Introduction: A Mundane Setting
Pick any day of the week. At night, I’d be tossing and turning – what others might refer to as “sleep” – for up to 8 of every 24 hours. Despite this, I awake early. No need for alarms, as already hardwired to resist the firm, yet yielding touch of a quality mattress. I use the washroom, then have breakfast, starting with liquids. Lukewarm water, mixed with an effervescent multivitamin, 5 to 10 grams of Creatine, some extra magnesium and vitamin D. Coffee, my preferred poison of choice. I am not pretentious about the stuff at all. So long as it smells and tastes like the real thing, I’ll drink it. With a drop of milk, if I am not fasting, or a cube of Demerara sugar when I’m feeling fancy. Never both. Sweeteners are a no-go, except for sugar-free desserts. Then come the solids in the form of muesli, overnight oats or protein pancakes. These “healthier” options are growing on me, but without the added protein, I’d feel “hunger’s pangs” almost as soon as I am done doing the dishes. Finally, I have the rest of the day all to myself! Whilst trying to figure out what to do, a staring contest with the clock begins in earnest. Guess who’s going to blink first?
At some point self-talk enters the periphery of my psyche. An uninvited, undesired, but most of all – unnoticed a guest. At first, a mere hum. Then it’s rapidly brought up to a roiling boil of incoherence, licked by the blue flames of decades of self-abasement and the ever-presence of.. loneliness. Even now she sits here next to me, a mocking grimace contorting her purple-blue face, a pair of black sapphires in her eye-sockets emitting no light of their own. Her skin, not only cold to the touch, but absorbing, too, should any warmth come in contact with it. You’d think that at night this ghoulish entity is its most-terrifying, but wait until the break of dawn. Wait until everything regains its respective hues, while gentle shades hint of Earth’s relative position to the Sun. Wait, until You awaken into this radiant void of over 8 billion of your kind, to find Yourself completely alone.
Personal History: Blending Reality and Fantasy
This felt absence I speak of has been a loyal companion of mine since early adolescence. One would be forgiven for thinking that growing up in rural Bulgaria in the early 90s equates to a happy childhood. Carefree and filled with naïve wonder, adored by family, friends and strangers, surrounded by Nature (for the most part unspoiled). Sure, I am the last person to dare to pull the wool over Your eyes. My reality, however, was always an emotional fun-house mirror reflection of sorts. While I had no doubts about my sex or sexuality, I was (still am) a complex entity trapped inside a dysfunctional body. Books, then games and finally internet chatrooms became much-needed outlets for romanticised escapism. 36 years on, these interests seem to have jumbled up in their order a bit, but their importance to my (arrested) development remains unchanged.
Philosophical Interlude: A Reflection on Life
Adulthood finds me well. Or, as well as a natural born worrier is afforded. As one who bleeds anxiety, my relationship with the world around me is always strained. What’s changed over the years is I no longer have any doubts about who’s boss. Disembodiment plain doesn’t work for the likes of me. Many more share in this struggle, I am sure; over-stimulation and isolation caused by unchecked Internet and “social” media usage only exacerbates this further. Peaceful life, requited love, sustained creativity – you couldn’t ask for themes more universally accepted. Yet here we are, squandering our allotted time, while pondering these (and many others) through endless streams of funny fails’ videos and polarising pseudo-political anecdotes. I’m guilty of indulging in the former, too; the latter I gladly do without.
