Anchor

I awake seven am in a haze of last week’s blur, with typical thoughts thereupon my mind: work, the unsavory taste in my mouth and the last words of my grandmother, Irene Eva Bingwall. While my mind adjusts to a stable consciousness, my eyes open thereof, and I hear her words echo through spaces between my thoughts, as they have done for as long as my heart has given vessel and my brain has given capacity. We had a deep kinship, from a very young age, that I should imagine, and in many senses, expect, that I shall not experience the likes of which through any intensity or veracity ever again. I was young when she passed, but knew, as she explained from time to time as to have been blessed to have filled her life with all that she could have ever wanted it to be so occupied, which depleted me of worry over her. I, being nine and a half, was by the soft warmth of her when she left our physical occupancy, and as my mind begun to fill of thoughts and questions in her final moments, the sun peaked through the shutter blinds and took my attention with ease as it directed my eyes away from my life and the morning of her departure. Then the moment dawned over me and held me under the brim of a still but unbreathable sufficiency of water. We had arrived at the day of her leaving. Irene had opted for a personal sending off package, which I'm pretty sure meant dying in her own home, but I would think that one with respect for themselves would also choose this route, for it gives both dignity and elegance space upon a private dance floor for a waltz.

The rouge bed-room and silver satin sheets of Irene's bed, since becoming too ill to care for herself, and much to Irene's embarrassment, had begun to show wears and frailty as to what she had often described as unkempt, I interjected it to be it uncouth. She would call me a "right salty sort" before looming her eyes over to her daughter Francesca Bingwall, my mother, and her wife Launa-Rose, also my mother. Irene was a proud and gentile woman, and so too did she appear to be wanton of keeping those precious members around her at their peak! A pleasant and admirable trait not one of my family would fault her for, not least me. I adored her nature, and so did both of my mums.

I withdrew from the usual left side of my Swedish bed and wander over the icy laminate towards the cooling breezes that waft through my halls on December mornings such as these. I then gently make my way past portrait marbles, sentimental ornaments and other collected trinkets. I reach my bathroom, designed with a walk-in shower on the south wall, with light caramel slabs that coated the lipping’s of the skirting before extending over and across the floor. I catch my own sight in the oval shaped vanity mirror, where I stare for merely a second or two, directly into my own eyes, seeing my soul beyond ego and inner-contention. What I see is pinned to the inside of my eyes, showing everything, I have, for emotional non-sale. I pick my brush from the porcelain tooth-brush holder, and apply the paste, where my mind wonders back to my grandmother. The way she would inquire with a voice as soft as an angels "have you quite enough cherub?" or "what’s with the sad and what’s with the face?" She lit the wick to my smile so to throw my ill-thoughts and stock-emotions off into the breeze. Then onward she would carry me with her words. "I should wish you to laugh, my dear bear of a boy, laugh and wish and smile forever, and if you should ache from your laughter and tears start to form of your pain, I will be there, there in your memories, for you my dear bear of a boy, Evo, my beautiful Bingwall, to ignite your laughter once more! Then when I am gone as the ancients, you shall be left with memories as long lasting as the colosseums, pyramids and all artifices that endure, then you need only to take a visit upon your mindspace, where I will rest undisturbed, awaiting your tears so that I may remind you of a long overdue smile! My dear boy of a boy Evo, the world is ours and I have held enough of it for far too long by now, and so when your small hands grow and become those of a man’s, you shall hold our world too with the strength of an elephant and the tact of a fox, and you shall be wiser and filled full of more knowledge and wondrous spirit, so you must live Evo, live till the wind can no longer hold you in its grasp! Live until the universe can no longer hold you upon the fabrics of itself, so then when it has quite had enough of holding you must hold it, and my dear bear, Evo, you must love, like I love you, but you must remember it is precious, and as delicate as the stigma to the flower, you must preserve your spirit young one, so your bones may grow with you and not against you" where she would pause with glee and glare into my soul waiting for me to join her as we spoke her entreaty "The Adventure Continues"...

…And just like that, she left us humbled amidst her passion to live, her indiscreet positivity and most of all her infectious wisdom, which gave to me the tools of what man I am today; Evo Bingwall. Today of all days, her final words sit heavily upon my lobes, as I lose a lifelong friend to the stars, my truest of friends, Jacob Hunter.

