Mania. For how long? At least over a month, by my count. I am adrift on the sea of uncertainty, swishing around with the currents and tides. The paddle for this rowboat for one was swallowed up with one big gulp awhile ago. Or perhaps, I cast it into the water during a blind fit of rage. Events are just as hazy as the fog that rolls in an out daily, hourly. Time is mostly meaningless, and cannot be measured by any instruments known to this world. Or probably any other, for that matter.
Reflections are rippled, even on a still day like today, the first still day in recent memory. Still does not mean peaceful. Stillness is the absence of motion, the absence of Emotion. In is almost as if the sea, complete with the rowboat, has been contained in a stagnant bubble, frozen in time. The world continues, the linear path of time unbroken, and one can squint toward the vanishing point on the horizon. I am not a part of that anymore. I am separated from it all, with the absence of the ebb and flow of life.
The clock has stopped. The pendulum is still. It happened in the blink of an eye. In a moment, something great opened up with a mighty snap, expelled itself from me, and left me as a husk. Was it the emotional poison from my veins? Have the personas finally vacated my mind? Nothing exists save this deafening silence and this void. It is not a hollow, though some may accidentally interpret it as such. It is a vacuum, the absence of time, space, and matter.
Surreal. For as many times as I have wished, no, desperately desired to vacate my own existence, I had never considered how the lack of it would be experienced. Perhaps, somehow I had felt that I would simply disappear from the timeline entirely. Then, in some ethereal state, like in the shows and films, I could witness events rearrange themselves as if I had never lived. However, it has portrayed itself to be unlike any expectation I could conceive.
No, I am simply a token, a placeholder in my own life. I do not march in unison with others across the line, down the path, through all manners of terrain. When I speak, only wispy, stock phrases slip from my lips. I stare, my eyes unfocused watching all of the distortions in the fabric of reality ripple in and out. Little snags, where if one were to focus just hard enough, they could see into eternity. That is the trick. The human eye cannot look directly at it, or it will vanish. That is the nature of such distortions. Humans are not meant to see such things, as their minds are unable to comprehend the exact nature.
I am human, undoubtedly. At least, in this body I am, tethered to human limitations and bound by the laws of this world. As for my mind, well, I cannot say. It just seems so unlikely that a typical brain can observe the true reality, while remaining perfectly still. Since before my own memory began, a vague feeling occurred that if I were to cease to exist in the capacity that I do, meaning I had become a passive bystander to people and events, then the timeline would remain unchanged. As I am noticing, it has.
I do not refer to abandoning my duties, or having my physical form or presence removed or altered in any way. It is the indication of the concept that if I were to cease to exist in my present mind, then the world would continue, completely unchanged. It has, as long as I maintain daily routines. Mindless, involuntary actions, no critical thinking – cleaning, cooking, carrying on stock conversations.
Let it be said that no conversation here is without a presence of mind. In part, I remain here, even when the rest is largely, how should I put this? AWOL? No, because that insinuates that I am simply misplaced or even just displaced. It is most along the lines of voided.
It is not a matter of disinterest. My mother called me last night. I asked what she wanted, and she informed me that it had been several days since we talked. How many? I could not be sure how much time had passed. There is no measure within the nonexistence. At least three, possibly four. My memory failed me, and I had to check the day with her. Monday? Tuesday? I was intent on it being Tuesday. Monday, she asserted. Oh. And she enthusiastically invited my son and I to spend the afternoon with her and my father.
I was on the sofa. It was afternoon by then. There was a knock at the door, and my heart skipped a beat. People rarely visit my home before calling to ensure I was there and open to company. I peered through a slat in the blinds. All I could see was a mop of greyish, blondish hair below me. It took me a moment to recognize her. I opened the door and politely greeted her. I inquired as to what she wanted. Apparently, she had been trying to reach me on my phone, and she was getting nervous. I had forgotten about our engagement.
She excitedly took my sons hand, and I assured her I would join her in a moment. Leaving the house, even to go a couple hundred yards, takes enough preparation. I was unaware that an inappropriate amount of time had elapsed. My mother looked at me with a great deal of concern.
Nothing but a faint feeling of confusion. Where was the concern?
There is nothing wrong with me, because there is nothing about me.