swivels his eyes towards his feet. When he looks up again she is smiling and Alex is absolutely speechless. He stammers and can’t seem to concentrate on a coherent thought. Suddenly the steps of the library turn into an auditorium and he is on stage. The seats are filled with every person he has ever met and she is sitting in the middle of the front row with a spotlight upon her.

           “I. . . I. . . There. . . I. . . ”                                     He panics, he looks to the gentleman and pleas for a way off stage.

With his eyes he says, please don’t make me do this—can’t we just let this one be?

He responds simply by mouthing the words, you must.

“I. . . I. . . I. . . I wish you a lifetime of happiness. It was a pleasure to have met you and you will always be dear to me. I hope that life gives you everything that you have ever wanted from it.” The auditorium disappears and Alex returns to the dilapidated library steps. The flames that were burning disappear and a sense of freedom overwhelms Alex, as if the entire weight of the universe has been lifted off of his shoulders.

“Was it really that easy? Am I free now?”

“How do you feel?”

“Lost, devastated, without purpose.”

“You are free.”

“And now what?”

“You live. You try your best to be the best possible version of yourself. Try to be a good person and always seek self-improvement. Find love, find happiness, find purpose, find success.” “And will I live in a utopia? Will I live a carefree life without tribulation?”

“Some days you will be draped in sorrow so thick that you won’t be able to get out of bed. You will be unable to see the point in taking your next breath. But other days you will experience love and joy as you never thought possible. All the pain you have felt will dissipate and you will be incredibly glad to be alive. But most days you will be somewhere in-between.”

“And what of the others? What will happen to all of the people I have met?”

“Some of them will live better than others. They will all have moments of happiness but some will experience it more than others. Some of them will die young and others will live full lives. You will meet many of them again, but a copious number of people who are currently in your life will disappear forever and it will be as if they never existed.”

“That’s sad. . . ”

“That’s life.”

“Well, I wish everybody the best of luck. What about you?”

“Me?”

“What happens to you?”

The man smiles. “I live, I die, the same as anybody else.

“I must thank you,” says Alex.

“For what?”

“For saving my life.”

“I am a figment of your imagination, I did no such thing.”

Alex looks around one more time at the dream world he has built. He walks from the steps of the library to the garden. A small, half-full watering can is near one of the benches. Alex picks it up and begins to water the lilies. He steps back and beholds the blooming flowers with delight.

A man wearing a straw hat appears silently next to him.

“Are you the gardener?” Asks Alex.

“Yes, I am indeed.”

“Then I believe this is yours.”

Alex hands the gardener the watering can. The gardener tips his hat.

As Alex is walking away he can hear a dull buzzing sound. It starts as a mere annoyance in the back of his head but it grows progressively louder until it becomes all he can focus on. Alex feels as though an alarm clock has been placed with the confines of his head. The world starts to become foggy and he can feel his consciousness shift to another plane. He tries to fight the feeling—the feeling of awakening. His vision becomes foggy and he begins to feel sedated. The world rumbles one more time before he realizes he is staring at his bedroom ceiling. “C’est la vie. . . ” he whispers to himself.

All rights belong to the original author, as defined under the Canadian Copyright Law  c .

DannYetman www.DanielYetman.com

The Princess and the Pauper

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In a distant land, centuries ago, there existed two adjacent kingdoms. They both lived in peace and were, for the most part, happy. The first of these two kingdoms was built upon the greatest mountain in the realm; the castle and the village both resided precariously close to the ravine below. If one was to glance at the castle from the valley, that person may be stricken with an innate fear that the castle would one day tumble down the edge of the bluffs. And although such paranoia would not be completely unjustified, the possibility never came to be realized. This kingdom existed at such an altitude the gardens were often bare, and only the most hearty of crops would ever grow.

            The second kingdom was located in the glen below the mountain. Instead of teetering on the edge of a cliff, it resided safely in a grassy meadow. The crops and flowers were so lush that the entire kingdom appeared like a tapestry painted by an artisan of immense talent. Fields of violet and cerulean flowers flowed over the rolling knolls for miles in either direction.

            Each kingdom was ruled by a respected and fair king, both of whom had one daughter. These two princesses had similar lives in all respects, except they lived in two separate kingdoms and never met one another.

            The princess living in the valley, whom we will give the pseudonym Elizabeth to protect her identity, rarely left her castle. She spent most days contently in the safety of the stone walls which surrounded her. Occasionally she would travel into the village, to gaze upon the merchant stalls or at the very least to remind the peasants how radiant she was. Her humility was overshadowed by the air of royalty that she would be unable to rid herself of, even if she dressed down to the same rags the other women in the village were forced to wear. But in no world would she ever dream of being sighted in any cloth other than silk or cashmere. The dresses sewn for her personally were even more vivid than the flowers in the surrounding fields.

            Her castle was on the highest hill in the valley, to give it the illusion of being even more immense than it would have been otherwise. Elizabeth’s room was on the third floor, with a balcony that overlooked the entirety of one of the many violet fields. One day, after standing on her balcony and feeling the gentle August wind playfully toss loose strands of hair across her face, she decided that she would greatly enjoy ambling through the streets of the village. She would get strawberries, she decided.

            As she neared the merchant stalls, and began to trot through the thicket of peasants, she was met with a gratuitous number of smiles and warm gestures. The cerulean dress she wore only farther accented her status. She weaved between handshakes and the men’s feeble attempts to start conversation with her. It would have been impossible for her to acknowledge each person she met to the extent that she would have liked, so she instead met them with a gentle nod and smile.

            The bottom edges of her dress were dulled by speckles of dry mud by the time she reached the produce stall. At first the brightly gleaming watermelons caught her eye, but she regained her attention quickly and began searching for the strawberries instead. A young man wearing a green apron appeared from behind a curtain.

            “Princess,” he said with a light bow.

            She nodded to acknowledge his presence; the bow he gave her isn’t unusual, but she can’t help but feel as though she may have detected sarcasm in his voice.

            “Is there anything I can help you with today, madam?”

            “Yes, I would like three pints of your most ripe strawberries.”

            “Certainly,” he said before disappearing again.