We shared a common taste of all things unrequited and optimal, those sorts of pleasures you find from true unfaltering friendship. Where and typically it would be that we would lose hours to the conversations that carried us from location to destination, quipping and witting our way through the meandering streets towards what I felt never truly mattered, and what I found more interesting was the way in which we had arrived there. I retained however, a slumping disposition over the harrow and disconnectedness I found from where in the funeral hall I was sat, as I could hear only the sermon, which was adequate for me to cry without bringing too many attentions to my weeping optics, but thereby was to me visually disappointing. Thereupon the pew before an adorned marble arch, the sentiment had been almost fitting for me to feel so tied to the seat of my life, that I found a soft sense of purpose in the same way of an obsequious animal, in that I was of its obedience to agree to be subservient and in wantonness of it. So, as to say those whom were living, were objects, so as to be established among ‘men’ whom were no less non-conscious or alive than they were objects of their own objectivity and death. Then when the common courtesy of my desire must leave my, side as it were, it was in this way that I felt loyalty to stay, but enough curiosity to dream of leaving; so that I too knew, had my ties been weak enough, I would have set myself free. To float like a balloon to the edge of a marble, and pop among the clouds of imagination, as I had the intention to pop regardless and therefore my choice as to pop over my inability to change the outcome not to, brought me freedom enough so as to bring those warm tears that tumble over the trenches of cheek and lip alike, falling heavily upon the weight of lost love, only to be caught by the smile of my grandmother, planted firmly upon my face. Then no sooner had I started to gleam, amongst the lost faces of the emotional, I caught the damned eyes of minister Doyle, as he convinced "that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demon, neither the present nor the future, so let it even be that nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will separate us from the love..." I lost myself upon his words, dreaming of the moment I too would depart this world and what sort of life I would leave behind, and how the words I had spoken, or were yet to speak might influence those around me. I was bound by the thought of how I may lose myself to the next, and die so to live within an inviting world to come, be it the winds of an accident, or the negligence of another, or should I lose myself and who I am to a disease of the mind, I should be glad to never find out, for I should think that it would be the curse of all curses to know what sort and order one is to depart, so to ruin the spoil of surprise, or the importance of 'chance'.

I then thought for what took me from thought of chance, to thoughts of reflection as to where in my mind I had outgrown my tenuous odds to attach sentimental attributes to memorial referential, but quickly realized I was in a concurrent state within and without the absolute, having no such recourse by avoiding to do so, in many senses I would play up to this trait and try and see how far I could stretch the ability of my psycho-analytical attribution, so that any recipient with more than a follow on my lead would be able to see into before the depth of what I saw of time, peace and knowledge; simultaneousness. I did not intend to represent myself unfairly, but it is there that my recipients found themselves shallowed by, the waters of the deep, and misty eyed at the consequences of my words. I had to pretend to be above the attachment of themselves onto myself, and I would be found to have the greatest pleasure in finding them, but retained an unavailability to answer what queries I had conquered, or why I felt as though I had conquered them, and yet I still felt tremendously proud, if only just to ask them, more so than I had any intention to be able to claim to answer them. I had plenty to give and little to take, as though to say that when I found myself exhaust from giving myself to the world for their insatiable desire to be entertained, I determined that the world should have given to me the peace I was insatiable to desire. I wondered of the sorts and shook my head to the answers I conjured as to how young a man can be to die before his time were up, as it had been mentioned, or so I thought. What kind of muddled retaliation that might follow, as in what of the curiosity? And, of what age one might say they had lived before their end and others that had lived less beyond theirs, for during the peak of anatomical insubordination, it was impossible for me to reconcile a thought between a man living 5 lives in the equivocation of another’s singular expanse. I did not know this world. This engineered existence where whites die of loneliness and blacks die of starvation, the rich of indulgence and the poor of inopportunity, the east of overpopulation and the west of greed. The one that you say functions with order and purpose, in real terms, because I could no longer grasp with this conceptualization of anarchy than I could by holding onto the sanity of order; I lived beyond this world, within it, outside of it, of it by its very essence and in many cases, paradoxically obsessed because of it. I lived in this contradicting state of play, where nothing was a game, and everything was because of its rulings, I had disorder, and chaos as my friends of purpose, which was not to say that I lived without purpose or lacked it any more than the reasonably accepted amount; I merely saw beyond it. So much so that when even my most supporting member said, “your dreams will never work”, with voices of soft stupor and laconic ineptitude, I laughed and made it so, so that my life would never not work - and then neither would I.

In regard to where the endeavor of my interest was to stumble, I was behind the blue eyes of my vision, holding, with as much the grasp of a titan, onto any sense of what was deemed to me so as to be durable. To indicate myself, and therefore stand out from any other disassociation from myself, I bore the choices that brought me before the anguish of my uncertainty. If it had not been for my love of light, darkness may have spread its dark twisted roots incrementally deeper, so much so that I may have lost sight of my treasures, desires and dreams. The pressure I had that gave me strength and dominion over my life, with such beautiful and stark insights, so as to function holistically in their control and nature over and within me. This had many benefits, most chiefly that I would think abstractly, inexactly but with a strong belief that I made youthful predictions of the future, with astonishingly accurate returns. Then, when an idea came surging through me like Tesla's first current, I would expend my being and transcend upon my own thoughts, with an innate and perpetual desire to explore all the objects between us. More so than simply this, I began to lose myself in the traction, deep-headed sanguine, thick-minded sustain and sore-boned boundary. All of which highlighted the objections I had for monotony and the persistence I had possessed for which passion did not so occupy me, and did so avoid for whatever interim my interests chose. I longed for the challenge of a new dream, one bigger than the tropes of self-fancy, hegemony or entropy; I wanted progression. The only concept to me, in equal parts, that replicated improvement.

