A semi-in-depth cataloguing of time, space, and subject in a microcosmic sphere of existence, convoluted to the point of annoyance, filled with trivialities and clutter, free of popular constraint or influence, yet restrained by the limitations of experience

A man, tall and somewhat slight of figure (our protagonist) stands at attention, waiting for the acknowledgment of his flight attendant; upon receiving said acknowledgment, in the positive of course, he will proceed down a plastic-choked corridor that will in turn bring him to an airplane which in its own turn will bring him to his destination, the specifics of which are irrelevant except that: it is not a place of widespread, that is public, interest, but rather holds sentimental value for the man (our protagonist that is).

            (Our protagonist) is called by his name, by the flight attendant, via a telephone, amplified by surrounding speakers. He proceeds towards the corridor and steps into a line of people that flows precariously forward, like a stream that has recently come to exist. He walks several paces down the ovarian corridor and then is thoroughly and completely alone. The stream, trickling at first, has ceased to exist; and the man (our protagonist) is alone.

            He glances, with apprehension, first to the left and then the right. He then proceeds forward holding his flaccid bag limply, allowing it to rest along the outer portion of his right knee so that it bumps against him as he steps.

            He rounds a slight corner and is met by a large wooden-framed glass door. Although the door is glass, the man cannot see what lies beyond it for it is hazed by a thick fog.

            He nudges the door and it abruptly swings open in a torrent of ubiquitous light, such as is characteristic of small theatre productions with dedicated stage crew. And then, door, frame, corridor and all, cease to exist and the man (our protagonist) stands, still alone, in a space occupied by nothing yet encompassing the ritualistic tendencies of humanity, without tangibility. He stands amidst a never-ending expanse of thought and process, concept and actualization—not without flaw nor character, lacking only the personal aspects of creation that make such ideas uniquely human.

“It’s a fine piece of machinery, but I think that it would do better with more around it.”

“You mean as part of a set?”

“Well, that is to say, it would do well paired with the first, in addition to, as well, and also.”

I’m standing at the foot of the ladder and my feet are swelling. I look up and see Thompson, standing uneasily, several rungs above me. He lifts his left foot and steps up, then again, but this time with his right.

I arch my neck slightly to the left and back and see the concentrated cyst of space and time condensing and exploding into the void. It rises and inflames, then subsides again. A porous, detached cloud of existence, existing in empty space and representing nothing else. I look down and see (at the bottom of another ladder, identical to the one I am presently standing at the foot of) a steel plateau identical to the one I am standing on; it (that is, both of them, and surely all the others that exist above and below the one I am standing on and surely hold the same characteristics as well) extends laterally for an infinite span—immeasurable.

I turn back.

Thompson, continuing in his aforementioned fashion, has contained several more rungs and now stands well above me. His position has not changed at all, except for that now he is farther above me than before.

I concentrate on my left foot, now swelling out of the bindings of the boot and filling as much space as the rest of my person, respectively. Still it won’t lift and I have no will left to persuade it. Instead I turn to face the now semi-disintegrated vesicle of human existence. Thick luminous clouds of sporadic energy are imploding into a point and disappearing as they meet.

I try my foot again, the right this time, still nothing. I turn back to Thompson but he is gone. The ladder vanishes into a glinting point above me and then, as if empowered by a force both celestial and omnipotent, I move (am flung) foot first, into oblivion.

            “I don’t care Susan.”

            “Well that doesn’t mean it will just cease to exist. The world--universe--doesn’t function in regards to your every whim. The world is built of bound and constraints.”

            Susan once told me that, “the world is built of bounds and constraints”.

Susan has abandonment issues and is prone to sleepwalking.

            “In our search for substance and understanding we must strive to produce something absolute, however imperfect it may be. Depictions of the truth, in regards to man, thought and the universe can only be as true as their origins; and as such, the creative process must limit itself (if it hopes to accomplish anything of worth, of truth that is) by the appropriate bounds and constraints, the nature and criteria of which are entirely abstract and therefore open to the depiction of the creator, even if such decisions affect, and they most certainly will, the product.”

            The progressions of our creative intuitions are linearly degenerative and although we will, as in any structure of understanding and information, perpetually further our understanding of the ways and means by which we depict and create, we will eventually exhaust our ability to pursue a truth further than the one we have come to realize, at which point the world, promptly and without inhibition, will cease to exist.

            Joseph Mentolf had three sons. The first of which was entirely opposed to his father’s work (the likes of which are very mysterious), the second of which did not recognize the work’s existence at all (even in all of it’s mystery) and the third of which took an unfounded, yet full-hearted interest in the work (mysteries and all).

            Susan is on her circuit around the house. She begins in the sitting room and starts slowly, taking a soft turn to move through the archway connecting to the dining room. In the dining room she sits in the first, rightmost chair, but only for a moment, upon the closure of which she rises again, instinctually, and proceeds forward, but not until she has returned the chair back to its original position, comfortably situated half shaded by the table and half exposed. She stops in the kitchen, where I sit, and sneezes, loudly and with abruption. Then continues into the parlor where she pours herself two fingers of scotch. She then, sitting in the water damaged armchair, legs crossed and tucked in close to her chest, nods back to consciousness.

            Joseph Whittier, what can I say about Joseph Whittier…

            The “understandings” that we convince ourselves into believing in and holding in the utmost esteem, founding our lives and livelihoods upon so that when we fall out of reality we have something seemingly concrete to fall into (with little regard for the collateral, bone shattering, damage) are nothing more than mere trivialities. That is to say, they are constructions of our subconscious that are entirely unfounded in reality and are beneficial only in that they shield our eyes from the metaphorical storms and torrents of capitalistic living.

            Joseph Whittier lived down the block from my family when I was growing up. I don’t know where he kept his wife, but I never saw her, not even once. Joseph Whittier mowed his lawn on Saturdays and read his paper on Sundays. He rarely had visitors and when he did they came in uniform. Joseph Whittier had one outfit, or rather the same set of clothes duplicated in style and size but in varying color schemes and prints. One time, when I was ten or eleven years old, he asked me if I wanted to try the mower. I held the rubberized grips with both hands, spread by seven inches of cold steel space, released the stop guard as he had instructed me to and pressed forward, straining on the balls of my feet. The mower spit and made a loud gurgling sound and then quit altogether. That was the last time I spoke with Joseph Whittier.    

            Susan told me it would end like this. With a sandwich and a smile and .45 to my temple and the world’s burden of existence bearing down heavily on my lifelong strained shoulders, with little concern or regret and certainly no understanding.

            Well Susan, at this point there are no bounds nor constraints, nothing to hold me back and nothing to stop me.

            I cock the hammer of the pistol and place it firmly against my self-involved skull. I pull the trigger, but nothing happens. I turn the gun over in my palm and it begins to melt, to disintegrate into the same god awful mess that composes this perpetually lost and infinitely abstracted world. And then I stand above a small pile of sand that, in all of its simplicity, summarizes the failure, regret and discouragement of my life and the life of every other walking cesspool on this planet.