the lost man chronicles
the daily chronicle
this morning i awoke to images of cuneiforms and t-squares, as well as slowly rising and rapidly descending pyramids accompanied by the spry pattering of my feet beneath me, as i went through the "heart-attack" mode of my illusionary treadmill.
at 4 am, the radio announcer, the one with the sultry-soft voice, said, "We've been listening to Camille Saint-Saëns's Opus 103, piano concerto number five in F Major, better known as 'The Egyptian Concerto,' as performed by Stephen Hoff, accompanied by the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra." "quite a mouthful," i somnolently thought, which with her intriguingly faint accent she uttered flawlessly—as if she had been awake for a few minutes longer than i had.
the music was delightfully a bit crazy, and stirred amazing visions of myself running agilely up stairs, with the carpet runner suddenly being pulled from underneath me, so that i'd slip down a quarter of my last ascent.
but then, as if i was not fazed by this cruel joke of the gods, i would simply get right back up again and scurry upward the spiraling staircase until the pantheon was compelled to play with me and have another laugh at my expense, again.
for the last month, life itself, in its own amusing way, has felt much like this dream. for i've frantically been scurrying forward toward the goal line of a fantasy football (i.e. soccer) game i've been playing with myself, believing every bit of the delusion that i am in control of my life, and ultimately—my fate.
the run has been exhausting, and admittedly, more stressful than the pressure anyone outside myself could impress upon me. and what has been most frustrating is this slippery slope—for as soon as i sigh for a moment of relief, pausing after four steps forward, i'll look up and see the dreaded and daunting task ahead of me. and it is the sight of this distant pinnacle of my dreams, which alone exasperates me just enough to make me feel as if, for a moment, i've slipped a few steps back.
yet, i know, just as the concerto ends, so will this exhausting portion of my journey. for i will reach the top. and then, perhaps again, for a still moment of repose, for a short while i suppose—i will rest. at least until i decide to test myself once again, and dare defile this ephemeral serenity with yet another obscenity, une autre montagne pour monter, so that i may—escape my ennui.