When Once more the rings of Minister Doyle's catch my ear, and I tune into his words "Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope. For we believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him. According to the Lord’s word, we tell you that we who are still alive, who are left until the coming of the Lord, will certainly not precede those who have fallen asleep. For the Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. After that, we who are still alive and are left will be caught up together with them in the clouds..." In the heat of the passing second, I knew what exactly it was that I wanted, dreamed of even. In the Garden of Eden and the moments where I found myself completely at the mercy of my intellect and my freedom, endless bounty and so on towards I strode for the beginning of the end. The dystopia. The revelation. The indictment. The narrowness to which I saw of base, was if anything, a little frightening. So that I was as thin as a line, and as full as a pig within my own parameters, searching inwardly toward the conflict I found hiding within peace, and the peace I found controlling conflict. I saw comfort in the reflection of control, while I saw confusion in the reflection of freedom, which gave to me no less of a salty taste upon my palette, as if the arrow of my direction had suddenly changed and I was now looking at myself looking through the glass. When the control, over myself, were finally to be let go, I became scared of the my inner-sensory freedom, as I searched for less, and in that sense more control, where I would let him have none, and therefore all of it. So that it was today that I was released from my demon, whom had been attached to me before I had more than a sentence to speak, so far and long ago even that I may have even lacked teeth, through which, my tongue had been unable to form coherent and intelligible sound, so that I may have warned the masses and armed them to the teeth with weaponry so that they may have smite me at the age I had wished to have been smote. It took me so long to realize in fact, that it was not until very much after the events of my adolescence changed me and my control and my relations with every instance of life, I had been out of the flame for more than a decade before I came to understand the reason and logic of my senses and therefore dreams and therein life. Then, when given the choice for and because I wanted to become the best and happiest version of myself and in that breathe kill the version of me that liked to suck the life out of life. I sought to become my own master. The real problem being that I lacked the proudness and courage to stay out beyond the edge, instead of finding my new grounds and fresh feet, I threw my new life away and took to the clothes on old identity and begun where I had left off, in the crooks and the arms of myself, but an older and eviler self of myself, where I was the man I was before, and so I had grown, only to be swallowed and engulfed by the older and less evolved version of myself. So, in trying to retain to my freedom, I lost myself to be the obsequious underdog to my demon of demons. The one that wanted my form, because it had none of its own. The base gave to me a stance non-stood, a glance unlooked, and a systematic route back towards my evil of evils. Where the stem, flower and root of my desire drove me for what seemed an essential and promising epoch, so as to condense my time alive within a capsule, where there was a break upon the winds waves, and so I took and experienced my persistence, as to find any sort of weakness and burrow beyond it as to see for myself. I heard about the genius of Sisu – where the fantastic inter-web gave me ‘stoic determination, grit, bravery, resilience’, so that when a mountain appeared as high as the sky, standing head-strong and toe-to-toe, you must look to the sky and know that even though your problem seems too daunting and unapproachable and incompletable, you must search yourself for more strength as to show less submission to the challenge. So that underneath the sky of a million eyes and even more so narratives to wake you up or so sleep by, we could count a trillion connections, that proved we were capable, even if we lacked the courage to say so.

I felt a wave crash over me, as the moment I had been secretly dreading, but telling those closest to me that I would rather be overwhelmingly proud to have said something of a nice selection of anecdotes at my dearest friends’ farewell, but the truth was that I had nothing but a want to stay silent, within my own thoughts and protected by the shroud and impermissible. Nevertheless, when a man’s call to arms is as it is, one must call to themselves so to be the action of the description, and give traction regardless of its want or purpose, right or wrong. I began walking to stand before the broken faces and tearing streams of cries that signifies their loss as real, or aggrieved. I could never quite work out which is the source of the pain and which is the release, do the tears hurt, or does the hurt make you tear, and from whichever angle it was cast upon, I stood to assume my position at the front of house, where I cleared the croak of a lifetime and insisted to shred memories from the bank. I was prepared to offer my memories as trinkets for a boy long lost, as if that could bring back the man that lay, or lay the man that stood, for it made neither a difference to me or my life that I had to be so involved in this charade of loss and love, I was over it, before I stepped foot within the place, and that’s not to say I had not the heart to stomach true emotion, or that I was dead inside to as to not feel the emotion that was evidently brewing, but I would know that my friend, Jacob, my Jacob would be ranting and larking about me tearing to the loss of himself, as he so many times said “for me it’s a lot of emptying of dirt, rock and worm for a body that could so well be used to supply such a usefulness, even when the lot have no real use for the body, there is always a false positive lurking from using ground space for such an unimportant soul like me. As if I am actually to die, when they misunderstand, because there is no death and there is no life, only a melding of states, as if to be of one and because of the next.” My lips begin to tremble as I reach the end of the pew and traverse the sea of men, women and children. I stop briefly at the Marble Arch above me and turn a quick glance to the back of the hall where Jacob, very much alive and in the last clothes I saw him, is stood staring over to me, and he nods his head down once before I am relieved of my senses and continue to my destiny. I approach slowly, but with confidence, and rise stair by stair to the top of a spired podium. When I reach the top, I give out an enduring sigh, “Hello everyone” why only on Earth would I have accepted this displeasure, for it is tremendously upsetting for me to have stepped upon the foot of my own virtues so to please those whom are aggrieved to have lost something they can never have again, like the grief one may feel to have lost a trinket to the drain, where I know that because I had him when and because I did, I know that to be sad of my very loss of something I already had would be a crying shame, and so I feel an indispensable sadness for him so as to never be of a walking and talking constitute, but he runs now upon the fabric of an omnipresent code, our run-alongside network of energies that supply and demand our perception of reality, our realm, where he had more freedom and shackle, and is to be whatever the universe now should now need his material for, and so there is another and more brilliant use of him so to be, something of something else, and not of himself.

