I’m in my little room, located on the co-op property owned by Scott’s family, laying on a large gray memory foam bean bag, overflowing with this weeks clean laundry, which act as my pillow, and blankets.
The autumn air seeps into this crannied space, through the cracks and thin paned widows; its cold steely bite hangs in the air, and nips at my skin.
I breathe. And catch my breath. I listen to myself. The air feels anxious; tension constrains a steady inhale and exhale, giving rise to the slightest hesitations in my breath, that scribble the empty silence.
Planes soar overhead, cutting through the distant atmosphere, and echo through the redwoods outside this space, throughout the room.
My life. What is life?
A 31 year old man, who has come to Palo Alto, to work with his college friend on a business, a toy business. I toil day in and out, building this business, with little idea of the outcome. Only goals and visions drive me forward. Hallucinations and delusions and fantasies that I yearn to make real, for myself, for others.
I work. I eat. I sleep. I drive to the city to see my girlfriend. Hours a day. I picked up smoking cigarettes. Sometimes 5 or 6 or 7 a day. I hate it, but the fixation never left. It was only substituted by other fixations.
I am happy, no?
I feel old. Worn. Played out. I contemplate next steps, in life, in visions, in fulfillment. Balancing patience and urgency, feeling the weight of time, the rush of time, as it moves around me, through me, faster and faster. Must I move as fast? I will die soon, and this life will be a memory, a fading recall of disappointment or content, however I decide to rationalize my failures, and commensurate my attempts at living a life worthwhile.
There is life in these bones, somewhere. In this head, sometimes.
My family is far, in body and spirit.
I am alone. I was born alone and I will die alone. There is no comfort in between, knowing this is just a waking dream.
Where must I go to find solace? Where can I escape the dark shadows lurking behind every illuminating joy?
Am I the master? Where has my imagination gone? Where are the possibilities that pave my path, that forge my resolve to tread onward, through the darkness?
Cathedrals by day turn to mausoleums by night, and my liberation becomes the heavy burden which chains me to myself.
Only you have the power, my conscience whispers.
What is thy name? How can I call it forth? I need to conjure these spirits. Speak to me now.
William Dare 