Saturday, May 31, 2008
Number 1 Matthew Moses Worldwide!
I never thought the day would come, but I was the number 1 Matthew Moses in the world. I was! I went to numerous search engines, including Google and Yahoo!, punched in my name and my website came up first. Oh, the glory of being the top Matthew Moses of the world! I know this sounds shallow but every little victory means something in my rather sad life. So there! I was the number 1 Matthew Moses in the world. Did you ever achieve so much? I think not! Now bow before me!
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The Decline of Me
Most nights I can’t sleep. I just lay there shrouded by night, twisted in my blanket, drenched in cold sweat. Thoughts rush through my mind feverishly, blurring through my consciousness with tiring rapidity. I attempt to focus on them, but they dissolve at the merest notice. Sometimes I catch myself grinding my teeth in frustration, a salty hint of blood on my tongue.
Inhumed in this purgatory between dreams and the real, mentally meandering, I realize why a part of me doesn’t want to sleep. There is a sense of trepidation between the end of one day and the beginning of another. I would call it the terror of the unknown. After the tumultuous last few years, tomorrow only seems to offer less and less possibility. My idealism has been trampled by pragmatism. A divorce coupled with the loss of every material possession I once had has left me questioning the stability of tomorrow. Nothing is forever my subconscious whispers. Nothing is certain. I try to clear my mind and forget my unease, hoping that if I can shut down my cognitive faculties I can find some rest. It doesn’t help. I lay there locked in the waking world, tossing and turning as the minutes tick away.
The fatigue mercilessly tightens my limbs with a numbing rigidity stripping me of physical control. I feel weighted down by some unseen hand and become leaden. My body feels alien. It’s so ironic. I can’t sleep, yet my body can’t find the strength to stand.
Yet my mind becomes increasingly sensitive. My dull senses sharpen, and I hear odd things in the shadows. The foundation of the house moans from time to time. It is plaintive and pathetic, perhaps wondering what has become of those souls who wander through her. The wind shakes the windows, tapping time and again asking me to come join her. But I can’t find the strength to rise and let the wind pass me by on its evening trek.
My weary eyes wander around the room, amorphous shapes emerging from the inky darkness with time, dreams bleeding into reality. It lends a surreal touch to my surroundings. Stripped of form and substance, these shapes of lost day become primordial. The twilight filtering through the blinds give the silhouettes a mystical air; little particles dance like sparks in the moonlight, twirling angels falling from heaven. With the merest mental touch, I give these shapes form and meaning and for a time forget the exhaustive burden of consciousness.
My actions stir other senses. A stale, musty smell permeates the room. How had I missed that smell? There is something soothing to that sweet scent, earthy and natural. It brings to mind a warm, comforting softness I could lose myself in like the bosom of a lover. The tension leaves me, and I relax into soft pillows.
I swear I feel a tremor travel through the bed. It is a subtle quake that comes every time the world begins to fade. A sickness develops in my gut. There is something unnatural to this. Afraid to move, yet unsure why, my eyes frantically scour the blackness for what disturbs me. Then I see it, this thing that threatens to shatter my reason. I am unsure if it is actual or hallucination, my hold on reality is so tenuous at that state between wake and sleep, but I swear I see the shadows coalescing into a shadowy specter. This malignant thing hisses unintelligibly, standing at the foot of my bed paralyzing me with its cowled, condemning stare. My once quiet heart rattles painfully in my chest, thumping at my ribs and thundering in my ears. The breath catches in my throat and I choke. I close my eyes and will this thing away over and over, praying it obey. When I look again, all that remains is the empty night. I steal a breath and the night becomes more solid.
Turning to look at the clock, I curse the time: too short to sleep and too long until dawn. In futility, I force myself to rise, the bed creaking beneath my body. On unsteady feet I take to the hall. Despite the blackness, I know where I am going. Off to the right is the dining room and beyond that the kitchen where the fridge hums and the coils ping. I turn left trudging down that somber corridor passing door after door until I reach the bathroom at the end. I cross the threshold and close the door behind me. Flipping the switch on the wall, a spark blossoms before me which then grows into a dim, buzzing glow that finally flares into a piercing effulgence illuminating everything around me. I find myself surrounded by a soft, fuzzy whiteness.