It is for these indignant thoughts and curiosities that I decide Jacob would too be disappointed of my fall onto false belief of some shining getaway full of virgins and cocktails – some form of Hilton-shaped-hell I would rather dissipate before than expense myself of a momentary seat upon a dream that is just and only that, the longest and heinously well-serving metaphor that has ever been conjured, but as me and Jacob would say of it so as to be a simple but effective coping mechanism, for that same sense of loss that is so difficult to detach yourself from, as we all know the crying pain eventually dissipates, as it should, for they are to be of another life now, and we shall be back together soon. “For those of you that may not know of me, I am Evo bingwall and Jacob Hunter was the closest thing I ever had to a brother. I know this because when he and I were fourteen and very much alive in the primes our hearts, he gave me this very note that I hold in my hand that he gave to me so that as I may read it among your welcome ears. I vowed to him that I would too not read it until the time was right.” I wondered what it had been to me that had made our friendship so special, he was one of the few that my souls truly enkindled with, so as to be conducive of each other and not reductive. He was the sun as I was the moon, and too true is it that moon-beams and sun-beams shall never cross, but only hold one another till the other is strong and full and ready enough so to take the reins of sight and purpose. There in the time of my strengths, as I heard what seemed to me to be an insult, but was considered as a joke, where I searched for the answers to the simplest and confusingly profound questions, I held myself to be anon to implode if my compatriots would not want to talk to me, but I supposed then that they shall have to listen instead. For I had made my mind up, upon the basket that held my favors and delicate fantasies, swirling as though in the midst of an uncontrollable vortex, dragging and pulling towards its own center-focal-point. It was in this imagery that my mind made me realize, as clarity drifted over me with the lightness of an angel and the distinctiveness of an unforgettable triumph; I was open to the variance, polarity and unevenness of the life I had lived and where my origins had stemmed and where my future pull-of-fate would take me. It was during this troubled time that I became drawn to the locked and inaccessibly grey emotions that tore from my skin to my limbs with severe damage that scared both the present and future versions of me, so as to signify and therefore indicate my own meta-physical invalidity. I saw what had occurred in the long life since being born of two mothers, across betwixt and because of my selfish desire for control and the result of my vessel. I looked up from Jacob's poem and read aloud with such passion and heart.

Congratulations, feliz, glúckwunsch!

Where are we to go?

Off to shape the dream, change our worlds,

mould tomorrow and reminisce yesterday!

O' how we must celebrate today,

dancing among the magic and the stars,

that lighten our feet and sharpen our eyes.

What astonished magnificence!

Congratulations, Feliz, Glúckwunsch!

Our journey and goals so varied,

and yet today we have true commonality,

We are breaking the boundary of the unknown,

the treasured and the blessed,

so where are now to go?

Congratulations, Feliz, Glúckwunsch!

Shine brightly alongside destiny,

and wholesome path, and

on towards the greatness we deserve,

as the sun does the night, so to rest,

for the excitement of reward awaits you and I,

like an albatross eager to flight, and fight,

for its life in the coldest and harshest weathers,

of our shimmering blue and marshmallow white marble.

Waltzing the cycle of a million cycles.

Congratulations, Feliz, Glúckwunsch!

Dance, Sing and cry the tear that builds character,

inner-strength and perseverance that brought us here,

beside the unforgettable magnanimity of achievement!

Hold onto determination, my sweetheart,

my warriors of language and life,

so then too of every space between.

Congratulations, Feliz, Glúckwunsch!

So now we may go anywhere we shall please,

everywhere and change the established,

alter our pre-shaped reality and confront the fear of failure,

with warm open arms, so as to incite freedom and glory,

Success so to Live, Live, Live!

So that the rest of the world may remember us,

and everything that makes us stand with such grace and aptitude!

Sparkling like stars, as ignited fires and blossoming flowers!

Congratulations, Feliz, Glúckwunsch!

Ride the backbone, Steer the skies, and grow!

Impress upon the ashen ground and rise,

like a phoenix and take flight with effortless wings,

find peace of mind, a worriless life,

so to discover the undefined!

So Where are we now to go...