            She feigned interest in the rest of the fruit and vegetables for sale while waiting for his return. She even received a few sharp smiles from two men standing across from a barrel of red potatoes, which she pretended not to notice. She recognized one of the men as the blacksmiths son, but she was unsure of the other man’s identity.

            When the man with the green apron reappeared, he was carrying two pints of ruby red strawberries. Little did she know (but wouldn’t have been overly surprised to learn) he spent five minutes handpicking strawberries from the dozens of other pints for sale.

            “Ah, thank you very much. They look great!” She exclaimed.

            “My pleasure, but I’m afraid I can’t give these to you.”

            “What? Why not?”

            “Well, you see, I couldn’t possibly be able to give these to you in good faith, knowing that there’s a chance the juice may ruin that absolutely beautiful blue dress you are wearing. I must implore for you to let me carry these.”

            She hesitated, knowing full well he was attempting (poorly) to sweet-talk his way into spending the next fifteen minutes with her, hence becoming the most envied man in town. She agreed reluctantly, maybe for no other reason than to evade the responsibility of waving hello to every passerby she would meet.

            Princess and pauper strolled side by side; she politely indulged in his small talk and inquiries in her life as a princess.

            “Oh, it’s not so special I suppose. I’m just like anybody else, I just live in a bigger house.”

            “Fascinating.”

            When they reached the castle she thanked him for escorting her home; she offered to pay him for his time but he emphatically refuses. She hugged him instead, which placed a dumbfounded grin on his face. He tried to hide his excitement but his suddenly elated mannerisms made the confines of his heart easy to read.

            When the produce clerk returned to the stall, he was instantly met with the congratulatory handshake of the blacksmith’s son.

            “Look at you, sneaky bugger, off gallivanting with the king’s daughter.”  

            “I was just walking her home,” he says while trying to contain his enthusiasm.

            “Oh, I see how it is,” he says with a wink.

            “You may think I’m crazy, but I’ll tell ya’ this, I am going to marry that girl someday.”

            The blacksmith’s son laughs hysterically. “Yes right, you and every other man east of Fiemond! You couldn’t get her to take you home even if you were the court gesture sent to make her laugh!”

            “Ah, but you see I have a plan.”

            “Ai, a plan then? Then tell me, mastermind, how are you going to manage that one?”

            “I’m glad you asked”, responded the produce clerk. “Take a look at this.” From under the table he pulled out a folded scrap of parchment, a quill, and a bouquet of lilac flowers.

            “You’re even loopier than I thought. So you picked a few flowers from the garden, and wrote some chicken scratch?”

            “O ye of little faith, just wait and see.”

            The blacksmith’s son left chuckling at the produce clerk’s inane behaviour. A week passed before the clerk works up to courage to storm the castle with amorous intent. He walked straight to the front gate, where two guards stood in chainmail armour with their backs against the stone wall.

            “Excuse me sirs, I am here to see the princess if you wouldn’t mind stepping aside.” He took a step forward, trying to squeeze between them. Nonchalantly one of the guards lowered his pike to block his path.

            “What is it going to take to let me through?” he asked with an exasperated sigh. There was no answer.

            Frustrated, he implemented his backup plan. He walked around to the back of the castle, towards one of the many vast fields of flowers. He gazed towards balcony on the third floor and proceeded to pick up a handful of pebbles. His aim was imprecise, but after about ten rocks he finally managed to hit her window. Elizabeth scampered towards the noise, to see what is amiss. She didn’t seem miffed, or even surprised, when she saw the produce clerk standing two floors below, flowers in hand.

            “Hello, Princess!” he said, boldly gleaming.

            “Hello again, may I help you with something?”

            “I brought you these,” he said while holding up the lilacs.

            “Flowers?”

            “Yes, and this!” He holds up the parchment in his other hand.

            She sighed subtlety, “You do realize where we are don’t you? You are literally standing in a lilac field. If I wanted flowers, I could easily pick them myself.”

            “Oh, okay. Well I still wrote you this.” He opened up the parchment and began to read.

\begin{center} \textit{

Elizabeth,

My gaze falters in your light, the disbelief

Than I’m left with—when you’re not here with me.

My gaze fails me in your light—}

\end{center}

            “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to stop you there. I appreciate the sentiment, but you’re wasting your time with me. Princesses and paupers just don’t mix, we live in two different worlds and we always will.” She returned to her bedroom, shutting the terrace door behind her. Dejected, the produce clerk slinked back towards the produce stall

            A week passed, and the clerk was still brooding upon the princesses words. Fortunately he hadn’t run into the blacksmith’s son since. If he did he would have had to explain the totality of his failed serenade. He began to feel hopeless, as if his life didn’t matter. He searched for meaning, to explain his existence. He visited the council of village elders, hoping they may have an answer for him, but their response left him feeling gloomier than he already was.

The lingering malaise last for many more months that he would care to admit. Then one day, he was met with a particular circumstance that he could have never predicted. On a particularly slow business day, when he was sitting next to a barrel of freshly picked apples he was met with a melodic voice that instantly caught his attention.

“How much for these beautiful, beautiful flowers?” Asked a young woman wearing a bright red, silk dress. The clerk had never met her before, but he recognized her as the princess from the adjacent kingdom.

“Oh, actually those aren’t for sale. I just picked those for decoration.”

“Oh pity, I would really like to purchase them from you.”

“Please, I couldn’t charge you for these! Just look, there are fields of flowers spreading for miles in every direction.”

“Where I am from, up in the mountains, the only flowers we get are the white blossoms of potato plants. But I guess I can’t complain too much, because when I walk out onto my balcony, I look down at your village and it’s the most breathtaking view I can possibly imagine,” she said with a warming smile.

 “Well princess, I can give you these flowers if you like, or I can show you where to find the most vivid lilacs in all the land.”

“I would like that,” she responded. “If it isn’t too much trouble that is.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Then maybe, to return the favour, I can show you the view from our castle.

“I would like that too.”

As promised, the pauper lead the princess to the brightest field of lilacs in town. He offered to pick them for her, so she didn’t tatter her scarlet dress, but she insisted on picking them herself. She scanned the flowers so selectively that the sun was beginning to set by the time they find enough to make a bouquet. In the back of his mind, the clerk wondered if the timing may have been on purpose. The pauper lead the princess back out of the field, onto the dirt rode meant for carriages and horses, and they begin to walk back to the produce stall.

