We, the Dying

When the clock strikes seven on weekdays, the sun typically splits through the blinds in my bedroom and beams down onto my half-glued eyes if it’s not too cloudy. That and my alarm, which rotates every few weeks or so to different Beatles songs, are usually enough to get me awake and up. It was during mid-July, most likely, a humid and hot but cloudy morning. I had gotten up slowly, having been up a little later than usual the night before with a couple of drinks. A Proustian moment descended before me, a blanket feeling that came down like a cover of light snowfall — I thought, where was I? for a split-second. It was strange at the very least, if not the slightest bit frightening, not being able to recognize my own room, in my own bed. What silence it was! spectacularly dull and heavy; the ruffling of the pillow as I turned my head to my nightstand seemed muted in my dazed and confused state, even though it lasted only for the shortest while. Moments and moments — as the fog cleared, I lifted the blinds (something I rarely did) to a familiar sight: a row of neutral colored suburban houses, and that yellow Ford sitting curbside on the opposite side of the quiet leaf-coated street. The sun hiding, teasing from behind some spreading sheets of white clouds, visible enough to let through some orangish glows while maintaining a general sense of being overcast — moments unfolding in front of me as the sun continued rising, not in a smooth, steady streak across the sky, but in punctuated spots of light, vibrancy, with long drawn out shadows in between.

The same day, while my dog sat by my side, I appeared to had fallen asleep while watching the news. A sort of intermittent flash of black and intense quietude that wove through my mind — and it felt so physical, intruding my head with blank patches and lapses in thought and care. The news anchor’s voice still seemed to string across that time frame though, though diluted to a monotonous female chatter. And there was this falling sensation, or rather a slow sinking into the cream colored leather couch, as if being hypnotized, and I could feel vaguely my dog, little Adrian, a smiling two year old black and brown terrier, rubbing his nose into my thigh. Now I remember waking up in a haze to the jingle of some car commercial — loud, obnoxious noises pining to me, to no one in particular. My first instinct in that moment was to try and recall the itinerary of that day: from the peculiar morning, to my day at the office, when my secretary Noelle brought me flowers for no particular reason: a sweet batch of red and yellow tulips that were sitting in an elegant glass vase on the kitchen counter, and a small thank you card propped up beside it. There was a meeting, I recalled, early in the afternoon with a couple of reps that were in town, who wanted to discuss the logistics of the coming quarter, but I couldn’t recall the specifics regarding the numbers and the conclusions reached. I thought that with a drink of water, which I brought to myself quickly, and a few deep breaths would help clear and rejuvenate my mind, but I was nevertheless left in a vague mist — like being suffocated internally — yes, there was that feeling.

11:48PM. It was by this time that I began to suspect insomnia. The crickets that were chirping outside sounded louder than they usually did; the internal monologue going on in my head was beginning to overlap atop each other, sending mixed messages and convoluted signals, the varying frequencies and pitches clashing in haunting dissonance — soon I couldn’t even close my eyes. The voices, dying into whispers that melded into terrible hisses that lumped into a ball of static; clicks of the “t,” rhythmically rolling along the ocean of “sssssssssss...” and a bubbling “glug” in the background, a cacophony of aural Pollock sapping my energy, making my eyes dry under the pale ceiling. I could not shut it off; neither meditation nor a splash of water onto my face did any good. Pacing across the bedroom, I tried more methods, more and more ridiculous: talking to myself, listening to all kinds of happy and strange music, eating food, running outside.

All this appeared in vain as I stood panting in the living room, then limped and leaned into the bathroom to inspect myself in the mirror. 2:37AM. By now exhaustion had given way to a euphoric high — the sort that acts like an afterburner, kicking in so the mind feels fresh while the body gets dragged along. I stared deep into those drooping eyes, the voices cascading in waves of clarity and muddle. I had long given up on getting well rested; it was only ridding the voices that lingered as an available task. My face slowly turned into a blur, features smudged into a generic haze of tan. I am insanity manifested in me — the mid-thirties stereotype of facade and routine, and a ball of panic once the comfort of sheltered life is lifted — but with a hot shower, I found drowsiness, and within a quick few minutes, sleep had dampened my senses.

The strangest things, recollected in stunning detail, become mere dreamlike sequences in such a short time. Thus the following morning broke open with headache and disillusion, and the sheets and pillow felt cold. Reverberations of a half-remembered, half-lived night and day.

Years sprawled out into pocket calendars and last minute reminders — I remember. A quiet Sunday afternoon with a curly haired friend, not talking or talking very little. I  listened to the cars passing, which sounded almost like the sea, sitting beside an elderly man who had a crooked back and an old, worn out cane held horizontally across his lap. He was there often, though I never bothered to learn his name; I always thought his lopsided eyes and the mischievous smile that sat below his rough mustache gave so much more personality and meaning. Was it the curly haired friend or the elderly man that spoke first? An airy comment, more breath than word, as if spoken through a punctured vocal chord: I saw you walking down a few days ago, looking sad — is everything alright? I was struck for a few seconds with that question — which hung in the space between the two of us, anticipating an answer that would snatch it out of limbo. What a snowflake it was, with which its tone and careful inflexion gave it a certain unique kindness and delicacy that flowed through my mind without fully registering, melting into my ears and vanishing. A couple blinks passed before I opened my mouth and spoke emptily to no one in particular: I thought poppies bloomed in March…and come please to my house later today, there will be dinner. What followed again eluded memory, but there was, indeed, an overwhelming sensation of embarrassment that I can recollect in some primitive, abstract way. A punch in the gut, so to speak, the soreness of a fresh (or not so fresh) bruise from a blacked-out night. Some further exchanges of words must have followed, I am sure.