As I looked upon the crowd, it was the healing hands and hopeful laughter of the new born mother that really gave me the confidence to speak, so much so that, even me, the man whom had so many things to think and say about the smallest of inconveniences or the most miniscule of observations, as to say about all words, as to describe worlds, I became lost among my own tracks of thought, in the station depot of my bustling confusion. Her care and primal connection, so at to give life’s nectar from the bosom of her breast, so as to grow and become the update, inasfar as you may raise a new demon or an old saint. How does the mother know the warning signs, because it is clear that she resides too close and cared in pure eyes of the subject, suggesting it was harder to know someone you did, than someone you didn’t? O, how easy it can be to overlook the obvious, while they barely known see what might take a closer relation a million years to discover. So, then it seems that the closer you are to an object, the less likely you are to know what its entirety is, so as with the children of the universe and the floating gob stoppers and rock and gas and light and life, we can see but a mere fraction of the whole, a particular area, viewed from one space, or a specified region, it is now that we can see why there must be chaos to have order. Why the quality of life and death is not for the sake of itself but for the sake of one another. When in the crooks of a sleepless night, it was tremendous to know that the new born child’s mother would give over her comfort and freedom, in a sacrificial sense, so that the new born may have theirs. It was the most natural and beautiful of all the efforts. This transfer of energy, time and love is why a mother builds a mountain of the child out of moldable material, so that you, the young moldee, are ready for the world and not the other way round. There is every opportunity so that the living may take to subdue and arrest their own progression, when this happens, their extrinsic growth becomes inverse and so even though they are growing it is inwardly, so much so that to others it looks as though you’ve shrunk with weakness, while the new born mother knows she has grown with strength. Which bought me about myself once more, “If Jacob were here today,” I say as if he isn’t “he would have been all too humble to take credit for you all being here, but there is a matter at hand that must be discussed, and so be it some of you may find this inappropriate, but I have found this to be the destined reality of our perceptions, and so why ignore what we already know, we must steer head-strong and nose-first into the skid, so that we may take full control and opportunity for ourselves, and leave nothing but the welcome of chanced surprise so as to give you such warmth and breathe in life and so that when we too arrive at our farewell, we have nothing left to give and so the universe must take out physical form back to its realms, and give unto us another chore and another life. I know in my heart that some of you are hearing my words with an unfaithful and distasteful animosity, regardless I, and as far as I knew of Jacob, he too would want you to know, that we are not here for him, and it is ourselves that must seek such goodbyes, to appease ourselves, and our own sanities for all of Jacob’s goodbyes are final and gone, and ours are yet to be said if ever, our adventure never ceases and must continue long after the physical is left to be nothing more than mulch upon the forest floor or clouds among the tree-tips” as I continue on towards the end of my speech, I see Jacob, sat at the back of the hall, on the last pew, laughing and writhing in his chosen seat, waiting for the response of his families and friends to be of an aggravated expulsion of anger, and so he laughs and laughs and much to my disdain, I wish I was with him laughing at me too. “These moments that are passing by so gently, soak them in my sponges, and take with them the pinches of knowledge and might that will shower your thoughts in the years to come, my dearest friend Jacob was a master of the optimists and so he shall rise like the sun of another world, and shine as bright as all the others we have lost, he is no exception and neither are we my compatriots and new acquaintances, we are but waiting to jump and flop from one goldfish bowl to the next, so to this new-age world that greets us morning by morning, be proud to be mortal among gods!” with little air left in my lungs, I lost sight of degradation, so to be beyond the parameters of the sun-dance, the moon-waltz and as if the planets had aligned as I explored a world onto my own self, I will be all but a gracious recipient of fortune, and letting my mind fly free from the whims of affliction, desperation, I am to be the controller of my own destined reality and so too should they see fit that I have played my part for a service. That I should reflect on later, when the privacy of my doings is reinforced so as to give me break and bend from the worries of my counterparts, and their egos nonetheless. “I know that Jacob would support me in my endeavours, far more so than I could have ever believed he would, and so now we must rejoice for the boy’s life, and not for his loss, because to even step one foot upon our earth is an achievement unlike any other, in that being completely of a natural cause, it has no comparison and therefore no requisite to prepare one for the parry of the palms, or quarry with the qualms, so too we may have come close to connect ourselves with the other realm, the ulterior world that carries us, and we should be so lucky to transition painlessly, but no state was ever changed without hurt. Jacob, I said to you a long time ago, that should I be the one to give you your final goodbye, I shall too visit with flowers and cards when I find this world too strong so as to let me be at peace without guilt, I shall say to you my friend, good luck towards your future adventure into the cosmos, and should I find myself lost, in my world, may your guidance break through the walls of my existence, and guide me towards our destiny, so be it should guide me towards my own death, it will be the greatest of pleasures to have your hand pull me through to the other side, where I shall be welcomed by your wholesome laughter and endearing eyes, where my grandmother stands behind you, awaiting me, so that we may be together once more. Goodbye, my dearest friend.”

I half expected to be shouted at for the speech I had compiled, but found security in the strength of my messages, so much so that even when the Jacobs wife came to tell me what I had said was “an insulting display of your intelligence” I knew too she had been touched and was bearing many emotions on such a day so as to be without the overlooking eye, I so clung to, and in order to save myself the embarrassment of an explanation I simply replied “what did you expect from eyes as strong as mine?” I hoped she found solace in my voice and not my words, for I was genuine but not inclined to step away from my code of conduct to show her the sympathies of the devil, it is too easy to say “I’m sorry” but for when I would have no control over what had happened, I sought to make sure I was not sorry, and instead I was truly grateful for their existence and presence with me, the rest was out of my hands. For her, I knew she was too young to be a widow, and having opted to wait for children, she had no consolation, and in that way something of hers was truly gone, and could never be replaced, for this I had the upmost respect as she made me feel that though she would do fine to find another man, she would only do so when the new man fully understood her loss and her, and then Jacob too would be happy of a newfound happiness, and then there would be no shortage of life, so the hope too was not wholly lost, but would indeed need to be redesigned. Something I never doubted she be capable of, but I was already past her when I arrived at Jacob’s casket. I took one long look at his closed eyes, and felt an overwhelming sense of regret, for what I was to him but a friend, and nothing more than imperfect, those memories we have shall never be replaced and I shall be glad of it too. Minister Doyle rounded up his seemingly infinite list of things to say, while family, friends, business acquaintances and I included rose to indicate our respects, so then to catch our last glimpses of Jacob Hunter I or anyone of this life would ever catch, and I wasn't sad anymore, I was lost of desire. As a sea of people filter from the rows, I traverse among them managing to glide my way, relatively undisturbed through the crowd.

