So this is a super long post. It is an essay I am turning in for
one of my classes. So if you can muster through to the end, good job! I love
your dedication! I apologize to my classmates who have already read this (I
kind of like it and someone asked me to share it here).
From the Hapless
OBLIVION:
noun obliv·i·on \ə-ˈbli-vē-ən, ō-, ä-\
the state of something that is
not remembered, used, or thought about anymore; being unconscious or unaware;
the state of being destroyed.
It happened in a coffee shop.
What exactly happened is a matter
of perspective. Some would say my sanity finally broke that day in a coffee
shop; some would say my mind was opened to something beyond myself. I do not
know with whom I agree, only that something happened that day…in a coffee shop.
It happened as I sat in a thrifted
chair with my nose in a book and a pen in my hand, the smell of a latte curling
in the air about my senses. Specifically, it was a thought that dawned on me. The
thought of a place, far, far from where I was sitting in that thrifted chair. A
land constructed entirely of what I chose to make of it. I used to call this
place Oblivion.
Oblivion was a fantastic place. There,
the horizon was silent of unnatural noises, forming a sort of cocoon of
whimsical quiet where one could hear the wind tousling the trees in a playful
humor. Amidst the chattering trees the sparrows sang free songs to freed men, while
just beyond that the sound of waves softly caressing the beach’s sand in a
lissome, rhythmic murmur reached one’s ears. Upon nearing the crystalline
waters, warmed by the vibrancy of a hot noon day sun, one was greeted with an
endless blue. The kind of endlessness where one cannot really tell where the
sky and sea are separate, mostly because one does not really need to know.
Oblivion really only looked like
this when I was living through the American winter months.
While the snow blew and drifted at a raging force, Oblivion was serene and
quiet, a kind of solace for the weary of heart. I would often find myself
yearning for the smell of the ocean while the putrid smell of gasoline exhaust
was forcing itself into my nostrils. Or I would yearn for the freshly harvested
taste of banana, mango, or avocado while so consciously swallowing a stale
spoonful of cereal back at home. In my city where
the throbbing headache of radios, televisions, car horns, and mechanical noise
filled my ears I could not help but look towards the East where the starry
skies and celestial songs of crickets and mourning doves would harmonize with
my soul.
I would use this place as my
escape. In the fight or flight method of going about the ridiculous tasks of my
day, Oblivion acted as the place to which I would fly. You see, the rocky
terrain of being mortal in a place called earth often times required looking
within to find escape. Especially when everything was crying for attention or had
replaced joy with an idea of mundanity (the destroyer of all things fun). So when work, social excursions,
and my own aspirations became confused and out of order, I could slip into a
future of hopeful bliss where these things were simple and neat.
However, the thought that came to
me that day in a coffee shop, the one that caused various responses from
passerby, was not the thought that created Oblivion. No, it was the realization
that I had been forgetting it all along. In the process of growing up and
taking more adult like responsibilities, I had forgotten this escape and forgotten
how to find fun. The droning roll call of daily to-do tasks marching through my
mind like an army general’s platoon had been keeping me occupied and grounded. And it was as
if by being grounded firmly of the earth that I had been living and never really
experiencing my life. The tapping,
persistent philosophy of Husserl’s and Heidegger’s phenomenology (a philosophy
I myself am yet discovering suggested my reality was not really understood.
Rather than being alive in the first person, I was living objectively and
unattached; I was not present in the phenomenon of the moment.
Of course, by process of
elimination and a few basic algebra skills, seeing once again the Oblivion I
had forgotten led me to its beginning, to its creation. To be frank, Oblivion
did not always look so normal because I was never a normal kid. Before the
groves of mango and avocado trees filled the countryside, before crickets and
mourning doves were the mariachi band of the land, this place was filled with a
more youthful magic and chaos.
Giant elephants used to graze
beside giant, furry tarantulas on the sweet, nectar like grass. The moon used
to be close and look like cheese. The sun had red and orange rays streaking
from its center and cries of ‘hallelujahs’ could be heard in the breeze if one
listened closely enough. Lions were the transportation of choice, as horses
were too common to be riding on in those days. Monkeys and daffodils scattered
the fields, grapes grew on purple, twisted vines, and everyone slept in houses perched
in the knobby canopies of castle like trees. The ocean shimmered with hues of
blue and green as children played in the warm waves, sometimes choosing to ride
on the backs of iridescent sea monsters or whales. The night was filled with
games of glow tag when the children would dip their hands into pools of stars
and run about splashing one another until sleep descended upon them like
dandelion wisps.