I bow my head and turn the lever. The faucet gushes water into the sink and I cup as much as I can, bringing that soothing cold to my face washing away the lassitude that plagues me. The bleary world around me becomes stark. Without realizing it, my head rises, and I look in the mirror and see the touch of time. Once golden hair, lush and thick, has become tarnished and thin; a vague wisp receding back beyond my barren crown. Darkness shrouds my eyes, heavy bags weighing down my dulling, bloodshot emerald vision which fatigue has narrowed to slits. Then there are the lines etched into my face from too many frowns, smiles, and furrowed brows. Past emotions have etched a faint reminder of events long past, gradually digging deeper with each passing day. At the center of my face is my crooked nose which whistles plaintively from time to time. Beneath that are my dried, chapped lips. I can still remember when they were thick and soft. Now they are chewed and cracking. My visage has acquired a certain leanness, no longer plump with baby fat. My cheeks have hollowed leaving me with an emaciated, hungry look. I swear I can see a grinning skull beneath the wavering visage before me. But my skin is the surest sign a change is overtaking me. Once vibrant and solid, my flesh has paled and taken on a translucent quality. I can see right through myself; past the blue veins and thin musculature to the bone and beyond like I am nothing but insubstantial shadow.
Seeing this, I can’t help but think that I am gradually being eroded by time. I have hit the peak and am beginning the decline of my corporeal self. What I once thought immortal, this creation that is me, is now taking on mortal properties. I am withering away. I know I am too young to allow a fixation of age to overcome me, yet I can’t shake the morbid curiosity of watching myself approach ruin. It is as if, realizing that I cannot reverse the process, I instead have subconsciously chosen to run head on toward the precipice if only to fly briefly over the abyss before that final fall. I have embraced the decline in order to render its bitter taste palatable.
The process of aging reminds me of sculpting. One begins as this crude rock, untouched and virginal; capable of becoming anything. Gradually it is carved until the desired shape is achieved. This formless chunk of rock takes on characteristics, becomes something, finds definition. But life isn’t content to leave a masterpiece alone. It continues to chip away regardless of the cracks that develop. Maybe life is searching for that desired perfect shape despite the fact that such obsession leads to a whittling away of the closest approximation.
That is what I see in the mirror: a life which is ironically being consumed by living. Experiences mar my once smooth skin, a shade of stubble increasingly obscuring my youth. I trace the scar under my left arm where a tube was once inserted, the phantom pain of a collapsed lung causing each breath thereafter to sting. The sharp ache spreads to my heart, a stabbing pang that makes my eyes burn until warm tears pour down my face and spill into the cold sink below. Further misery is resurrected to haunt me, both spiritual and physical. Through that depressive vision I begin to see darker prophecies. My frail hand passes before my eyes, trembling weakly. Those boney fingers have become so slim that no ring could ever hold but instead slip off. Falling away, I see what remains of me. My small frame shrinks more and more every day, the weight just refusing to hold. The light of the sun, warm and benevolent, would pass right through me. I turn away, leaving the light behind on my way back down the murky hall. My steps lighten as I leave my thoughts behind until I seem to hover. I become more ghost than man; a wraith haunting the world. How long before even my reflection vanishes, and I am no more than a memory? And after that, how long until that memory fades to a dream forgotten on waking?
Inhumed in this purgatory between dreams and the real, mentally meandering, I realize why a part of me doesn’t want to sleep. There is a sense of trepidation between the end of one day and the beginning of another. I would call it the terror of the unknown. After the tumultuous last few years, tomorrow only seems to offer less and less possibility. My idealism has been trampled by pragmatism. A divorce coupled with the loss of every material possession I once had has left me questioning the stability of tomorrow. Nothing is forever my subconscious whispers. Nothing is certain. I try to clear my mind and forget my unease, hoping that if I can shut down my cognitive faculties I can find some rest. It doesn’t help. I lay there locked in the waking world, tossing and turning as the minutes tick away.
The fatigue mercilessly tightens my limbs with a numbing rigidity stripping me of physical control. I feel weighted down by some unseen hand and become leaden. My body feels alien. It’s so ironic. I can’t sleep, yet my body can’t find the strength to stand.
Yet my mind becomes increasingly sensitive. My dull senses sharpen, and I hear odd things in the shadows. The foundation of the house moans from time to time. It is plaintive and pathetic, perhaps wondering what has become of those souls who wander through her. The wind shakes the windows, tapping time and again asking me to come join her. But I can’t find the strength to rise and let the wind pass me by on its evening trek.
My weary eyes wander around the room, amorphous shapes emerging from the inky darkness with time, dreams bleeding into reality. It lends a surreal touch to my surroundings. Stripped of form and substance, these shapes of lost day become primordial. The twilight filtering through the blinds give the silhouettes a mystical air; little particles dance like sparks in the moonlight, twirling angels falling from heaven. With the merest mental touch, I give these shapes form and meaning and for a time forget the exhaustive burden of consciousness.
My actions stir other senses. A stale, musty smell permeates the room. How had I missed that smell? There is something soothing to that sweet scent, earthy and natural. It brings to mind a warm, comforting softness I could lose myself in like the bosom of a lover. The tension leaves me, and I relax into soft pillows.
