She watched patiently as the car drove away, her husband inside of it, and her kids too. Three long years she had waited for this moment to happen, when they would leave her. She knew it was coming for a long time, that things would eventually have to fall apart. That idea reigned deep down in her mind, submerged under the “goodness” of things, a fear of losing and being alone, a fear that all of the good things would eventually crumble into heartbreak, leaving her alone, un-wanted, and un-stimulated. Closer and closer to death, forced to live an unhappy trying life, allowing her no pleasure, only pain – subtle melancholy pain that didn’t register in her mind – it would just be the norm of all things – a static buzz underneath it all. She had shared that fear with them for so long, in her dealings with them, underneath the goodness, always with the goodness – never fully expressed. Maybe that was her problem; she could never fully express herself. All of her fears raged on inside of her – she never confronted them actually; with words – with another. They were there, only for her, alone, underneath every moment of her life. They affected her movements, they tinged her movements. They ate away at her life and what she could have been. All because they remained there underneath her, affecting her every move. Only in reflection did she ever realize what she was doing to herself, having moments where she knew she had to beat her fears, speak them, and rise above it. But she would think to herself, what does it matter my happiness? She had read that somewhere… of all the things worth fighting for, this – my own personal experience is the only one that seems worthy – but I cannot find any grounds to justify doing it to myself. She never could. Maybe that was her problem, maybe she never gave herself a foundation to grow that allowed growth. Maybe it was foundations that were the most important things, are the most important of things… Maybe, maybe, more maybe… so many maybe’s she thought to herself. How could she ever find her way? Swarmed with maybes, wantings, nothings – all just now confronting themselves to her, now that she was alone. If only she could be happy when she was alone! She wished for nothing more in the world than that – but experience would not grant that wish to her. She would not grant that wish to herself. Immediately her mind was drawn to visions of the past – and the future. She could not focus in on these thoughts. She knew they were important but they were so hard to get to. Maybe this was her problem. Maybe this is why she had so many unfufillments and empty longings. It was because she had a weak mind. Desires with no end, with no system of control – her mind was a wreck. Her system was a failing – it was a failure. She wanted to resolve these issues. She was burdened with their weight, wishing she could have been able to love. She missed love. All of her life had been that type of a cycle; love – more love – wanting – waiting; in the midst of it all; science – with its cold dead fingers wrapping around her raspy throat. Expression tainted constantly by genre, by the thought of thoughts of others. She couldn’t express herself. Her eyes had to close – It was all too much. She hated it but did not want it to stop. It was life pushing itself in front of her eyes – the fever of desire – the soil of her life – she dreaded going back to desire. How could she dread that which her life grew out of? What was the matter with her? What things these were, ruining the pristine landscape of her life. Why did she feel only now she had to work to till her soil? Why only now was life a job? Her mind raged on with a fire; with a passion towards no end. Vididly hopes and dreams manifested themselves out of the burning ashes of her past failures and potential, figures screaming failure. She needed these things now to fill her empty mind, they filled her with something – anything; so she grabbed onto them – they filled her with a new life, with a new force. With something tangible – something that proved to her she was alive.
But there was so much distraction around that took her focus off of her thought. She had been sitting outside, waiting after watching the car drive away. It must have been 10-20-30 minutes that past since then. Now she realized she was still standing outside on her porch, underneath her awning. What was it that brought her out of her trance? Why was she out of her trance? Those things were important, she had to figure them out. She tried and tried to push them back in and then out of her mind. These things outside of her, that distracted her thought – people, technology- she didn’t need these things to be alive did she? She only needed her thought -—? Thoughts, thought, too many thoughts. This had been going on to long, she needed to go to a new place, somewhere, anywhere away from where she had been. But if she was to get up, where would she go? What would she do then? She needed something to fill the void – she needed anything. She was so empty. Her eyes burning from two days of tears and struggle that would soon pass and give way to weeks upon weeks of emptiness – nothingness that she feared and knew would come next. It was coming next, there was nothing left to do. Could she hold on to this? This fullness? Now that her family was gone, all she had left to do was hold on to the faint memory of them that was in her body. She could find new love, she thought. She would find new love. She would meet people, connect with them. Be alive – be a philosopher. But what then? Better, what now? “Those things I would have to find”, she said, but she knew she was not much of a searcher. Not much of an author, not much of an artist. Her art was in her mind – and no one could know that except her. But what value did it have? Who cared about her --- art? Who cared about her art when they was a system – a need for survival? Who needs art? All of this seemed like an overload of sense; a malfunction in her system. A desire and a hope where there should be none – where there will be none – where emptiness is the rule and desire is the craving. Abounding to become alive out of boredom. Out of Schopehnauer. Ahh, who could follow her thoughts now. She treasured being alone. She could feel an insanity welling up from within, telling her she was losing her mind. But that was a gloss over – it was much deeper than that --- she tried to recollect what made her think that in the first place.
It was too much, she had to sit down. She gently used her arms let herself down to the porch. As she let herself down, she noticed that the grass was getting greener – it would be spring soon. Ahead of the grass, towards the end of the street, she realized the car was completely gone and had driven away down the street. There she was, alone and naked with her thoughts. The sun shone down on her but not enough to make her feel hot. An arm over her eyes blocked out the sun for an instant as she questioned herself what it would be like if the sun was gone. A breeze from behind her let a slight chill up her spine.
