a soldier with a pen

Cold turkey.

he said, watching with patience as they were put in bags. He had heard the day before that they would be sent to a place far away. Very far away. They had given him a few hours to say goodbye, for he would never see them again. Every single toy he ever owned, every single proof that a boy had once existed. Now neatly packed and ready for their voyage.

On top of the last bag was his Teddy. Ever smiling, ever happy. Still with a glance of promise and warmth. It too, had no idea where it was headed to. But it had no fear. And neither did he.

It’s been very difficult lately.

I still remember the last time you wrote to me. You told me all about your adventures. Some of them have stuck with me. I find myself replaying them in my mind quite often, thinking I’m the main protagonist. It brings me so much joy! Your life has always seemed so full, so vivid and impossibly bizarre. I have caught myself feeling envious not once or twice, I must admit. Oh well, fate has dealt us all a hand, so we better play as best as we can while we’re still at the table.

It’s difficult for me to say this. I trust that I have your promise not to take this as a superficial jest, or a made-up plot of some sort. You have my utmost respect, and I cannot allow myself to toy with you in such manner.

It began with a sharp pain in the chest. I felt the sting of a thousand needles, all piercing the tissues around my heart. Then, as quick as a blink, my head spun out of control. I felt like the wheel of some sort of machine, spinning and spinning with no purpose or direction. My consciousness had dissipated. I couldn’t distinguish any color, any smell, nothing. A few moments later I was on the ground, back to the floor, panting and breathing heavily. I remember everything from that moment forward.

I haven’t shared this with anyone. I felt afraid. I felt insecure. To this day, I’m unsure whether I’m crazy or not for thinking what I thought then. And that was that my life had been put on pause. A most vicious, elaborately conceived pause, during which all of creation seemed to shift and swirl around me eternally. But I bet that in reality, it was no more than ten seconds.

After those events I felt different. Not in the physical sense, for all the pain had gone away. I felt reinvigorated, renewed, revitalized. To this day, I haven’t spoken of this. You, my friend, are the first to know. You, my dearest friend, have the honor of reading about my not so adventurous life for once. And for that I am grateful.

Know that I will forever be in your debt. I will forever cherish and keep your letters, along with the memories within. You can look back anytime, and I will be there. Smiling amidst the confusion, waving nervously at you.

Write soon! I cannot wait to find out what you’ve gotten yourself into this time!

I hope you don’t forget me completely. I know, I will never be the same again, but neither will you. And that’s good. That’s very good. Keep going, my friend. You will be there soon!

Sincerely yours,

I saw a cat today.

Actually, I saw many cats. I've never seen so many before. It almost felt like someone had come up with one of those transmutational devices and had turned half of the human population into cats.

Now, that wasn't the case, of course. And I felt rather bummed by that fact. Think about it for a second. That's three and half billion cats. That makes one cat for every one human remaining.

Of course, if that were to happen, we would have to establish institutions such as The Feline Bureau of Investigation, The Four-legged congress, the Meowington Court, and the Chair of the Hairball Organization of Noisy Kittens, also known as CHONK.

Having so many cats would also cause problems in the ecosystem. Every dog breed which is as small as a cat would go extinct, due to personality disorders. One third of the trees would have scratch marks, and half of that number would smell funky, you know, like someone else's territory. And to top it all off, the statement "Plenty of fish in the sea." would actually be debatable.

But anyway, I saw all those cats and tried to pet them. Only one gave in. Maybe the world isn't ready for them. Maybe they're working on their schemes still. I would really love for them to hurry up, though. I want to see those plans come to fruition in my lifetime!

And yes, I know you're reading this. You're a cat too.

She spent her last days contemplating. She would make herself a cup of jasmine tea, and after putting a few drops of fresh lemon juice, would sit in her garden. I never really understood how she managed to keep all those gnarly, many-headed, viny, sticky beasts alive. But seeing her so relaxed and calm, at peace with the world, I couldn't help but wonder if they are the ones keeping her alive.