Coincidentally their walk took them by the blacksmith stable, where the forges were burning down for the night. A man appeared from the shop; at first he didn’t notice them, but when he raised his head he was instantly captivated by the beauty before him. When he shifted his gaze again, to the man beside her, no words seemed appropriate. Instead, he gave a gentle nod, and chuckled to himself all the way home.

To Find Korea- Daniel Yetman

To Find Korea

Daniel Yetman 02/14/14

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The suitcases are scattered most unceremoniously. They are thrown on top of each other, slightly askew, but perpendicular enough to one another that it is still obvious that they have been lain with at least some care. As far as the ritual of packing goes, Noah has done the bare minimum possible. He has made it his prerogative to travel as light as possible, which goes against his better judgment. To agonize over each of his possessions, which litter the bookshelves in his room, would be both a waste of time and bring about unnecessary melancholy. He would spend a day, or may several, determining which trinkets have true worth and which he is able to part with. In the end, his suitcases would probably be filled in the same manner they are now, only he would be days behind.

            Noah’s attention shifts from his luggage to the door, upon the initiation of a gentle rapping. The hand on the other side of the door is distinctively feminine, he determines from the clink-clink of an engagement ring against the wood.

            “Enter,” responds Noah. It is not an invitation, but rather a statement.

            The door opens and four pairs of feet coyly enter the doorway. There is a sound of scrambling as the two people try to kick off their shoes while remaining balanced. They enter the living room where Noah is resting with his hands behind his head, and his bare feet resting upon the coffee table.

            “Noah,” the female voice calls out, with a sing-song melody. So sweet, Noah thinks to himself. He turns, to gaze upon her, not with romantic intent, but simple fascination. He shifts his vision to the man next to her, whom has become one of the most influential figures in his life over the years.

            Noah smiles, more to perpetuate the social paradigm of being an inviting host, than out of elation. “Thank you for coming… Jacob… Elizabeth,” he utters.

            Jacob takes a seat next to him on the coach, while Elizabeth—whose hypocoristic name has become Liz—places an angelic hand upon his left shoulder for comfort.

            “Have you found it?” asks Jacob. Noah opens his mouth, as if to respond, but isn’t quite sure of the sentiment he would like to pass.

***

The year 2000 might have passed like any other, had it not been for the unique rolling of digits it brought, as the new millennium unfolded. Even at seven years of age, Noah has already begun to develop an understanding of the continuity of time. People seem to enjoy giving meaning to certain days or years, as it allows them to easily keep track of time so they can converse about how quickly it has passed. The concept of time does certainly seem to act as an efficient scapegoat in conversations between two unique people who do not care to get to know each other further, but who don`t enjoy sitting with silence between them.

            After the initial excitement of New Year’s Day, and the evident outcome of the world in fact not ending, life went back to way it always has. School started up again and January came and passed. February thus far has been particularly mild, but children do not tend to notice such things, as they have fewer years to compare than their adult counterparts.

            Noah looks up from his desk, at the calendar at the front of the classroom, just as the bell begins to ring. A series of pink hearts circle the entire week, signaling that it is the week of Valentine’s Day. Such a date means little to Noah, but he has begun to notice an increased frequency of pink bows in their hair of his female classmates. In fact, the girl seated in front of him has had pink lace tying back her blonde hair since February first. Two days ago she asked if he would be her Valentine. Unsure of what that meant, he smiled shyly and dropped his head. He still hasn’t responded properly.

            Noah is late leaving the classroom, all of the other children are already outside frolicking through snowbanks by the time he makes it outside. His boot laces are tangled together and it isn’t until the teacher offers a helping hand that he is finally able to solve the Gordian Knot.

            The outside world is grey, bleak even. The sky is filled with a silvery mist that acts as a blanket. The rain is so subtle that there may not be any precipitation at all, just humidity which builds against the skin. The snow, which only a week ago was piled high, is now crumpled into lonely looking drifts. Behind the school there is a baseball field, which is currently covered in about three inches of slush. Kids from all grades are out on the field. The boys push and shove each other in a competitive type of playfulness. The girls watch from afar, giggling to each other and acting aloof enough to keep the boys weary of the secrets they whisper.

            Noah takes a reluctant footstep into the water and ice mixture, before hearing his name called. He swivels his head, surprised and timorous. He locks eyes with the girl with the pink lace in her hair. She is standing in a group of six girls, some of which are in his class and some who he`s never met. He holds her gaze, expecting her to finish her thought, or at least provide insight as to why she called him. If he was expecting resolution, he finds none. She turns back to her group of friends and pretends as if she didn`t say anything at all. Noah is thoroughly confused, and continues to amble by the group of girls until he reaches the far side of the field.

            There is a hill by the outfield fence, which is about three times as high as Noah is tall. It isn’t by any means a shear drop off, but now that it is covered in snow some of Noah’s classmates dare each other to jump all the way to the bottom. Some of the kids jump halfway down but none of them are foolish enough, to jump all the way to the lowest point.

            Noah stops when he reaches the edge where the other kids are standing. He watches Jimmy Haus, a kid from his homeroom class, who resembles a blown up beach ball, tumble down the side of the hill.

            “Noah will do it!” Tony Gray yells.

            “No he won’t,” rebuttals Alex O’brien.

            “Do what?” Asks Noah.

            “Jump to the bottom! Nobody’s made it all the way down yet.”

            “Is it safe?” he asks with sly consideration.

            “Of course it’s safe,” responds Alex.

            “Then why hasn’t anybody tried it yet?”

            “Because their all chicken!”

            “Why haven’t you tried it yet?” Noah asks.

            “I am waiting for somebody else to go first…”

            Noah scans the bottom of the hill, trying to judge the best landing spot. He backs up to the edge of the fence, to get as large a running start as possible. He takes in a deep breath. A leap of faith—he will take a leap of faith. He lets the air of his lungs, takes two steps to the edge of the drop-off, and for a second he is airborne. He can feel his legs flail under him, desperately searching for a solid surface. It feels like he is in the air for a disproportional amount of time, and he wonders if the ground will ever come. It does.