The old man struggled to get up, eventually, once the sun descended into its late afternoon golden gleam. I turned to him, and I licked my lips before saying to him, yes, of course, that will do. He seemed to understand as he gave me a slow, gentle nod and began walking away. At this point, I had also realized that my curly-haired friend was gone too — so I was alone, in the most exalted and absolute sense of that word; the birds fell silent and the crickets muted themselves at the presence of my singular existence. I thought of home, which seemed to be getting farther and farther away with each passing unit of time; everything stretched out lazily, and with the warmth of the thick air spreading out to compensate for the newfound areas, I felt incredibly cold. Shivering, abandoned by the silky passage of time. The emptiness, and the lonely streets I had to traverse for what seemed like hours — days, even — before I began seeing familiar intersections and road signs, which even then, had a irking texture of being somehow foreign, and monstrous.

***

I’m looking out beyond for stars behind the moon. Everything hidden from view, every sound — vibrations ceasing, escaping persistence and movement, keeping my eardrums from having the satisfaction of feeling the pale, depleted air: air that flattened to the shimmering horizon, and which sweetened as it blew away from my lungs. What matters now isn’t what happened, or what is about to happen. Now. Now, now, under this violently quiet night, windless and suffocating, the things I see, under the veil of a sort of hallucinating influence, surreal and blurred — fancy language and no real plot, just a lethargic creek, rolling downstream slowly in a murky, viscous gloom.

My fingers tingle. It’s as if the nerves in my body has become so far removed from the real world that they’ve begun creating their own experiences. A mutiny of sorts, I suppose. I’ve been lying in my bed for upwards of thirty six hours, tossing and turning, and the bleakness of the ceiling has transformed into what has to be a hallucinatory swirl of tie-dye colors and drowned out images of places I should have been going. The phone’s been ringing almost constantly. Probably my boss, yelling at me for skipping work for the second day, unannounced, in hibernation. Cooped up in my room, I think I can almost feel the Earth’s rotation, spinning in circles, moving about in this mundane constancy. I groan — long, exasperated, the sound of death being stretched out and planted firmly on the ground that I stand. My whole body feels like it’s atrophying, crumbling underneath the pressure of living — living, breathing, sensing everything. How everything is so overwhelming, cast over like an endless eclipse.

My appetite is long gone, stripped away from me, thrown into an irretrievable pit where all my other former lusts and desires are. Nothing appeals — not even the most delicious, delectable dish imaginable could conjure up even a mild impulse of hunger. My apathy for all things has overcome the hollowness in my stomach. My thirst, my parched, neglected throat remains unsatisfied, isolated from the respite of water and liquid life. Quivering under the veiled sunlight. Shaking with fright and weakness from the impulse of day. I can barely walk, talk, or form coherent thoughts. Next thing I know, I’m on the ground, consumed by the cold floor. And here I lie, waiting to die.

When I wake up, there’s a feeling of suspension — I’m not myself, and I’m not in this world anymore, I think briefly — I’m being uplifted and transported to a foreign environment. It’s a hospital room, and everything is blinding white. Suddenly I feel unclean being where I am, a contaminant in this otherwise pure space. The doctor comes in, and I seize up, choking on my breath, starting to sweat — despite his reassuring look, and a gentle hand on my shoulder.

I stay in the hospital for many weeks. Recovery is slow, and even after much support and comfort, it is difficult for me to find the motivation to take care of myself. Why bother? I ask those that come and visit. I’m just another guy from a mother whose existence has touched no more people necessary and in no more ways than needed. You’re just here to not feel guilty about yourself, I say. But they send me sympathetic looks and encouraging words — an amount of tenderness that confuses me, and bewilders. Even my father, who’s now an old man, with a crooked back, croaking voice, and sad eyes, comes one day. It takes me a few seconds for me to even recognize him in his advanced age — like a wilted flower aware of its diminished beauty — entering into the room, holding a book under his arm. He smiles, and stumbles over to my side at an aching pace. I look over at him with an attempted smile, not saying a word. There’s nothing to say, really, nothing worth mentioning about me, about the world. Neither does he say anything, for a while at least, as he just sits there beside me, looking at the opposite wall with its tables and chairs and coats on hooks and posters of human anatomy. His breathing is audible but steady, like the sound of waves, awash in the ambience, making my mind drift away to some faraway place that’s isolated. Life goes on, he says finally. We move on. Things happen, and we move on. I look at him, just staring into his haunted eyes, shaking. He looks back without judgment, and opens his mouth, as if about to say something. Initially he doesn’t, hesitating for a couple of outstretched seconds. Then he says, you’re going to be fine. You’ll learn to smile again.

So it’s nighttime now, and the people, tipsy as they are, have started dancing under the stars. I take her by the hip, and we lean in towards each other — she, smothering her head into my shoulder, my maroon shirt — she’s drooling all over it; I can feel the dampness seeping through to my skin. My feet lose rhythm for a second as I cringe a little, then glancing up at the sky, dark blue, almost black, and continue dancing. Is she crying now too? Yes, in fact, as I hear her sniffling and hiccuping; I lift my shoulder a little, nudging her subtly, trying to be gentle. Instead, she tightens her her arms around my neck and upper body, followed by a short sigh. The music gets louder and more agitated, rising to some sort of climax while I find myself still gazing upwards and focusing on my breathing: in and out, out and about, watching the condensation of my exasperated breath float away and dissipate. I close my eyes and try to cry along with her and the sad trombones and the dying night, but I can’t. My sweating hands only begin to tingle as I fall numb, my eyes twitching, desperately trying to force out tears — and as the song ends and fades and people begin clapping, that is when my legs fail, and I fall slowly to the ground, finally able to smile.