She died gracefully. Everybody at the funeral was ashamed, almost embarassed. Her aura was still around, silently making us feel like we would never rise up as high as she did. I was a boy then. I did not know much.

A couple of years later, a couple of hardships later, I remembered a rainy afternoon with her. Sipping her tea, looking through the droplets of water on the window, she quietly said to me, without even looking at me:

"It's magnificent. I love it here. I wish I could stay some more."

She was smiling. As much as she could.

“Look at me, she said. Look at me closely. What do you see? A million moons, orbiting around a single planet? A field of daffodils, stretching as far as the ocean? A deep, deep pink sky, where birds paint with their wings? No. None of that. You see me. Poor little me. We weren’t meant to be beautiful. We’re broken, falling apart.

Have you ever experienced ultimate freedom? 

One might say that we are, indeed, capable of feeling that way each and every day. Another might raise their fist at them and argue that freedom comes after many sacrifices. And then a third would calmly take a drag from their pipe and dismiss the claim that such a thing, such an invention as freedom exists.

Well, I have. And it is frightening. 

What is frightening about it is not that such experience occurs only when you are at the bottom of the pit; only when you have sunk so low that you forget the sun’s rays; only when you are drowning, but at the same time wallowing, in your own misery.

It is frightening how calm you are. You become unmoved. Unflinching. Completely devoid of any fear, completely ignorant of any consequence. Indestructible, yet lying face down on the ground, covered by dust and filth. But no, there you are! Smiling at the void, embracing it. 

Ultimate freedom:

I am on the floor. Lying. My right arm is covering my face. I see nothing. I smell nothing. I hear. The noises outside. The clock on the wall, never ceasing to tick. My gentle, rhythmic breathing. The pressing of the fiber of the carpet against that of my clothes. 

I am on the floor. I feel tired. I cannot move. I do not wish to move. I begin thinking about death. I begin thinking of the idea of nonexistence. Now you see me, now you don’t. You are gone. Who knows where? Who knows when? Who knows if...?

I am on the floor. As I keep spiraling down, the thoughts become less and less dreary. I feel a burst of energy. I feel like I am being promised something. Relief. Safety. Freedom. Ultimate freedom. 

No more bonds. No more chains. No more shackles. You are free. You are truly free. 

And then you realize the absurdity. If you have the power to be so free, that not even death could stop you, then why are you still here? Why are you still in the gutter? So, you climb up. You make it out alive. And from that point on, you are free forever. 

It’s the moment that I find most fascinating about writing. That moment which always surprises you, always creeps up on you in disguise; that moment when you’re totally entranced by the process, and then, in an instant, everything changes. A flash of light, a drop of water in a pond, a strike of a match, a sting of a bee, a kiss of a lover. Call it however you want, use whatever metaphor you like, it’s all the same, yet nothing like it. 

As writers, we’re slaves to the moment. Or at least that’s what I’d like to believe. We depend on it, yet if we sit idle, it will never happen. It’s the very fabric of our work, yet it counts on us to sew and kit a ladder for it to climb. 

The moment where all the glorious nonsense becomes sacred. The moment where all the symbols and doodles on the page come together to form not just something physical, but a whole new entity. A spiritual entity which combines the writer’s force and energy, with those of the whole cosmos. I’d like to believe that’s the case. I’d like to think that there is a higher purpose for us, poor lost souls. Or at least a higher power, carefully watching us, guiding us subtly, and then, when the moment comes, bestows us with the gift of divinity. The spark which sets the fire of the forge of creation. 

And then you place the final full stop. You put down your pen and you stare at the page. It’s over. And what you have before you is something so powerful, so extremely volatile, that you’re not sure what to feel. Those circles, lines, swirls, twirls, dots, points and dashes you’ve neatly organized on a white sheet of processed wood - that’s pure power. 

I’m cold.

Which is weird, because I’ve never felt so trapped in my life. Layers of fabric, all bundled together are strangling my body. The soft skin underneath all of those clothes should, technically, be peeling itself off from all the heat. Yet, no such thing.

