Something Else

I don’t think it’s so much a thing, as it is an idea. But then again, you really can’t imagine it, put it into words or images or colors or sounds.

It’s not that sweet candy, red like a ripe tomato or a shiny ruby, which tastes so sweet that your tongue goes numb and your saliva tastes bitter afterwards.

It’s also not that time when you’re so tired you’re not tired anymore, that you’ve been up so long your eyelids are open only because they’ve already been open so long they don’t remember how to close anymore; so long your eyes have become dry and the words on the page begin to fly, the door beginning to zoom in and out, and the walls no longer holding the ceiling still. It’s not being on the ocean, the pure, blue Mediterranean, where the horizon is indistinguishable and the breeze is warm and cool at the same time, the sunshine searing and relaxing, the waves bob up and down, gently enough that you can walk around fine and not be nauseous, but significant enough so that back on land the wooden planks on the pier seem to come alive, with the aim of tripping you and making it impossible to walk sober.

And it’s still not a good dream — that vague impression as you arch your back in the morning with your face in the morning sun, listening to yourself groan and the sheets ruffle and the tiny birds chirp, attempting to remember what last night’s dream consisted of; usually no more than a premise, like being chased by a monster or being forced to play a ridiculous game with embarrassing relatives or being stranded in a strange, unknown place, though sometimes the settings are familiar, like your home, complete with the dark brown leather sofas with the old clock that ticks really loudly, the mahogany wood floor that smells of the three-star hotel you stayed at in rural North Dakota; still other times, it is completely alien: stuff that is beyond your wildest imaginations, except it’s not — I mean, it is a dream; that stuff has to be from your imagination...perhaps it is only strange because you never had the insane idea of pairing the graphics of Minecraft with your Algebra II classroom, the one with the desks in groups of fours and the motivational posters lining the wall, the one with the humid odor of greasy cafeteria food lingering and that all the loud, obnoxious kids end up in — the absurdity coming from the combination, like apple sandwiches or purple eyes.

But no, it isn’t really absurd, just hard to describe, like love, or pain…though sometimes they end up being the same thing: that feeling of bliss and indescribable warmth and airiness, the type that causes your facial muscles to tense up and smile stupidly…and then the feeling of having your stomach gutted and poisoned, and your mind’s foundation of security whipped out from beneath, the crash from that isn’t so much heard, but felt — and felt through the blank stares and desolate thoughts, clenched fists and that nagging voice that stills says, “I love you”. But the cesspool of emotions doesn’t capture it either. They are similar only in that they are fleeting, cerebral and yet all the same instinctive and intuitive, unable to grasp and hold on and examine.

It is the school of fish that swims large and proud, but upon being approached, simply disperses, fading away into the gloom of the briny ocean, without a sound. Maybe I should try swimming farther, faster, and more quietly. Maybe instead of tapping the glass to draw attention, I should circle to the back, and in my sleek, black, wetsuit, descend into the water and paddle silently, with delicate, fluid, rounded strokes. I am only hoping to catch a single fish, a single squirming, slimy silver fish, with its mouth gaping for the air it cannot breathe, flapping its fins feverishly without effect. I’ll bring my head close, eyeing its eye, smelling the entire sea within its meager flesh, brushing my gloved hands against its tiny scales. Yet, I am afraid it will not be so easy. Fish are elusive, and the environment they inhabit is simply too big.

I think I shall hunt in a different place, closer to home, nearer to my heart: the play structure at the elementary school, where I used to climb the monkey bars until my hands blistered, and run in the tanbark until my knees were scraped. I can sit on the swings and close my eyes, listen to the creaking of the swings and my childhood friends laughing wildly. The sun is unkind this time of year, and simply sitting there is enough to make my forehead glisten with sweat. I can wipe my face with my moist shirt, and glance around — the classrooms painted white with flat roofs on one side, and the green grass field on the other. The field would be nice for a picnic or something, for the grass is long and soft and leans back and forth in the wind; the place is quiet in summer, when school is out and the children aren’t crying everywhere. I can set my red and white plaid blanket on the grass and sit down, legs crossed, and stare at the broken wood fence separating the school from the two-story houses behind. I can look, I can listen, and I can taste the grapes that I brought and feel the cloth and the grass, but I won’t find it — I won’t find it. It is something else.