            With a crash, the tingling, weightless sensation disappears and he is left with a new feeling. A feeling of something being amiss… His right leg is twisted beneath him at an awkward angle, and the snow around him starts to become dyed a crimson red. The kids at the top of the hill shout in disbelief, still talking about how awesome Noah’s leap was. But then, their chattering becomes serious as they realize what Noah has done. He did not land in a fluffy white snowbank, as they had planned, but rather they edge of a concrete storm drain which has sliced through a six inch section of Noah’s leg.

            The children yell for help, they run back to the school to find a teacher to give them guidance. Two of the kids stay with Noah, awkwardly trying to comfort him, and holding back tears. Noah isn’t in any pain, at least not yet. He feels… Satisfaction. He has no regrets for the leap he has taken.

***

“Noah, what are you thinking?” asks Jacob.

            “I think… It seems… Somewhere along the way I forgot how to leap.”

            “What do you mean?” asks Elizabeth with concern.

            “I’m not sure exactly… But it seems somewhere along the way I grew complacent—comfortable—and I stopped trying to grow. I am accustomed to always taking the easiest path. And I hate that.”

            “Noah, you are just doing the best you can. That is all any of us can ever hope to do,” responds Jacob.

           

***

The hats fly up in a sea of blue, before falling back to earth in a mismatched cluster of tangled tassels. Noah, however, does not partake in the ceremonial paradigm, instead he holds his cap in his hands, and nervously runs it through his hands, secretly wishing to leave this place. Amongst a sea of cheering and smiles, he is left pensively brooding. He desires deeply to dive into the joy that surrounds him.

At this graduation there are individuals who will go on to be some of the greatest minds to ever bless their fields of study. They will go to college, with full scholarships, and spend the next decade of their lives in study. There are others here who only received notification of their graduation a week previous. They squeaked by with academic averages only a sliver of a percent above a passing margin. But they are happy… All of them.

Noah falls somewhere in the middle, not a genius, but smart enough to know there exists more to this world than what he has yet to see. He feels unfulfilled. In a couple months’ time he will be leaving for college, a grand experience in its own right but the decision feels stereotyped. Perhaps he will continue his studies for no other reason than it is what he ought to do.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and he turns around to be met with the gleaming grin of his English teacher, Mr. O’Brien—a man who he can say with great confidence was the most influential teacher he has ever had. He gives his congratulations and wishes Noah all the best in his future endeavors. With a handshake, their student-teacher bond is broken and it’s as if they never met. As Mr. O’Brien walks away, his teaching assistant gives Noah a nod and smile which he returns shyly. She is a woman with dark brown hair which curls gently below her ears. She is in the last semester of finishing her education degree, and this moment must been as monumental for her as it is for Noah. Now that she finishing her teaching practicum she will be thrown out into the real world.

Noah silently wishes her a long and successful career. Perhaps his yearning for this woman to be happy is systemic from the small crush he developed for her over the course of the semester. Or maybe it’s simply a mirroring of the kindness he knows she holds within her heart.

“We made it!” Exclaims Alex, the same Alex who was with him at the hill when they were both seven. They have been close friends ever since that day but now it seems their paths are destined to diverge. It’s funny how influential somebody can be in your life and then, almost instantaneously, they are gone forever.

Noah continues the exchange of goodbyes and felicitations until he has spoken to each person he has made a connection with throughout the years. He exchanges a hug with Rob, who was his best friend for a significant portion of junior high, but who he has since drifted apart with. He shakes the hands of Joseph and Devin, two friends who never missed an opportunity to partake in witty banter. He says goodbye to Stephanie with a kiss on the cheek. She is the girl who wore the pink lace in her hair ten years ago. She has since grown into a beautiful young woman, and a friend.

“Will you be my Valentine?” asks Noah, with a wide smile.

“Always and always,” she responds. And then they part.

Noah’s last goodbye is with the young woman who he was romantically entangled with a mere week ago. Now however, they are two separate beings each ready to walk their own paths. The goodbye is quick. He wishes her a good life too.

At the end of the day, Noah takes the long way home. He stops by the lake about five minutes away from his home. He stares across the glassy surface. Two young ducklings swimming though the reeds cause the only ripples. Noah thinks of his friends who will disperse across the continent by the end of the summer. He is happy for them, he truly is, but he can’t help but feel a pang of resentment. He will be starting at this lake for at least the next four years. As beautiful as this lake can be, there is an entire world of ponds and streams to explore. His heart feels nondescript, it beats a regular rhythm. He is neither sad nor overjoyed. He’s just there, sitting alone, by the lake.

***

Jacob leaves the apartment, upon remembering that he forgot to put coinage in the parking meter next to his vehicle. Liz stays with Noah and the two of them converse in a way that only a man and a woman can. Although they have never expressed romantic intent towards each other, there is an unspoken attraction between the two of them that neither of them would ever dream of acting on—for the bond they share is worth preserving.

“You’re running from something,” she states.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“What would I be running from?”

“You are trying to escape.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are a terrible liar.”

“I’m a great liar, you’re just good at reading faces.”

She smiles. He’s glad he made her smile, sometimes he thinks she doesn’t do enough of that.

“It will follow you. You know that right?”

“I—”

“You cannot run from your heart.”

***

To an optimist, today would be a good day indeed. Winter finally appears to be alleviating and the last traces of snow are disappearing. However, a pessimist may focus on the rain or the fact that their feet are doomed to be soaked. The sun may be shining, but it’s hard to tell exactly where it resides since it seems to be hiding behind a thicket of clouds. Noah lets out an exasperated sigh as he steps outside of his last class of the day.

He is three months away from graduating from his undergraduate degree—a push into the real world. He can’t help but think of the teaching assistant he had in high-school and wonders if she was successfully in making her way in the world. Noah’s heart feels as unresolved as it ever has—he is searching, ever searching for meaning. No, he is waiting. He is waiting for divine meaning to be thrown upon his lap.

What is the cure? Is it love? Is it peace? Is it wealth? Is it success? He lets out another sigh as he saunters past the garden behind one of the older buildings on campus. He lets himself rest on one of the benches, next to where the lilac tree should be, at least in the summer months.

This garden has been somewhat if a saviour for Noah since his college career has first began. This simple oasis is more than a collection of plants and stone. It is his temple, his church—the basis of his religion. Whenever he outthinks the capabilities of his mind this sanctuary immediately seems to bring relief. There seems to be at least one chickadee permanently infused within the confines of the surrounding trees. No matter what season Noah resides here, there is always at least one gleeful hymn.