Look, I too have a dream, okay? It always takes the shape of the container it’s associated with. For example, in the interim between wakefulness and sleep, this dream I speak of, takes the form of a conscious erection; my usually indifferent member, straight like a compass needle pointing true North. Memories of what few sexual experiences I’ve had in my life, flash through my mind in rapid succession. What if my bed wasn’t empty now? When will I trust someone again?.. At other times, the dream fills up my cranium. This usually happens whenever I think about the future. The prospect of dealing with the death(s) of family and friends – by myself – upsets me deeply. To have someone by my side, someone who feels for me as I would for them, should give me the strength to carry on, right? Oh, I sure like to believe that. Finally, aspects of this dream I speak of, can be found in my chest’s cavity. In the anatomically-correct shape of an adult human’s heart, at cardiac arrest. I swear I’ve felt it pushing against the confines of the ribcage, from time to time. Especially when I am out and about visiting new places, eating in restaurants, enjoying social events, by my awkward self. It’s not so much the novelty (anxiety) of it all, but rather seeing other couples and their interactions. What would we (me and her) do in those moments? Pygmalion at least had a talent! His madness, his obsession he made tangible – alluring Galatea, carved out of solid ivory. Alas, I’ve neither the ability, nor should Aphrodite care but a single iota for an atheist’s woes. Pride? Or simpleminded prejudice? I’ll leave to You to decide what cripples me.
A Journey into the Otherworldly
You enter a world built on the remnants of a malfunctioning mechanical clock. Here, even the sands of time have given way to layers of dust, like the rings on a felled tree’s trunk, suggesting centuries of sterile stillness. This moribund simulacrum of life, replete with herbaria, taxidermy and pinned insects is stared down by an uncaring source of pale amber light. A desolate microcosm, ruled by a despondent Usurper of Memories. Enrobed in Cimmerian insomnolence, cobwebbed of mind and denouncing of Time’s imminence, fussing over the dried-up husk It considers in suspended animation. A predictable subsistence, viscous and overpowering like blackstrap molasses where nothing ends, nor has anything a chance to begin anew. That is, until crimson drops of blood tap on the stained glass windows of the tyrant’s Temple of Rust. They betray Your arrival. “Abhorrent Change,” words uttered with malice through gritted fangs, as tears in Its leathery skin reveal bloodshot eyes of varying sizes and shapes. “Precursor of Deceit, Arrogator of Dreams..” It continues, voice like a landslide crashing through aeons of impossible silence. “I, Sovereign of this Contradiction, Captor of a Labyrinth of My Own Making, Victor over Profane Flesh, bestow upon you Malice”! Hefting an enormous ornate siege-cannon, the Usurper embarks on a mission to fulfil Its promise to You.
Current Projects and Goals: A Dream-Like Vision
Can You tell that I am a big fan of From Software’s works? Emptiness of authority, ancient conflict, destructive unwillingness to accept change, Eldritch magic and forgotten religions – these themes call to me. After all, over a third of a century of influences percolate in the deepest recesses of my strained mind. Most of them long forgotten, but quick to stir back to life in the presence of the right mnemonic symbol. All it takes is awareness and time. Or so I hope!
The following projects I know I have in me:
– a short story about the challenges of moving on, told using fantastical imagery;
– a video game;
– voice narrating a book;
– baking the perfect (chewy) chocolate chip cookie!
Finding somebody to love me is also on the list. Can You tell? Well, at the very least the intention is. *wink wink*
Conclusion: Return to the Mundane
Time’s arrows never miss their designated target; a fact I (unwillingly) came to terms with in my late twenties. Most of us entertain the notion that the ebb and flow of Space-Time couldn’t do damage to our castle’s ramparts. Yet grain by grain, crack after crack, loss after loss erode this façade to reveal a microcosm of intricate structures, drying up and collapsing into fistfuls of sand. In his works, Albert Camus explores the subject of memory as a contributing factor to our growing sense of absurdity. But what are we without these points of incomplete reference?
This is what I dwell upon, at times, without even realising it. And since I’ve no recollection of the majority of my dreams, I resort to making things up. Frustrated, exacerbated, unsatisfied, pretentious, petty but sincere. The many parts of my humdrum reality, transposed to fit an unimpressive narrative, with a P.S. I love you! stamped on every post, in invisible digital ink.
Join me, why don’t You?
tsvetoslav shalev 