Now out of this trance, she stood up and walked over to her front door. Would she even be able to afford this house now that they were gone? Extending her arm she grabbed the knob and turned, walking in to what used to be the only safe place in her life. Now she was alone, and this place did not carry the safety that it once did. Where else would she go? Walking in recuctantly she came to the living room, large and rectangular, swept with the beautiful dark brown carpet that was the only thing they kept from the previous owners of the house. Her favorite thing was something that she never picked to be there. A futon lay in the west corner, facing the door that she entered in – tan and slighty unkept. The main window also lay to the west side, covering most of the wall. The garbage can was beginning to smell – she hadn’t changed it for days. She realized she needed to keep up her cleaning. Something about the can, maybe the smell; maybe something else, made her remember the breakdown she had the night before in her room and the scene it caused – her sprawled out on the floor, in tears – crying – holding back the sound of her tears so she wouldn’t be heard from the next room, in agony. A flash of her memory told her not to think about it. Returning her mind to the room in front of her, she saw the real nature of this scene – garbage was laid out before her, across the room – books, papers – everything, everywhere. Underneath it all it was a grand and beautiful room – pristine, created for her, but not by her, but she fit well into it. She wished she had built it herself. She had always wanted to have the skill to build her own home, but who in these days would be able to build a modern house from scratch?
Looking over the room again, she decided to clean it. Picking up the papers in stacks – she placed them back on the grand oak desktop in the right corner of the room. It reminded her of her childhood. When she wanted to become a writer – when she wanted to be a philosopher. When she felt she could be happy alone – working, writing. Filled with enough happiness that she could grow on her own. Enough so that she could be strong on her own. But where was her strength now? She didn’t even know this house. She didn’t even know this place. It was desolate – it told her to leave – it told her that she no longer belonged. This place was made for something else, not her, alone and dismal. Where else could she go? It was not up to her now. She was alone and there was nothing she could do to change it. Should she run and mend with her husband and children? Something inside of her told her not to. Not now anyway. What could she say? She was a wreck – she told herself to stay alone, and wait for better days. But she was making a mistake, at least she thought she was. Who knew? There were too many risks on to many sides to be logical about this. Her headache was coming back. Shaking her head she examined the bookcase. It was three levels high and the third held her favorite collection of books. Leslie Marmom Silko’s Ceremony – the book that instilled in her the passion to become a writer. But what did that matter now? Her writing was nothing without her family. She was nothing without her family. At bottom she knew she was nothing. A sudden desire to break down and give up overcame her. She dreamed of gaining a great skill – that would fill her life up. What it would be like if she had great skills – in love and art? What would her life be like if she was filled with skill? It was too much for her to think about. She walked over to her oak desktop and ruffled some of the papers that lay on it. “So many papers”, she thought. After there was a small area clear on the surface top, she pulled out the mighty oak chair from underneath the desk. As she sat back down again into the chair she realized she was home again. Alone – disgusted – waiting. Looking down on the pile of papers, and grabbing a pen, she fell into a world of dreams.
He knew he did the right thing. How could he live with her now? How could he live in so much pain? He needed to be new, to be free – to find fresh love elsewhere… perhaps, but he was getting old, youth now behind him. Would he be able to find love?… it didn’t matter. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, he loved his wife but her disease, it was like a virus that stayed dormant in her system, waiting for the right moment to pounce and strike. He knew she had hoped that day would never come, but it did, even though she worked so hard to keep her mind stable, it was no use. The night before, when she had had her very worst breakdown it passed a fine line. He couldn’t take it – but how could he let himself leave her alone like that? Even though it was painful for him and his family it must have even been more painful on her, especially now that she was alone – and reflecting on her thoughts. But maybe that was what she needed? Maybe she needed to spend some time confronting herself. Or was it just the opposite? Was that the real reason for the disease; solitude? Was he leaving her worse off because he left her alone? He tried hard to think about it. Too much had passed by to make a sound judgement, and he was not smart enough to answer. It was a risk to do what he did, and only time will tell if he did the right thing.
All of his life, he tried to use what he was taught like a religion. He kept himself sharp on remembering things he’d heard, in passing, in reading; things to live by. He used these things as a guide but for the most part, all throughout his life, he searched for his own answers in the midst of his own personal situations – away from following blindly a word of advice just for the sake of living up for an ideal. This way he came closer to his own truths, and closer to situational truths, truths that worked for certain people. But it was best to have a helping hand, whether it be a philosophy or a friend’s advice; someone was always there helping him guide his way. Maybe that was what made him stronger. He kept others with him in thought, remembering his moments with them, the times where they laughed, cried, spoke of cliché’s – even developed philosophies out of some of those cliché’s. There was something beautiful to him in his life that he don’t think his wife saw, that he didn’t think she had. It was something healing, something more human. Something more alive, bringing people with him like he did. He didn’t worry about time, or place, or money. People seemed to grow with him in memory. He felt that. Growth was trying not to be alone.
It was hard to think about, it was hard to dredge up the past,
That night lay still – cool from the breeze outside. The emptiness in the air raised nothings, the emptiness in the air put out the fire. The emptiness gave way to a new birthplace – trapped in honorable desire.
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