There are three kids playing on a snowdrift in the distance. Where most of the snow has melted, they have found the one perpetual snowbank that will last nearly year round, behind the rink. The fight for supremacy at the apex, and shove each other down to the bottom.

“C’est la vie…” Noah mutters beneath his breath.

There is a guard rail behind the snowbank that divides the parking lot from the grassy hill behind it. The kids stop their game of king of the hill, and at least momentarily all three of them reside on the paramount peacefully.

Noah gazes upon them in amusement until it occurs to him what they are considering. With a flashback of his own winter misfortunate, he considers removing himself from his seat and warning them that it isn’t safe to be playing so close to the metal divider. He raises to his feet and hesitates, his internal dialog attempts to convince him that their blood will be on his hands if they should slip and fall. He sits back down and helpless to watch as the first child attempts to catapult himself across the gorge. Noah bites down on his lip hard. A leap of faith. One by one all three children clear the gap. A leap of faith…

***

“Noah,” the voice is strong and stern. It is Jacob. Noah is unsure exactly when he returned, but he is here now.

“Noah, your taxi is here.”

Jacob offers him his hand, to help him rise from his seat but Noah remains stationary with a glazed over look in his eyes.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” Asks Elizabeth.

“I… I don’t know,” he says. A more honest sentiment could not possibly be expressed.

“Do you want to take a moment?”

He appropriately answers with silence before clearing his throat and beginning to speak. “I… I’m not sure exactly what I am looking for, but I know that it isn’t here. I don’t know where I’m going to find it or how long it is going to take. But I know that I can’t live another day without it.”

Elizabeth rubs his arm and coaxes him to stand. “Are you sure, Noah? Are you sure that it’s not with you already?”

“I… am… Not even remotely confident either way.”

“Well it’s time,” says Jacob. “It is now or never.”

“Now or never? Are the literal paths I must walk so clearly defined that there is no in-between? Now or never. Reside or leave. What if I stay, and a year from now I realize that what I was looking for all along is make-believe—that what I have been chasing after is a fairy tale?”

Neither Elizabeth nor Jacob have an appropriate response.

“What if I leave today and I find that I made the worst decision of my life? What if I can’t find what I am looking for and spend the rest of my years plagued with what-ifs.What if I wake up each morning assured that I made the wrong choice and have to live knowing that it can never be undone?”

“We can’t make this decision for you. It’s up to you.”

Noah drags himself to his feet, with Liz helping him for support. He ambles towards the living room window, to gaze upon the world below.

“Somewhere along the way I stopped jumping off snowbanks. I stopped taking leaps of faith.”

“We all grow up, Noah.”

The taxi outside honks impatiently and Jacob steps outside to explain the delay. Noah turns to Liz and stares through her eyes. He appears so distinct and expressionless that she cannot meet the gaze for more than several seconds.

“My friend, what would you do if you were I? Where does your faith lie? I fear mine may lead me astray. You know me best, the ins and outs of my heart—the caverns of my mind that I do not dare explore. You opinion is gold in my eyes. I give you all. I give you the very essence that is me. Elizabeth… Liz… Stephanie Elizabeth Moore, am I making the best decision of my life, or am I making the worst?”

“I… I…” her breath has been taken, there is no answer she can give, and he knows it.

The Man Without A Name

The Man Without A Name

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The walls must be closing in, for with each heartbeat the room seems to become more enclosed. Perhaps in a few minutes from now the man, who for the purpose of this passage possesses no name, will be able to reach across the breadth of this dungeon and feel the cool plaster press him into nonexistence. At this moment, the entire world, outside of these confines, is a figment of his imagination. Staying here is safe, if he does not wish to be sad, he does not have to be sad. If he does not wish to be happy, he does not need to be happy. There is nobody to satisfy, besides himself. There is nobody who will be able to witness his flaws and his blunders.

He tears at his hair with grim expression, as he begins to pace nervously. He is not somebody who is normally bothered by claustrophobia, but even he starts to become anxious as he begins to wonder if the ceiling truly may have been several inches higher when he first entered. His current state of mind is so intense and horrific that he feels both euphoric and intensely elevated. Still, he is plagued by a cyclic hopelessness and lack of purpose. He cannot recall the last time he has lain his head to rest; his eyes are burning simply from his current state of wakefulness. He wishes to sleep, but he is afraid of what may occur if he misses a moment of this life, which currently only exists within the confines of his room.

I can only imagine what he would say to me if he knew I am sitting at the dining room table, behind the barrier of his door, in the world he, at this moment, is not a part of. I am lightly engrossed in a riveting tale that I am currently amidst the process of writing. I sit, with a tea cup near enough to my right hand that I can sip it at my leisure, but not so near that I may risk spilling it across the laptop I am typing at. I can perfectly picture the anger that would arise if the man (who still remains without a name) knew that I am feebly engaging my greatest effort into attempting to portray the sentiment I know that he is currently feeling. I wish to tell him that I have expressed the same sadness and terror in my life—and yes—I have given in to the same darkness. I yearn to tell him that there have been points in my life too I was sure that I would not survive. I have felt the same emptiness as him.

I have attempted to knock on his door several times prior to this moment, but each time I was met with silence. I know that he is still alive only by the sound of his feet pacing the floor, and the occasional misstep which causes the floor boards to creak. No, I will not be bothering this man anymore, moreover he will meet me on his own terms. Eventually his door will crack open, and I will witness him sluggishly stepping towards the kitchen. I will meet his gaze and portray to him my utter understanding. I feel as though our thought processes are eerily similar, even if our behaviour manifests in different manners. He is feeling the darkness, and letting it consume him, while I am using his darkness to rid myself of my own. I am documenting his darkness so the devil may relieve me of my own. If I was capable of remorse or guilt perhaps I would cease my efforts to capture his sentiment and instead turn my attention to being a close friend, a companion, a confidant, a comrade, or crony.