I walked to my Mitsubishi, from the front entrance of the funeral hall, there was a shower of rain that drizzled over me, and for a moment, before stepping into my vehicle, I let the rain wash the moments I had just experienced off of me, as I wished to remember Jacob because of all the days that had come before this one. I glimpsed into the deep-set grey-scale clouds, which bought me the question as to where and when the sun does so provide the shade of summer and spring, as to then shimmer and greet me, infrequently, but nonetheless eloquently, in the morning and the wake of a hard night’s sleep, so to propose that working all week wasn’t enough for the rewards of a sun-kissed euphoria. I seem to have retained a renewed sense of urgency, dazzling and stirring within me, coming from the epicenter of my body, I felt as one does towards ill-ward, a manic and abrasive conclusion. The natural instruction, almost innate by its design, contained more idealistic objections that realistic applications, so as to say that it was as complex, contradictory and invigorated by the duality, compliance and the regulation. There are as many stipulations as there are an innumerable degree of complexities that arise from the conceptualization and actualization of freedom; chiefly that one must be chained in order to be free, but ashamed to admit being chained, and so then by what I would consider to be a burden of enlightenment, the other say it to be the very chain to freedom that is my own search and want of it. I, and so were all my comrades, chained to want freedom, and free to want to be chained. I am the very contingent and illusory expectation that either are true, as if there existed an absolute truth, for if there were. There would be in a whole part an entire truth or lie, that is to say, that no singular part of an absolute lie is true. What this means is that, all of the truth and then so all of the lie is as partially and entirely truthful, or as full of a lie, as its counterpart. Till and well the other is evidentially proven to be as truthful or deceitful as it is examined for or against. What this explains is the intra/extra paradoxical nature of belief of either the lie or the truth. In all and equal parts is the truth as deceitful as is the lie truthful, as to be any component upon what I considered to be absolute. Meanwhile, I turn the key and feel the soft hum of the engine underneath my feet. I am so struck by a death-stick craving, and must check my glove compartment for cigarettes, but find an empty, some gum and a driver’s manual. I'm disappointed, so I reluctantly decide to stop somewhere on my 35-minute route to the office. As I reverse without haste from my parking space, I place a quick glance into the inside mirror, before turning right out onto London Road, which took me on a gentle journey towards the outskirts of town where BridgeWest Forest waves endlessly and Salismark Meadows seem to drift over the way into the sunset. There is a song that plays from the radio that catches my attention:

“From where I float,

on the top of the bottom of the sea,

waiting patiently, for you so dearly

to come from your world and save me.

I’ll be here, for you, any moment, my dear,

to take a dip in a moonlight symphony,

Where we’ll swim the midnight sea,

In quest of destiny, resting so brave,

gently upon coral and wave,

and by the light of a thousand lives,

we’ll see the sunset again,

Together my friend…”

I smile and say aloud, “Jacob would have liked this.”

I venture to occupy myself with the rest of a sore Monday afternoon at work. A Place where I wanted no-one to know how I thought. Which wasn’t to say that the way I did was any more relevant than the way a lady orders her drink, but I did, well, for as far as I could tell, think differently. For the most part I designed imagery that existed only to me, and was as real as the pull that tethered me to the grass, with fruitful but stiff identities strapped to me like garments to the body. I knew many who would aim to despot and win away an existence worthwhile of its cause. I perplexed myself from this, so as to say that I knew of others, people whom were fickle and judgmental. Designed to associate and disassociate themselves from the duality of claims. All people I considered to be star glazed, and struck blind by the unending, the continual and the ceaseless embankment upon the sands of a timeless purge. When it occurred to me that there was no duality, and that their alignment lived in a state of base and the extreme, that which was the furthest from the base as it could be, as if the line of a line could reach away from itself but only as far to indicate the other side of the line and that which was its base. We were one and the same. Though I had always considered myself a free-friend, a wanderer, whom may arrive to the doorstep, with many a wish, tea-ready and worthy, of kinship and the very essence. I might have stooped to find myself overbearing, the wonders of all but a problem, so to switch from determined to reflection, as if with the swiftness of an arrow and so recoiling like an artifice to its discoverer, I bore the flame and tainted heat of embers over my own dissonance aground, and sentiment flowing from the tongue, the heart and the mind, I would say with a smile and heavy-heart: welcome and let’s gather around to see what sparked attribute I tend to, with soft hands and clear triumph, the start and the opening, from which a creak and handle-crank give the door it’s precedence, over which I introduce my hellos with elegance and walk myself through the frame and into the light and warmth of the room which fills me with a resplendence and impunity, so I may resume my immune position to be completely unabashed and unabridged to the conditions of my conceit. So, to say, ah but here I am, ready for your judgement and analysis, and so give me such treats and I shall consume them with an empty stomach so to fill my mind with the additions of my perceptions and my thoughts. I suppose it always interested me how important the snap of a finger and thumb could be, so as to emphasize what it was that was to be said. What I found peculiar about its utility, was a tremendously valuable lesson that I took from history from a very early age. Those whom rise, must also fall. It was as if I had considered and therefore looked upon the mirror of a mirror, where I saw out of my own dimensions, and I transcended to eliminate the occupation of time so as it could be replaced with space. What I saw was a million versions of myself, each non-distinct from myself, being that I was the sole contributor of the image, and there was nothing but reflected mirror for the mirror to represent. This is when I had my vision. I saw every individual version of myself as though there were a million different instances, and I was seeing them simultaneously, as if time was now occupying space.

