Katherine Belt

Have you ever noticed how your memories can get so distorted, so exaggerated, so vivid with time? Or perhaps they dull and fade as the years pass. The most joyous, ecstatic moments become humdrum and ordinary. The most heart-wrenching, soul-writhing times become nothing more than a far off distant melody played on the soft, mournful cries of an ancient piano. Our minds do what they want; sometimes, it feels as if we have no control. The biggest happenings in our lives become minor, and, sometimes, the simplest, most boring details of our existence become our defining moments of being. Ever heard of the chaos theory? That if you go back in time and kill just a single butterfly, time and existence as we know it may end? Have you ever thought about if you went back into your past and deleted a single scene, who you’d be today? The point is that we all have these moments; we all have these life-defining experiences, whether big or small, long or short. This just happens to be the moment I was awoken to true intellectual freedom. This just happens to be the moment that I was reborn as the start of the person I now am.

“Hello?”

Have you ever noticed how a ceiling fan can resemble a flower, and the soft, gentle light flowing from the incandescent bulbs landing on your face, cold white sunshine? Mine more resembled a wilting flower: I seriously needed to dust the blades.

“Hello? Are you alright?”

I heard the little ding that served to notify me of the persistent responses of a friend via America Online’s instant messaging service; we talk on the phone sometimes, but both of us tend to fall silent, neither of us too sure of what to say next, and cell phone bills, since the call would be long distance, can get pretty pricey. So, instead, I was lying on my back on the smooth, cold, hardwood floor of my room, waiting for his replies, gazing up at my ceiling fan and wishing I was off in a field somewhere and looking up at the stars; that’s when I feel I truly belong. I sat up, laptop resting on my low oriental table, my fingers beginning to fluidly and quickly pass over the keyboard; I responded:

“I don’t know if I’m alright.”

I lay back down, closing my eyes serenely and just thinking about existence; I realized that probably wasn’t such a good idea to do tonight, being in the mood I was in. Quickly, I opened my eyes. Gazing around my room, I began to question whether all the material possessions I had were worth it: my walls were lightly splotched with various posters; oriental wall scrolls in their archaic texts dabbled the doors, a gift from a friend who had salvaged them from her grandmother’s; a few wind chimes hung loosely around; I’d tap them whenever I wanted a moment of freedom and release given from their melodic chimes.

 My Japanese and translated-to-English graphic novels rested in alphabetical order on their own cherry wood bookcase, the top of which housed a Japanese tea set, several sushi candles, and two porcelain dolls in flaming red kimonos; the pattern of the silky material a near twin to that of the kimono that hung loosely in my closet waiting for the next festive occasion on which it would be worn. The wobbly, fake wood DVD rack was overflowing, and I noted to myself that I should look into getting a new one; the night stand next to it, and the bed next to that, pushed up into a corner of the room so as to survey my surroundings the moment I awoke, were rather messy and disheveled. The computer chimed:

“What would you like to talk about?”

I sat up and read his words, glancing to the other side of my room for inspiration for a conversation; my room resembled a scene from “Alice in Wonderland”; it also made me feel tall (I’m the shortest in my family by four inches), with its half-doors that were shorter than I was; my family and I reside in a one-and-a-half story house, so my room’s ceiling was very angular and sloping. The mint green walls soothed me, and the leftover scent from a vanilla candle still lingered in the air. I clicked my tongue at my cat who was resting on my wicker chair just below the window that lie over my bed; she came running to me.

“I don’t know what to talk about, you can choose.”

I already knew what his response would be, something along the lines of: Why me? So, I let mind wander for my reply to him. I glazed over my bookshelf, the metaphysics and textbooks being separated from such books as The Inferno, Paradise Lost, and a menagerie by my favorite author: Chuck Palahnuik. The metaphysical books caused me to remember my class earlier. The computer chimed again:

“Why me? You choose.” Told you so.

“I had my philosophy class today…”

I rested my chin on the low table, thinking how I might want to invest in a cushion to sit on. Maybe. I sigh, waiting for his response, and glance at myself in a dirty hand mirror that lay on the floor beside piles of various rock CDs, one of which was playing at that moment, what I used to call my personal theme song—“Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls; my dull, brown hair was pulled back into a pony tail to keep it from my slate eyes. I pushed the glasses up on my nose; I had just taken my contacts out a bit ago and was still a little dizzy from the transition. Setting the mirror down with another sigh, I ran my fingers through my hair, freeing a few strands from the band that held it back. Ding, said the computer.

“Oh?”

He taught me this trick; whenever you want more information, “Oh”. Whenever you don’t know what to say, “Oh”. Whenever you want to act interested, well, you get the idea. Problem is trying to figure out which of the three he meant.

“Yeah…Existentialism.”