Back in the room, the nighttide is consuming, the man has never felt more alone in the entirety of his existence. He is captive within the limits of his own imagination; he cannot leave this room for he is afraid to see what may be waiting for him. His thought pattern is abstract and sporadic, as if he is moments away from finding ultimate meaning but does not process the thought processes to let it out. His mind is being held back, by his own inferior intelligence. The room is collapsing, his mind is collapsing. Breathing is a chore. This is death, this is the feeling of giving up—to not have the energy to lift a finger, let alone his entire figure. He collapses into a crumple on the floor of his room, letting out a lone whimper. The combination of lack of nutrition and sleep has left him feeling weak and afraid. He fears he may never be able to amble back to his feet.

The four walls continue their shift towards each other and suddenly the room is the size of a small closet. He is left alone in the darkness while his thoughts—the depressive cognitions, which plague him still, become all consuming. His brain pulsates, while thoughts radiate, he is overwhelmed by a momentary wave of grief so profound that he can feel his entire body shudder. Alone… Alone, what is the definition of being alone? At all moments our minds are simply our own, no matter who we stand next to, in essence we are always lost in a single mind. No matter how close we may be to another individual we are still our own person. Alone! We are so alone at every moment of our existence, from the day we are born to the day we pass away. But for whatever reason, at this instant, the man feels particularly deserted in his isolation. He feels passionately hopeless.

The human mind is such a beautiful entity, the brain’s involution is so intense, that when it is damaged—when it is bruised—it can turn life into a nightmare, akin to our most surreal dreams. Can we all relate, to the pains and tribulation this world has to offer? In the darkness the man starts to wonder if every mind is hardwired to think with the same methodology as his. And I, still sitting quietly at the table, find myself with thoughts that I assume are truly alike to his own. Are we all searching for ultimate meaning, the purpose of why we have been put on the face of this earth? Are we all destined for something greater than ourselves, or is it possible that we can die with our questions unanswered? What if we are living a dream from which death is the only awakening?

            The man’s consciousness becomes a contrast between being awake and faintly asleep. He lays on the floor, in a heap, desperately searching for the reason… The reason he was cursed with a mind that never ceases to rest. He asks himself why he cannot find happiness like many of his peers, and instead, he is on an endless quest for perfect understanding. I too, have had similar thoughts and have dived into a similar frustration.

            Time is an illusion, an entity that does not currently exist. To me, my perception of a minute is as it has always been. The clock ticks at the same rate it always has. But on the other side of the door, the man’s conceptualization of a minute is akin to my perception of a year. Although both our watches may depict the same set of numbers, a moment to me is not a moment to the man. In the time it has taken me to write this page, the man has lived a decade or more—he has wept a lifetime of tears and smiled a lifetime worth of happiness. I can’t help but wonder where the true psychosis may lie. Is he the one who has lost contact with reality or have I? I shiver as begin to question the philosophic boundaries of what is real and what is not.

            The room the man resides in has transformed again from the size of closet to the size of a kitchen cabinet. He lies with his knees tucked into his chest and can concurrently feel the ceiling, floor, and walls pushing against him. In his reality he resides in a box in the middle of the universe. If he was able to leave the confines of his prison he would step into space, a million miles away from earth. He whimpers, unknowing that in my reality he is only a door away. In my reality I can clearly depict the sound of his whining, and I must admit, with each utterance my heart feels as though it is skipping a beat. I am oversorrowed so much so, that I hesitate in my chronicling. And for the time it takes for me to inhale one breath I even feel what may be described as guilt.

            The whining continues, as the man continues to be pushed from existence. The walls are pushing again him in such an intense manner that he can feel his bones start to break. His eyes, which are void of tears, from a lack of fluids, blink uncontrollably. The man, who I would now like to give a name, may have otherwise given up at that moment if it had not been for our two worlds suddenly becoming intertwined.

            My typing become more furious as I attempting to capture the scene that was about to unfurl with perfect sentiment.

“Fight it!” I yell as I bang the keys at a near random fashion.

“Fight it!” I shout again, surprised that I am still able to forms words with my fingers. The table sways so acutely that the teacup tips off the table and shatters into two nearly equal halves next to my feet.

“Fight it!” I shout with an odd combination of fascination, agitation, and excitement.

I’m not sure if my voice carried all the way to the man but something within his head clicked at that instant. As much as I would like to take credit for his revolution, deep within my heart I knew my words were only meant for me. The man begins to push on the walls which are enclosing him, and he even comes across the fortitude to stand up. He pushes the ceiling back to its rightful place far above him and stretches his unmalleable joints which had been folded to nearly the point of compression. In a matter of seconds the room returns to its original girth and he is left alone to once again to walk about. He languishes the door with an innocent visage. His greatest desire at this moment is to do nothing other than to feel the brass of the door handle beneath his fingertips. He steps towards the edge of his imprisonment, and stares at his impending freedom, which is the doorway. He places his hand on the handle—it feels exactly as he imagined it would. He desperately wants to let his tears flow, but given his dehydration, his tears would likely come out as grains of sand.

The door opens, and I stop typing momentarily until I am certain that the man has truly conquered his demons and floundered back to my reality. When I meet his gaze I am startled by the salient expression he wears on his face. I expected him to look defeated and in a psychotic state of terror. But his eyes, the green-grey evanescent orbs in his possession gleam with a victorious sheen, and odd contrast to the racoon like circles on his face which signal his fatigue. He smiles, perpetuating his delirium—a hapless grin that both terrifies me and make me jealous that I do not possess it.

“To the man with no name, I ask, are you okay? Are you alive? Are your footsteps treading reality? Have you defeated the darkness?”

He says nothing, but I am still assured that his demons have passed him, due to the sparkle in the corner of his eye that long ago disappeared. He collapses into the seat across the table from me and rests his forehead against both of his hands. I examine him momentarily, with my head slightly cocked to the left, before being lifted from my seat. Gingerly, I step towards the kitchen to pour a glass of water. After placing two ice cubes within the glass I walk back to the dining room and place the glass back in front of the man.

“Welcome back,” I say to him. He nearly smiles.

The only sound that exists between us thereafter is the sound of my keyboard being bludgeoned by my hands as I tried to capture the precarious interaction between me and the man who still has not been named.