I arrive at the Black-fin lot where we drone of the establishment park to be closer to the entrance, but for me, it is more importantly the exit. Black-fin are a medium sized company, which is good because there is just enough space for me to be about my business without too much hindrance. As I squeeze into the nearest spot, and manage to whip the large rear of my vehicle into place, I park and light a cigarette from the packet I have just brought. Though now the craving has all but diminished, what is left on my list of desires is to be free for just a moment from myself and to let my mind wander whichever spaces it pleases. It baffles me almost, to see how many vehicles I see on the road, and to think some of these people probably have second ones waiting at home. I exhale, as if to quench an ancient thirst, and wonder what will be left of all these mechanisms when the next best mode of transport comes swooping into frame and takes the limelight without a second glance. It struck me as quite a problem, the lack of understanding over the consequences of our actions, so to be in the might of morning ignorance, and so long has this morning lasted, for it would seem to me, having skimmed most all books of history, it seems that there never had been an understanding, truly that is. For consequentialists would die in each other’s arms for you to realize and recognize damage in its true de facto state, as if aiming down the barrel of the gun was the consequence of desiring to kill, but it is not and is far too simply attributed to an insoluble farce. So, it is true that change stems from the self, but when the problem stems from the entirety of the self’s where does the collective originate and perpetuate these changes from? With this final thought hot on my minds lips, I stub the label of the cigarette into the cars hidden ashtray, and I am relieved to have had this moment to internalize my thoughts.

I step from the car and depress the button upon my car-keys to lock it, and so I start off towards office B where me and my drone counterparts whittle away from our desks the infinite crunching of numbers, into the deadening expanse of company spreadsheet, action reports and other such tropes. When I reach the door at the end of the Black-Fin atrium, I am surprised to find Malory unusually busy, our company receptionist, and take it well that she has not stopped me for now, on other terms she would typically ask endearingly “what have you been up to trouble?” I was glad to have avoided this interaction, as I would have been struck for something to say, I did not after all want to bring what my personal affairs had so involved me in to be dealt to an unexpected ‘victim’, especially one whom talks so much as Malory. By the time I would have arrived at my desk, I would have condolence emails awaiting me from my inbox, something that would have possibly made me sick with obligation, or negligence, so to ignore the incoming barrage of pseudo-sympathy or reply to every and all recipients, I had neither the patience nor the drive, I had work to do. My boss, Annie Powel, is something of an odd character, she has been very good to me I should say, but by all accounts, I should wish not to see her, as I know she will cast a rod for a bite, and will not let go until consumed is she by her perceived power over me, or so that she has clasp of my lid. I release a brief sigh, when a figure extends from the partitions of my cubicle, and there she is with her hazel eyes and brunette hair “Bingwall” she spoke by Surname “have your weeklies on my desk by COB Wednesday, so I can make the usual redaction and improvements, please and thank you muchly” her pronunciation the last ‘y’ syllable in muchly was elongated and sounded like what might play from a 2000’s American teen coming-of-age melodrama, melodramatics of the obsequious and demeaned I would far more like to call them. “Should I have then by lunch on Wednesday, I shall rejoice, as I may offer you even more time to prepare and allowance for you to attend whatever task that must occupy your position and advanced knowledge.” It would not matter what I had to say, for I had a very strong instinct, and could tell that she was a fixed-face. A member of person that lives of themselves and their values and expectations and, in not so many words, takes by their own hand or rules so to live by life. Which meant that she would respond in clunky and odd fashions, as I strongly suspected too that her ability to listen was in severe lacking, and so too of her judgment. “You’ve been here five years now Evo, I’m not quite free enough to explain what answers you seek, find Josh in finance, he’ll have or know what you’re after. What are you after again, never mind, Josh will know.” I hadn’t even had time to turn the console of my computer on yet, nor the bother to correct Annie as to what I had confirmed to her. It was clear she noted tones of voice, and context was a fly in a fight with a lawnmower; obsolete. “Sure thing, Annie, as I can” Before I had finished my short sentence, Annie was off onto another drone to pester and demand of. I had already felt the pressure of micro-management fading out and away from the looming eyes of discontent the sort that is awaiting the slight of a slip and I would be taken to the highest of blows, for our morning meetings would be a place of torture for the man or woman who had made a mistake. as if I hadn’t known for the last five years that is the routine, which is why us drones call it The Anno Lottery, whom shall she torment next, Mark, Peter, Jane, Sally, Michael or Tim. My bet is Tim, for most reasons that are perceptibly obvious, he was a sore thumb among perfect fingers, and had an overwhelming awkwardness about himself. He was a good character, and more than competent, but had an overwhelming nervousness that management types can smell and wheedle out so to secure the highest levels of obedience, I was immune, and ratified myself so to be outside of the looking glass, where I was not a specimen but an oberserver of the observer.