First of all the shorts. Typical shorts, with a flower pattern. Then the sweatpants. Gray, worn out, homey, kindred sweatpants. My spiritual friend, so to speak. They’ve been everywhere with me, or was it the other way around? Anyway, after that the socks. Warm and fuzzy, brown color with native motifs as a pattern. Next, the other socks, those on top of them. Woolen, hand-knitted, black and white. On top of those the woolen sandals. Same as the socks, but red. If one thing’s for sure, my feet are safe.

Now, for above the waist. I’m too shy to admit, but here goes nothing. A white tank top to begin with. A pretty thick green, yellow and pink t-shirt on top of that. On top of the t-shirt my trusty brown polo, with small rectangles in the middle. After that a purple, worn out, completely devastated by all the years of wear and tear sweater. Which also has a hoodie, by the way. And to top it all off, a big, red and yellow gigantic polo, which I found in a thrift store and when measured, showed about one kilogram. 

And I’m cold. 

I’m cuddled up in one corner of my bed, teddy bear next to me, trying to come up with a solution. A shower is a no go, cause I’d have to expose myself, going to bed won’t work either, cause I’ll end up overheating and sweating. There’s no AC in my room, there’s no power tonight. Best I could do is a candle. Or two. One that smells like vanilla, perhaps. Or maybe I could - ...

My phone is ringing. As I crawl to get it I feel my entire body shivering. I shouldn’t have moved. Who is it? From the corner of my eye I see three letters, and a little red heart after them.

The apple in front of me is split into six pieces.

I take the first one.

I hear the sound of war, echoing in the distance. Shouting and screaming, as the steel demons push forward. The cries of men, as they live out their final moments in some sort of merciless trance.

I take the second one. 

A flower falls to the ground. He hits her. She hits back. This is the last time she sets foot in this room. The room, which they both decorated, they both cared for. The food on the table is growing cold as she’s packing her stuff.

I take the third one. 

No more fun time with the toys. No more comic books before bed. No more playing on the floor, on the warm rug. Tommy doesn’t understand. His parents don’t have enough. 

I take the fourth one. 

Eighty-five. That’s it. She wanted a bit more, she wanted to see the little ones grow up. And the little ones wanted one more berry pie. Now they’re crying next to the wooden house, which their grandma will care for.

I take the fifth one.

Why? Why would anyone drive so fast? They didn’t even bother checking what happened. They just drove off. Poor Indi, adopted just a few months ago. Run, little pup, run like the wind...

I take the last one.

She’s now four years old. She just received a new coloring book. Her plushies are around her and she’s having fun. Her father enters the room. She notices him and jumps at him for a hug. Where is mommy?, she asks. He bursts into tears.

The apple in front of me is gone.

It’s late into the night. Too late, if I must be honest, for eating bananas. The lack of sound makes me feel safe, though. Darkness implies peace, security, surety. I laugh now, at myself from years ago, when I was afraid of the dark. Oh, silly child, if only you knew that one day you’ll love it and appreciate every bit of it.

There is no source of light around me. No lights, no bulbs, no candles, fires, lamps, monitors, dials, displays, no stars, no moons, and definitely no flares. Complete and utter darkness. Total control. Exquisite serenity. I lay on my bed. I breathe in an out.

Everything is so profound. My thoughts are profound. I am profound. I am almost too profound for this world. My actions, the life that I lead right now at this moment, cannot be put in the same realm as the ordinary. I feel empowered. I truly dive into the darkness, letting it embrace me. We hug each other like lovers, we hold hands, we whisper softly. We love deeply. We cannot see each other, but we feel each other. That’s profound. 

I open my eyes. Nothing changes. The view is the same. That’s profound. I head for the window. I feel something in the darkness, lurking for a split second beneath my right foot. A poltergeist made of pure plasma, perhaps? Or something else, something profound? Is this it? Is this the thing I’ve been searching for inside this beautiful, eternal darkness?