DannYetman

www.DanielYetman.com

Lost and Frozen (The Garden II)

Lost and Frozen (The Garden II)

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The Garden (Part 1)

There are a set of eyes, across the room, staring at me with such lust and passion that I have no doubt they belong to an individual who loves me unconditionally. I cannot hold the gaze, my own vision falters as I begin to wonder if I will truly be able to reach such a state with my own heart. I shift my eyes once more to align my visage with the face of the beast who still stares back with innocence and naivety. There is no jealousy within the optics of this creature, I could abuse it, mistreat it, or cause it physical harm that it does not deserve, yet it would still come back, seemingly happy, with forgiveness and benevolence in its heart. 

            The dog barks, with a coy grin, perhaps for no other reason than to remind me that it is still in the room. Oddly enough, I smile back, but I think there is sadness on my face. At this moment I portray an individual with a broken heart. Pessimism consumes me, and keeps me stuck in a spiral of bitter remorse. The dog in the room—the brown and white being—evokes thoughts that have been plaguing me since the beginning of my days. This animal, this critter, this soul across from me is the optimist while I am its other half. The dog and I stare at one another—together we have a holistic view or the world. But, in truth, we are both fine. The dog is satisfied being a dog, and I am satisfied being somewhere between a boy and a man. My brain continues to think, my heart continues to feel warmth, and my body has survived defeat.

            The last time I was in this room, the last time I stared into this dog’s set of eyes, was on the night my mind was so adrift, that I felt as though my thought processes were so mixed up and backwards I was positive I would never be unfuddled again. I sat, in the exact spot I am in at this moment; my head was spinning. I was weak and vulnerable, my heart had an open wound, and was leaving a trail of sanguine fluid behind me as I stood up to walk the city streets. Through the darkness, I desperately tried to hold onto my beliefs, the morals and guidance that I have built my life around. But they were slipping, and I was ready to give in to the evil all around me. I wished to break every sacred vow that I laid upon myself.

            My footstep brought me in circles, I had no destination, and I was unsure of what to do with myself—all that I knew was that it was vital that I continued to walk. If my footsteps ceased, and I was left alone in my head, I knew, it could easily be the death of me. I had grown callous and confused, I was desperately afraid of my own shadow. Looking back, I’m relatively certain that what I sought was acceptance, belonging, and another human voice to linger with my own to wed together in the art of conversation. My fingers went numb first, followed by my ears and then toes. Eventually my entire body felt as though it had succumbed to the frigid night’s air. I knew that I could not expose myself to the elements any longer, so I vowed to duck indoors at the next opportunity.

            I came across an Irish pub that I strolled into once before, nearly a year previous. My heart was feeling as amiss on that night as it was on this night. I met a man, during my previous encounter as this establishment, he was three times my age and ten times wiser. He talked me through my heartbreak then, and elated my soured soul. It seemed far too coincidental that I ended up here again. Even though I wandered with unguided destination, I could not help but wonder if I was guided here by some mystique force. Perhaps I returned, to seek him out and to once again let him into my head. I wanted him to rip apart the cobwebs which always seem to keep me from thinking with perfect clarity.

            When I took my first steps into the pub, I had a sinking feeling within my chest. My already dampened spirits were further supressed when I found I would have to pull up a stool at the bar alone.   

            “What will ya be having tis evening?” The bartender asked, as he cantered towards me. In all honesty, I neither cared nor desired to spend my time giving it any thought.

“Whatever you want,” I responded. He mumbled something before turning his back to me, and based on his gruff exterior, it probably wasn’t too pleasant.

            Perhaps it was just my imagination taking the reigns of my sanity, but the next time I turned my head to the right I was met with a figure, cradling a glass of scotch like it contained the secrets of the universe.

            “Excuse me sir,” I said to him.

            “Yes, young man,” he responded with a sly intonation.

            “I am not sure if you remember me or not, for I am sure that I do not give a lasting impression—”

            “You underestimate the effect of our previous conversation. I very much do remember you, and all the trouble brewing within your chest. Now tell me, what is the current condition of your heart?”

            I wasn’t quite sure how to answer his question. I opened my mouth on several occasions before getting the words to fit just right. “My heart… Is vapid at this moment. I am not sure what to believe anymore, I am not sure what is right… What is wrong? There are so many people in this world, and all offer a unique perspective. But so many of them are poison! They belittle your ideas, they belittle your desires and dreams and make you feel worthless. And that is how they manipulate you into their way of thinking. I know I sound sardonic and cynical, but I can’t help but look upon the world with a glum outlook… How can this be all there is? How can there just be life and death and nothing more?”

            “Young man, you may feel as though you are the first person to have their mind tainted, you may feel like the first person to question the purpose of our existence—to search for answers beyond deities and wishing upon stars. You feel as though a piece of you has been taken, you feel as though your heart is missing, but it’s been with you all along. You are old enough to see the imperfections in the world but not so old that you can understand them. We are all searching for the answers to our questions, for we are all searching for ultimate meaning. We are all searching for the reason we have been put on this planet.” He put his hand on my shoulder, and let it linger as I searched for an appropriate response.

            “I like to believe that there is good in this world, as well as evil. Nobody is purely evil, just as nobody is pure at heart. We all full somewhere along the spectrum,” I said to him.

            “I believe you are correct.”

            “But this system we live in… It is not fair! Why is it that there are people in the world with nothing but good intentions who die prematurely, who never find what it is they are looking for? But there are people out there, selfish people who would sell their souls to get ahead in life, who find happiness, find love, and find success. My initial belief system, my innate viewpoint that I was given, is that good will always prevail. Kindness is the methodology to capture hearts, gratitude is the secret to happiness and success. But each day I wake, and the more people I speak to, the more I start to think that I have everything backwards. How can lying, cheating, and being an awful person pave the way to happiness?”

            “Life is neither straight forward nor complete. Your youthfulness betrays you. What you do not yet possess is patience. You may grow callous, you may become more cynical than anybody who has ever lived, but you cannot possibly hope to change your predisposition. If you think that you will wake up one day and suddenly be able to look your peers in the eyes and lie bluntly, you are sadly mistaken. If you think you will wake up one morning and suddenly abandon your quest for self-improved you are much more disillusioned than you seem.”