I loved the subject, loathed the class. “Meaning of Life,” they called it: four professors, a 101 level subject. I chuckled when I first read the class’ title; yeah, right. If a tree falls in the forest, and there is no one around to hear it, does it still make a sound? Ding.

“What’s that?”

The answer is, it depends on your definition of sound. That’s always the answer.

“Y’know…Nietzsche, Camus, Sartre?”

Is sound merely vibrations traveling, invisible, through the air? Or, is sound the result of those vibrations bouncing like a game of pong through your ear? Ding.

“No. I’m just a simple guy.”

“C’mon, Jeff, you know that’s not true…”

“What?”

“Nevermind.”

“Okay…so, what about philosophy? What did you learn today?”

“Something I’d rather forget.”

I fiddled with my ear, a habit I’ve had since I was an infant; something I’d do when I was uncomfortable, stressed, depressed, or trying desperately to fall asleep. Ding.

“Tell me about it?”

I guess I had had the inner intent to tell him all along or else I wouldn’t have brought the subject up at all. And, I couldn’t back out now—not my style.

“The professor said we’re worth less than sand.”

“He said that?”

“No, I’m lying to you, Jeff. Yes, he said that.” I tried not to be sarcastic when I talked to him; he never seemed to be able to pick up on it, but I couldn’t help it now; I wasn’t in the mood. Ding.

“Why?”

“Because sand lasts longer than we do. In the timeline of this universe, we are nothing more than a fraction of a blink of an eye. We don’t matter at all.”

I lay back down on the floor, focusing on the cold that seeped through my black t-shirt and jeans and sock-less feet to envelop my flesh; focusing on the solidity of the ground, and wondering if it was possible that I could fall through it at any second; focusing on the silence that wasn’t really silent, but rather a constant hum that became deafening, awaiting the ding to set me free. But after five minutes, it still hadn’t come. I sat up and typed:

“You okay?”

His response came quickly, as if he had been poised and waiting for me to say something else and confirm that I was still alive before replying. Ding.

“You matter to me.”  I chose to ignore his reply and move on:

“We also learned Camus. Every single second you are alive, you are choosing this world and its pointless points and illogical logic. That the moment you come to live for a single day free from responsibilities, your life becomes tragic because that day will never come. The professor made me so mad with the way he said it; I was half tempted to just jump right out the classroom window and show him one.” I laughed to myself; nobody these days seemed to appreciate my dark sense of humor, especially him. “But I figured the second story probably wouldn’t do it.” Ding, said the computer.

“The whole world is tragic…”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t know how to answer the million questions that were screaming in my skull, or to give in to the gregariousness that was trying to seep between us. I didn’t know how to verbalize all the protests that flew through my thoughts. I had been trained not to. The computer chimed once more:

“What do you think?”

“I don’t.”

“What do you mean you don’t?”

“The professor said the first day that our thoughts didn’t matter; that they didn’t want to hear what we had to say. If we tell them, we fail.”

I remembered when we were first told that. When we were told we were to write “reaction papers” that had nothing to do with our personal reactions. I had taken this philosophy class not because it was required, but because I wanted to be introduced to new ideas. I wanted to think. I wanted to feel. But we were told not to…

He didn’t reply for a while, so I continued on:

“Besides, I’m just me. I’m not like Camus, or Einstein, or Shakespeare, or Bach or Van Gogh. There’s nothing I can think or do that hasn’t already been said or done. There is nothing I can do that will impact anybody. So, why bother?”

I knew I had done something to irritate or annoy him, not an easy task, mind you, because about ten minutes had passed and he still hadn’t replied. I was just being true to my emotions in the words I had given him; he’s the one that made me promise to do so in the first place. Finally, the computer emitted a digital chirp:

“Heh…”

What had I done? I began to feel very self-conscious and lost and confused…and alone. I was feeling as if I was standing on a rug, and some rogue was busy pulling it out quickly from under my feet. Everything I knew, everything I was sure on had suddenly vanished as I waited, with bated breath, for his reply. Ding…

“Do they really have that much power over you?”

“W-what?”

“I thought you were stronger than this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I guess I was wrong.”

My world crumbled around me. A fire fueled by self-degradation, shame, blindness, and ignorance ripped torrentially through my being, burning and destroying everything, leaving behind only ashes and remnants of who I used to be…stale thoughts, illogical ideas, misconstrued conceptions… The flame was not from the eternal south, but rather a purifying second chance, and, like a phoenix, I rose up from those gray, dusty ashes in a flaming orange plumage that shone and radiated as bright as the sun.

“No…”

Thoughts were speeding through my head like fired bullets: so fast, I couldn’t keep up, so piercing, I couldn’t dodge. No more running, no more hiding. This is your moment and it is happening right now. Epiphany. Dizziness, lightheadedness, things swirling together, colors swimming as one, and the most overwhelming sense of enlightenment and knowledge ever experienced.