I swear I feel a tremor travel through the bed. It is a subtle quake that comes every time the world begins to fade. A sickness develops in my gut. There is something unnatural to this. Afraid to move, yet unsure why, my eyes frantically scour the blackness for what disturbs me. Then I see it, this thing that threatens to shatter my reason. I am unsure if it is actual or hallucination, my hold on reality is so tenuous at that state between wake and sleep, but I swear I see the shadows coalescing into a shadowy specter. This malignant thing hisses unintelligibly, standing at the foot of my bed paralyzing me with its cowled, condemning stare. My once quiet heart rattles painfully in my chest, thumping at my ribs and thundering in my ears. The breath catches in my throat and I choke. I close my eyes and will this thing away over and over, praying it obey. When I look again, all that remains is the empty night. I steal a breath and the night becomes more solid.
Turning to look at the clock, I curse the time: too short to sleep and too long until dawn. In futility, I force myself to rise, the bed creaking beneath my body. On unsteady feet I take to the hall. Despite the blackness, I know where I am going. Off to the right is the dining room and beyond that the kitchen where the fridge hums and the coils ping. I turn left trudging down that somber corridor passing door after door until I reach the bathroom at the end. I cross the threshold and close the door behind me. Flipping the switch on the wall, a spark blossoms before me which then grows into a dim, buzzing glow that finally flares into a piercing effulgence illuminating everything around me. I find myself surrounded by a soft, fuzzy whiteness.
I bow my head and turn the lever. The faucet gushes water into the sink and I cup as much as I can, bringing that soothing cold to my face washing away the lassitude that plagues me. The bleary world around me becomes stark. Without realizing it, my head rises, and I look in the mirror and see the touch of time. Once golden hair, lush and thick, has become tarnished and thin; a vague wisp receding back beyond my barren crown. Darkness shrouds my eyes, heavy bags weighing down my dulling, bloodshot emerald vision which fatigue has narrowed to slits. Then there are the lines etched into my face from too many frowns, smiles, and furrowed brows. Past emotions have etched a faint reminder of events long past, gradually digging deeper with each passing day. At the center of my face is my crooked nose which whistles plaintively from time to time. Beneath that are my dried, chapped lips. I can still remember when they were thick and soft. Now they are chewed and cracking. My visage has acquired a certain leanness, no longer plump with baby fat. My cheeks have hollowed leaving me with an emaciated, hungry look. I swear I can see a grinning skull beneath the wavering visage before me. But my skin is the surest sign a change is overtaking me. Once vibrant and solid, my flesh has paled and taken on a translucent quality. I can see right through myself; past the blue veins and thin musculature to the bone and beyond like I am nothing but insubstantial shadow.
Seeing this, I can’t help but think that I am gradually being eroded by time. I have hit the peak and am beginning the decline of my corporeal self. What I once thought immortal, this creation that is me, is now taking on mortal properties. I am withering away. I know I am too young to allow a fixation of age to overcome me, yet I can’t shake the morbid curiosity of watching myself approach ruin. It is as if, realizing that I cannot reverse the process, I instead have subconsciously chosen to run head on toward the precipice if only to fly briefly over the abyss before that final fall. I have embraced the decline in order to render its bitter taste palatable.
The process of aging reminds me of sculpting. One begins as this crude rock, untouched and virginal; capable of becoming anything. Gradually it is carved until the desired shape is achieved. This formless chunk of rock takes on characteristics, becomes something, finds definition. But life isn’t content to leave a masterpiece alone. It continues to chip away regardless of the cracks that develop. Maybe life is searching for that desired perfect shape despite the fact that such obsession leads to a whittling away of the closest approximation.
That is what I see in the mirror: a life which is ironically being consumed by living. Experiences mar my once smooth skin, a shade of stubble increasingly obscuring my youth. I trace the scar under my left arm where a tube was once inserted, the phantom pain of a collapsed lung causing each breath thereafter to sting. The sharp ache spreads to my heart, a stabbing pang that makes my eyes burn until warm tears pour down my face and spill into the cold sink below. Further misery is resurrected to haunt me, both spiritual and physical. Through that depressive vision I begin to see darker prophecies. My frail hand passes before my eyes, trembling weakly. Those boney fingers have become so slim that no ring could ever hold but instead slip off. Falling away, I see what remains of me. My small frame shrinks more and more every day, the weight just refusing to hold. The light of the sun, warm and benevolent, would pass right through me. I turn away, leaving the light behind on my way back down the murky hall. My steps lighten as I leave my thoughts behind until I seem to hover. I become more ghost than man; a wraith haunting the world. How long before even my reflection vanishes, and I am no more than a memory? And after that, how long until that memory fades to a dream forgotten on waking?
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