            “Why not? Why can’t I hire an experimental neurosurgeon to cut the neurons in my brain that control reason, restraint, and my inhibitions? Why do I seem to have a destiny to always give my heart away in the most inappropriate instances? I am starting to feel like a chronicler, foreordained to watch the world pass by through my own paradoxical eyes. But what of you? What of you, who has observed a near infinite amount of life and death? How have you gotten past the wayward drifting of those special individuals who, year after year, continued to claw at your heart?”

            “There is no secret. There is no magical remedy which will give you back your innocence, your childlike view of the world. Each time your heart is cracked or chiselled, it will not grow back, but instead be forever damaged. The secret is to continue living, to ignore the itching, the wishing, and the sentiment that exists no longer.”

            “But that cannot be life,” I said to him.

            “C’est la vie.”

            “No, we are not simply living to patch up holes in our character. What kind of life would we be living if it was one without true love? What kind of life would it be if there are no consequences for manipulating and sabotaging people? At this moment—at this very moment—each breath is a struggle, my mental acuity is failing me and I feel more dead than alive. But still, I cannot let go of my mindset. Even if I am fighting a losing battle, even if I am destined to be broken hearted each and every day until I pass away, I refuse to believe that there is nothing more to this life. If I stopped believing that good will always prevail, I would have nothing left to hang onto. My mind would flounder, because the lines of fiction and reality would have become so intermingled that there would be no way to separate them.”

            “We all have our vices, we all have beliefs that keep us sane, if you need yours in order to—”

            “I don’t just need my beliefs, I need them to be true! I can’t believe a lie.”

            “In this life there is no truth, there are no lies. There are just people, who walk around as zombies, each and every day of their lives. They don’t think; they don’t reason; they just are.”

            “Will it ever change? Is there any hope for us?”

            “No, there definitely is not,” the man responded with certainty.

            We two men sat in silence, for what felt like half the night. There was a gentle scratching as the bartender wiped down the counter with an already soiled rag. I can even vividly remember the sound of the flames in the fireplace crackling. The man I was sitting with finished off his drink and lifted his coat from the seat next to him, as if to signal that it was time for him to leave. And then, without a word, he was gone. I am still not sure if he was actually with me that night, or if he was just a phantom that I contrived to satisfied my basic human needs, to evade my loneliness.

            “One more?” The bar tender asked me, probably hinting that he wants to close for the night.

            “Ahh… Yes, I am finished, I believe,” I responded, not totally certain.

            I rose from my seat and walked towards the door, lingering by the hearth on my way out. I took a final scan of the pub, to deeply encode it into my brain and then I left, I stepped back into the winter night. The physical numbness that overcame me before I entered started to flirt with me again. I began to hurry home, at a pace between a fast canter and slow jog. But eventually, on my quest for warmth, I was distracted. A pining within my chest began to gnaw at my heart. The feeling was so pronounced that I had to stop walking completely. I paused, staring at my own breath in the cold air. I switched directions, and instead of returning to my residence, where I could sit down for a steaming glass of tea, I continued onwards, towards the one place in the world where I know I can find tranquility.

            The garden was lit by a single lantern, which illuminated the snowy flowerbeds. The birds may have migrated months ago, and to any passersby it may have appeared grey and dreary, but to me it was simply radiant. To me, it looked just as it did the first time I came here to rest my weary form.

It was the most beautiful summer evening I could have imagined. The warbles and chickadees lost their chronic shyness as I sat next to them. They flew from flower to flower and sang gaily, as if they knew that I was gazing upon them and they wanted to give me the most profound performance they could muster. My heart was so full of joy, that it would have taken an army of men to remove me from the seat. I sat there, contently, writing about the beauty I had been fortuitous enough to witness.

            The second time I came here, a year later, I was not alone. Of all the people whom I could have brought, I found myself next to the individual who held my heart during my first trek here. And I must admit, she held my heart still. I told her such, but the words were not soon enough and before I had time to blink she was gone again. This time, the rain drenched us both, and although the flowers did not seem to want to bloom, the chickadees were still extroverts and the warblers still seemed happy to have company.

            Then, amidst my third trip here, I was shaking and convulsing from the cold. The flowers were buried, the birds long ago left and there was not another living soul as far as the eye could see. Still, it was as peaceful as ever.

            Pending frostbite eventually lifted me from my seat, and before I blinked I was home again. The cup of tea I had been fantasizing about since I left the pub was finally in my hand as I came to rest on the old red sofa in the living room. I crashed down into the seat, almost spilling the cup in my hand. I looked across the room, to the dog who gazed at me. That was less than a day ago, but it might as well have been a lifetime previous.

            Today, I sit in the same seat, staring at the same dog. He does not come running when I call his name, but instead, he walks calmly before jumping in my lap.

“I know you can’t understand what I am saying, but I have a question for you—what is the meaning of life? I wish I was better at articulating my feelings, but I feel like I am looking for something. I feel like we are all looking for something, but what is it? Could it be love? Companionship? Acceptance? We are all in love with somebody, even you are in love with somebody. I am so tired of this life, I am tired of looking for one person to make me happy—one person who I can reciprocate that elation back to. Is that what we all one? One person who can love us for who we are? You are just a dog but even you know who makes you happy. Myself, I am not smart enough to know what I want in this world. I had my heart broken once on a day like today, the memory is still so fresh that it brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it. Do you, a tiny puppy, understand these feelings I am trying to describe to you? If you do, bark or shake my hand. Do something to let me know that your head isn’t empty…”

            The dog shifts its head, in such a way as to make eye contact with me. The dog doesn’t say a word, perhaps because it is a dog, but he gives me a look that nearly makes me gasp. There is such human emotion tattooed across his face that for a second I completely forget that he is not human.

            “Thank you.” I say to the creature. “Perhaps this is it. Perhaps this is the greatest love man is able to feel. The unconditional bond that exists between you and me is unbreakable. Could I—or any other person on this planet—ever been filled was such a pure emotion, such altruism towards another person?”

            I pause, upon posing the question, which in all honesty was meant to be ironic. I let it circle around in my cognition before thoughtfully providing a response. “Yes… Yes, I believe that it is.”

            The dog rests its chin on my lap before closing its eyes and letting itself drift from conscious thought. I place my right hand behind his ear and begin to rhythmically stroke the fur that is draping down. I become as peaceful as the dog, content with the resolution I have finally obtained. 

     DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com