Morning. It’s a sight that is
growing more and more alien every day as I am seemingly becoming fully
nocturnal. I catch a few glimpses of it as I fade in and out of consciousness;
that pseudo-sleep that I often attempt where the real and unreal comingle on
the virgin plain of the waking mind. I sit up to see that the sheets have been
strewn wildly about the bed, as if they were the site of some great struggle
that I somehow managed to sleep through. This, unfortunately, is something I’ve
grown quite accustomed to seeing. It suggests that I might have slept, but I
hardly rested.
Despite my nightly thrashing, I
have failed to work up an appetite. I roll out of bed and attempt to shake off
the drowsiness with a few pushups. I have lost the illusion that the physical
benefits of exercise will have any real effect on my life as I see it. It’s
purely a part of the routine now. As I draw closer to the carpet, I let my eyes
lose focus and set my mind adrift. Eventually, my arms start to burn, and I am
called back from the fragmented visions of my troubled brain. I’ll save the
shower for the evening. Any effect from one gained right now would be terribly
short-lived.
I get dressed and gather my things from
the night stand. Some of them will be of no use, but the comfort of having them
on hand gives me much-needed peace of mind. My first step out the door is
directly into a wall of heat. I find the air uncomfortable to breathe, and the
world outside to be unbearably bright, but I can only attempt to sit inside in
comfort for so long. Without some manner of fresh stimulus, my mind will
assault itself with torturous thoughts until the body is compelled to afford it
something new to ponder. I take a moment to gather my resolve before finally
setting foot into the sun. The vitamin D might do me some good.
There are no other people on the
sidewalk, as there is nothing for them to see. I would not be so quick to rule
out that the cars on the scarred and ancient road are not piloted by humans,
either. This town is like a prison staffed by ghosts. You can go anywhere you
want, but it’s pretty much solitary confinement the whole way. Every familiar
site calls up some phantasm of the past to remind me of the life that I left
behind. Some of them are of happier times. Most of them are waking nightmares.
I am a man who enjoys adventure,
but I can assure you that there is none to be had here. If there was, I had
exhausted it years ago. The path that I walk is the same every day. As my body
wanders, so too does my mind. Without any sort of fresh insight, or interaction
at all, really, my thoughts direct themselves back to the same old dangerous
paths; the unknowable future, the troubles of the present, the sorts of things
deemed unhealthy for one to dwell on. The things that I desire most in this
life seem to be held at insurmountable distance from me, whether measured in
distance or time. I put miles on my shoes as an attempt to cope with these
thoughts, and the aching in my knee serves as a physical reminder that for all
the walking I do, it will never be far enough.
I eventually make my way onto the
bridge toward something more akin to civilization. Chesapeake is a town dead on
its feet, as evidenced by Mother Nature’s increasingly successful attempts to
repossess the grounds. The river below is opaque with mud churned from the
murky bed, and its surely toxic waters are host to all manner of fish of
monstrous qualities and baffling anatomy. I often equate it with some local
branch of the river Styx, and make my own associations with the locals wading
in it.
My daily destination is Pullman
Square. It’s a recently developed little corner which provides the illusion of
decency in the land that God forgot. I sit at a small round table outside
Starbucks and spend some time watching the clouds go by. People pass by on the
sidewalk, usually decently well-dressed with nothing to do. They pass under the
shade of the trees and admire the verdant lawn at the center of the square, carrying
on to some little shop or restaurant with the impression that they’ve found
some higher class of society here. If you weren’t facing the crumbling edifices
of the buildings across the street, you could imagine that the whole town was
like this. Some parts of this town, though, are left the way they’ve always
been to convince you that Silent Hill is a very real place.
I sit, and I write, and I drink my
coffee. Cold, bitter and black, it chemically motivates me to type in an effort
to exorcise some of the darkness from my brain. I imagine the viscous, obfuscating
sludge oozing from the wrinkled gray mass, down my arms, and being slapped
maliciously onto the keys in the hopes that it won’t come back. I know better,
but sometimes it’s good to pretend.
With my day’s dark work complete, I
consign myself to filling up at whatever nearby food joint is appealing in the
moment. It doesn’t really matter what it is, because my choices are not going
to be healthy ones. Still, they don’t call it comfort food for nothing. I
briefly consider striking up conversation with the cashier for the chance to
speak more words to a human, but I understand the futility. I need to hold a
meaningful conversation with a person that I care about in some way. This man’s
importance to me is that of a vending machine. If asked, I couldn’t even tell
you what he looked like. My phone tries to initiate a chat over what apps are
available to update. I appreciate it, phone, but it’s just not the same.
I begin the long walk home, my
obligation to nutritional needs fulfilled. Dark clouds are creeping slowly over
the hilltops, and while the shade is nice, I don’t want to be caught in the
imminent deluge. From the middle of the bridge, I have a better understanding
of where I’m going. On the Huntington side, lights illuminate the riverfront,
and the gold-capped city hall building shines above the bars and store fronts
that glow under street lights. Opposite that, Chesapeake is swallowed by
darkness. The occasional bug zapper or porch light shows that somebody might
live on the ivy-choked hillside, but it is otherwise painted black beneath the
impending storm clouds.
At home, I scrub away the visible
layer of dirt and grime from my day under the sun. When lying in bed proves to
be a futile practice, I sit at the edge and watch the inky clouds crawl past
the sickly yellow moon. Purplish veins of plasma race across their surface
without a sound, casting an eerie glow on sky and earth alike. Shortly before the
cloudburst, I lie back again, caressing a loose bolt of cloth with my thumb and
thinking of better nights in better places, far away. The ominously
thunder-less light show casts unfamiliar shadows on the ceiling as I settle in
for the long haul. It is already clear to me that sleep will not come for some
time.
There was a time when the
dreamscape was a world where I was happily welcomed. Everything felt vivid and
real. It was like living a second life as I slept. A better one! I visited
beautiful, sprawling worlds beyond description, constantly shifting and
changing, as dreams do. I had power, and was filled with joyous energy, and
flight wasn’t the textbook expression of my desire for freedom, but just a
fulfillment of my wish to fly!
Lately, though, my dreams are filled
with strife, and worry. Laying my head upon the pillow seems to be a
declaration of war against the land of Nod itself. In my dreams, I often find
myself in trouble from some unknown source. Escape seems to be a common theme,
and while I may be granted the ability to fly, or at least jump very high, it
is usually clumsy, or a means to be led toward greater danger.
Perhaps my aversion to sleep is a
subconscious response to the stress that waits on the other side; the state of
my bed from all the tossing and turning, a symptom. There was once a time when
my sleeping hours were peaceful ones. Now I lay here awake, alone with my
thoughts. I am a prisoner of Earth; the deposed Prince of Dreams.