“No, no, no…”

Pick up the remote and pause the picture. I can look back and tell you now that this was one of those re-defining times. The effects it has had upon me are so rich and deep that they are practically indescribable. This experience has shaped who I have become. The realizations I came to, the conclusions I drew…all from a simple, ordinary, nightly routine of having a conversation with a close friend. Life is over-exaggerated in the media. To have your blindfold removed, to wake up to the essence of intellectual freedom… it doesn’t require illness, it doesn’t require death, it doesn’t require being forced to wear a chicken suit for a play for the Fort Worth police department in a fifth-grade internship program. And, no, I don’t want to talk about that.  All it requires is a single moment; A single word to spark the kindling of an internal flame that will burn as long as you desire. You have the control. You hold the remote. Press play.

Ding.

“No? No what?”

“Wrong. Everything is wrong.” I was feeling overwhelmed, clutching my head, trying to sort out all the thoughts and feelings and notions that were swimming in my mind, thoughts that I hadn’t even gotten to; my plot had run ahead of me, and I couldn’t catch up. This isn’t real, nothing is real…

“What is it? Calm down…”

I can laugh now, laugh in curiosity of what must have been going through his mind, not having a clue what was happening to me. Calm down? How can anyone calm down when their very existence is being judged?

“I’ve been wrong all along, Jeff…” And you, yourself, are the judge.

“I’ve been wrong!” The prosecutor.

“What’s going on?” The attorneys and the juries and the bailiff.

“Jeff! I get it!” You are your own worst enemy; you are your toughest critic. You can’t fool yourself forever; one day, we must all look in the mirror and see who we truly are; we must stand alone before ourselves and make our judgments. Ding.

“Get what? Tell me what is going on!” And today was my day.

“Jeff…what makes those people different than me? They, too, were just one person, were they not? I have to think for myself, don’t I? Even if it’s a recycled thought, at least it’s my own as well, no? Can someone like me impact the world? Do I stand a chance? Can I stand on my own, apart from the crowd? If they could do it, if they could make it, why can’t I? Jeff, I can do this.”

“Yes, you can.”

I was sent into a small bit of shock as realization after realization quickly flooded me. Maybe the only thing that matters is the here and now. Maybe the only thing that counts is what I can see, touch, taste, and feel. Maybe it’s all perspective, a point of view. Maybe I do matter, and maybe I do stand a chance at being something more than I am. Maybe I do have a role in the bigger picture.

I stood up woozily and walked over to my bedroom window, throwing open the glass panes and gazing out intently at the moon and the few stars that shone through the dark, dusky city night.          The fresh air caressed my face; I breathed it in serenely, gently closing my eyes. I felt as if I was floating, swimming in all the possibilities; I am me, and that is all I have to offer this world. It’s up to them whether they accept my message or not. No more self-limiting boundaries, no more accepting prescribed roles from a group of people I don’t even know. I am the closet fan of Japanese animation; I am the shy student interested in personality and abnormal psychology; I am then English major with no idea what I’m going to make of myself in this world; I am the world’s biggest jack of all trades, master of none and perhaps the only overachieving procrastinator. I am a good listener, I am a lifesaver, I am deep, and I am true. I am a self-defined artist; I am a wannabe writer. I am an INFJ, an intuitive psychic abnormality, basically, according to the Myers-Briggs typology profile with results defined by Carl Jung: one percent of the world’s population. I am proud of my individuality. I am reminded of some advice I was once given by someone I once pulled back from the edge and whom now is paying me back tenfold:

“Kinda like there's so much good to go along with the bad. You are awarded the gift of sight at a great price, one that some can't go with. By sight I mean, you can see the world for what it really is, not what we’re told to believe.”

That cool autumn night was the night that I had my blindfold removed for the very first time. Yes, it will slip back into place every now and again; but once you have seen something once, once you have tasted, smelt, felt, and loved something just one single time, even if just for a solitary second…it is never fully forgotten. And I had seen the world that moment; I had seen my existence that moment; I had seen me. Any advice I may have explicitly given you in this little essay? Don’t listen to it. Never take advice unless you ask for it, and if you asked for it, you shouldn’t have. Learn from your own mistakes, follow your own star; find your moment that will help you peek through your blindfold and boldly rip it off while puzzled onlookers gossip and mock you; sneer in their face.

It was that night that I was given the gift of sight. Yes, the price is steep…a constant barrage of common ideas trying to be forced on you, always trying to preserve yourself, a never-ending identity crisis, knowing what freedom feels like, but not always having it; knowing the sorrows of the world and not being able to help or fix anything. And, yes, there are sometimes I’d rather not have to pay the toll. It’s hard not giving in to the common clichéd beliefs and ideas, but to truly be you…to honestly and purely think and feel what is deep within you…to not let others hold power over you…it’s worth every cent. Ding.

“Hello?”

Ding.

“Are you alright?”

Freedom is worth every penny.

“Yes.”

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