I had loved being in the Narnia
like land with giant, grass eating tarantulas. I spent much of my time roaming
the pastures, petting monkeys and innocently holding hands with friends.
However, in recalling the land of my childhood I was overcome with a depressing
nostalgia. As I sat in that thrifted chair in that coffee shop, I began to see
my own existence like that of my half empty latte: lukewarm and not nearly as
satisfying as what I had hoped.
There are two wrongs to be had in
the idea of Oblivion. In the hapless routine where worth is measured in literal
things like currency and success, one could completely ignore the idea of an
imaginative world. Or one could completely embrace it and live entirely in
metaphors and analogies. Each would be equally abusive towards one’s purpose
and existence. Which means there must be a balance to be found where the dreams
of one’s imagination are brought to life through one’s existence.
I have seen such a Nirvana of
worlds only twice in my lifetime. One was in a dear friend of mine who, in his
own Oblivion, raced the wind on the wooded roads of the mountains. Oh how he
dreamt of being a great runner! He would often talk of achieved runners and how
he looked up to them as role models for their speed and obstinacy. I would sit
with him as he told me of his dreams of being faster, breaking records, and
reaching the Olympics. He would speak of going just five seconds faster or making
the mile in under four minutes, how he would then be one step closer to the shadows
of his heroes.
I never fully understood the
difficulty five seconds could pose, but on the day he told me he finally ran
faster I realized the work he had put forth. The outpouring of all his power
and exhaustion would help him run fast, but the determination and heart made
his Oblivion real. I watched as he
made his dreams into a thing he could do, a thing he could accomplish. In his
excitement and thirst to run again and again, until he had left the wind and
noise behind, he became inspiring.
My mother was the only other person
I have known to make her Oblivion real. Her escape was never normal, much like
my own. In her younger years she dreamt of adventure. One day she would dream
of moving to a big city and the next would be packing, as she thought her
Oblivion looked like a daring, spontaneous change. Or she thought her dream was
to travel, so she left for England and met prostitutes in bars, little boys in
love with candy bars, and women with incredible gardens. Her life was always filled
with thinking, creating, and achieving.
My mother believed she had her
Oblivion figured out, until she came to a similar realization I had. She found
herself yearning for a much deeper escape and saw her soul was filled with
dreams of a husband, a family, and a home smelling like cookies. When she
married my father her Oblivion began to become real and she found her escape in
the innate grasps of a child’s fist on her finger. She became inspiring.
I am not inspiring. I have not
found my purpose. I do not fully understand the hungry call my soul cries out
with when I stare at my life through the half empty latte. But I am lucky. I
have realized my own folly in forgetting my escape, my purpose, while others go
through life and wake up in the last moments. They awaken when death is
gripping their flailing and helpless limbs, pulling them into a permanent
depression, separated by a great chasm from the Abraham of their Oblivion. You
see, to have seen and believed before this moment of self-abandonment is to
glance into the eyes of wisdom and know one’s escape is incomplete.
Maybe my own Oblivion is like that
of my dear
friend and I am meant to run for something. I am meant to carry a flag for
rebellion, injustice, or the dissolving freedom of man. Maybe I am meant to
pour out my heart in my sweat and my blood to race with the wind as songs of the
freed sparrows are sung in the chattering trees. Or maybe my own Oblivion is
like my mother’s, filled with bedtime stories of a place where children ride on
iridescent sea monsters and play tag with pools of stars. Maybe like my mother,
I will find my heaven in a family I do not yet have and I will find my other
half, my missing part, my muse in a person I have not yet met.
To be frank, I have never been
normal and therefore, by process of elimination and a few basic algebra skills, my Oblivion will not be normal either. My
dream will be something I discover slowly and as it is needed. I know my world
will come into balance. I have felt it as I have felt the words I write flow
from my fingers to the page, like the blood flowing through my veins. So as I
sat in that thrifted chair, with my nose in a book and a pen in my hand, the
smell of half full latte curling about my senses, I realized I was made for
something so much more. I realized my imagination was not dead and I could not
let it die because then my Oblivion would be dead too. And so it was then, in
the phenomenon of the moment, that I finally realized I was alive.
