Nothing could be harder then breaking away from the societal norm...
It was a long night in the middle of a hot summer, a whisper of a breeze brushed against my face. I remember the stars were shining bright between the large storm clouds. The heaviness of the atmosphere was overwhelming and the humidity was penetrating. The ground was still warm from the sun that scorched it from the moment it first rose early in the morning. I was sitting in the middle of a wash; there were desert trees behind me and a small fire at my feet.
Today is the third day of being free from the oppression of responsibilities galore. No more adrenaline storing all day in my veins, itching beneath my skin, waiting to burst through my epidural layers and send me blindly speeding down the street in a car my bank owns, heading towards a house I’ll never own and a stark callousness developing over my psyche. No science to this art. A faulty consciousness led me to this determination of developing the atypical, perfect life. Who did I hear this from? Everyone who went through the same things as I; they reeled me in with tales of insipid lore and backward logic, and like a fool I consented. To own something is to be chained to something. It was heart-wrenching to know that at any minute my life could fall completely apart if I were to make an unwise investment or be robbed or to piss away my money. Everything revolved around money and the stigma of not going with the flow repelled me enough to spend a few years working and serving, eating and praying, living and dying. Always acknowledging the dualities of existence but not truly being compelled to live by them, to feel them, which were okay?
I like when it rains out here. It’s never too heavy, always a light sprinkle as if to refresh my mind. My mind. That’s a funny thing, it seems like I’ve abused it in some way, somehow endangering its possibility to grow and grapevine throughout the world of knowledge. Letting it sit tightly wrapped, fusing to my skull. Shrinking within the primordial gelatinous brain locked inside. Archways and arcades of the most supreme decay, wrought with disease and festering black bubbles clinging to the chords and ganglions. The hemisphere divided by intangible blackness, a corrosion of malaise left to rot over time. Dangerous chemical lesions corroded forever. Out here on the desert plane, I can look out into the fear and unknown of the night and half expect to be attacked by the figments of my spasmodic imagination. The twinkling shining overhead my only friend out here, not that friendship with anything is required for freedom from the mundane, but it helps.
So far out, I’m so long gone. I can fall asleep out here, I can wake up tomorrow and walk another ten or twenty miles until I stop to rest and sleep again. I could do this every day and night until I die and wither away and why not, just let hell come to me, quit fighting the unforeseeable. That is what freedom is all about.
I don’t think I could accomplish or learn anything from this, in all practical scenarios that could and will most likely play out, I am out here to commit suicide, to finally have something I can control. Me, the peasant working man, I chose this because that was all that was left for me to choose. I don’t see how turning back to that life forsaken house of cards would be a possibility. I don’t see why that would matter, to negate the very fact that I am out here in the dirt facing inevitable discovery of a life hereafter. Oh, what the hell. This is the only path. To sleep until the sun arises, and then to walk on and on.
I pass cacti and shrubs, dirt mounds and snake holes and the sun is hotter than hell. I walk through the ditches and come to a mountain range. There are manmade roads nearby, trucks barreling through. Most likely mining operations, someone has to come out here and do the work. My mind trails off to that spot, saying to myself, “I wonder if they’re paid well”. Nasty habit to break, always so concerned about the greenback, and its plural denominations.
Green is something you don’t see much of out in the desert, not inherently speaking. Sure the cactus plants are green, as is the summer grass growing all over, but the proverbial envious forest green, not so much around here. Not anymore since the well has dried and the green is gone. The first battered and broken land, the desert is a place to retreat now, not to grow and prosper in the unluckiest and most unexpected of places. No. This is nature’s mirror, the reflecting sands of sanctum dispersal.
I hike upwards on the mountain, all the while struggling to maintain balanced and level. Continue upwards, all the way to the top. Grab onto the stones and pull, gain leverage against this landmark. Arise over the rampant arid ground and onward toward the pinnacle. The top. Think about peering over and discovering life above the rest, the motivation and dexterity it took to stand there exhausted and yet full of vigor. I can stand at the top, having achieved a small fortune of pride and wealth in sweat and self-gain. I will look forever and sit down, quietly mulling over the direction I will go and then I will walk on.