By the time I had truly lost myself within my work a bit, I looked at the analogue clock on the north wall of the office which, when I arrived said half past one, now read quarter to three, and though time had passed like an avalanche, I was far further behind than I thought I should have been, given that I had two days to be finished with Project Honeycomb & Elixir, a residential development and a commercial installation, in that order. Nevertheless, I could catch up, but I knew that if Annie were to come over to me to ask my position or progression, I would be stumped to supply a satisfactory response, as I have had more than a sufficient period in which to finish the projects projections. It is always the way with business, however, seeing that you never can know what you are to be tackling next, or which hurdles might impede your way and in which complexities it may take to solve the kinks in the hose, or the wrinkles in the sheets. Nevertheless, I had to stop because a reminder, singing from the screen in front of me, was telling me to visit conference room C, where my appointed quarterly review awaited me, and by that, I mean the shell of a person you would leave before the door, so to be the drone they sought. So, I gathered what documents I would so need to supply, and left my chair and computer unlocked, so to attend my ‘judgment’. I carried a steady pace towards my lion pit, as it were, or possibly an exaggeration on my part, as I always felt for too nervous for events such as these, I knew ultimately, I would be fine, and there would not fire me, on grounds that, although maybe mistakes do get made, as though far and far between, but overall, I was a competent and reliable drone, which gave me an edge over some of the other candidates in my office. Not that I would throw them before me or the bus, I would just like to clarify that everything to me must be categorized and so understood more deeply, or less, something I can never tell, does more thought give you more clarity or less sense, or does and instant thought give you more insight that a deep thought, I was confusing myself, and realized that I would very much need to straighten out my thoughts before I enter the office of Mr. Bale, for he will pick up on my hesitation instantly, as he is particularly anal and obsessively particular about being picky, often times he is intolerably fussy and over observant, to the point that he will register and pick out a particular expression that signifies something that to everyone was already understood, but still was something of merit to mention, so that not only was the expression understood without words for clarity, it received them so as to intensify the action so to be even more transparent and effortless than it had already been. I turned the last corner to the hallway before Mr Bale's office and stopped for a brief moment to grab a cup of water at the cooler, clear my throat and allow me a minute to catch my thoughts.

As always with the peace of finding yourself busy and so occupied, it was destined to be interrupted by Mark waddling over, with his stubby legs and scrunched shoulders, I saw him hermit his way over towards where I am stood next to the water cooler, and he pulls his usual fake smile and asks indignantly “Did you catch the game this weekend Evo? Us blues really gave them lot a right run for their mummies, they would have been lucky to get away with a draw, and I should have been lucky to leave the pub without a black-eye the sorts of banter I was throwing out into the crowd, I was truly thankful that the pub had been filled with mostly blue’s fans. Eh, eh!” My eyes performed an infinite roll, as if this stock conversation could not have been cut and pasted towards any recipient, and so I thought what of what he had said and what was his intention, to highlight to me, a clearly uninterested participant to care about something I already did not, or was it rather his opportunity to try and find more troglodytes with just as little sense about it as him, for I am sure had he not seen a football before he may called it a kick-circle. “No, I didn’t see the game, it’s not something that interests me.” Is what I would have said, had I not lied to avoid him talking about the ‘sport’ more, “O what a game dear Markie my-boy, what a display, though I must admit half way through I had felt very poorly for the red team and felt that they had received little luck in their endeavors over the course of the first half, I do think that they performed very well, regardless of the final score.” Mark always had the most inappropriate way of finishing conversations, and it was always at this point I felt it rather necessary to walk-away or just leave without vocal notice and as I was thinking this very thought mark chimed in with “you’ve got a soft cock Evo and that’s your problem, you can’t make fancy of a side to support, so it strikes me that every time we talk studs you’re always sitting on the fence. It’s is in my highest opinion that you’ve got to support a side for yourself or for the self you should so want to be.” It was at this point, because I had foreseen a comment of this sort coming that I began with hasted feet towards conference room C. I had barely made it three steps away, when I began to hear the muffling sounds of Mark’s ‘insight’ fall flat like the notes he so orchestrated because of me or for me, I couldn’t quite figure, in either case it sounded like a dead-weight being dropped into the hole of a 5-foot wide cavern, this eerie whirring before a sudden and tumultuous thud, I chuckled thinking I would have rather thrown mark down than the dead-weight, seeing now that the two had more in common than I had previously thought. I turned the corner onto another dimly lit corridor, where at the end of the hallway read Conference Room C. I approach the door and with a frim knock, signify my intentions. I hear a muffled voice through the door which I safely assume is Mr Bale saying, “come in” and so I do.

Conference Room C is the nicest of all the conference rooms, as it sits on the corner of the floor plan, and so there is the most amount of space, which does make this meeting feel somewhat vacant, but nevertheless I am thankful for the space, as Mr Bale can occupy the room very quickly. “Ah, Mr Bingwall. What sort of time might you call this?” Unfortunately, due to my brief interaction with Mark, I was a minute and twenty seconds late to my scheduled performance review, “You do realize Mr Bingwall that if the world were a minute late to every appointment they would have to double the period of a working day. Is that what you want Evo, us all to double our work days? Regardless, and because I should wish to take no more time up with your tardiness, please take a seat.” He had given me no seconds or less to retort, but I am blessed to let him take the reins over such topics, as I had very little interest, and as much as I respected him taking time out of his jam-filled schedule to praise or reprimand me, I would find nothing of too much value within this room, unless it was my restless intrigue for the novel I saw poking from his personals on the table. The title read: ‘Success: How you can have a slice too’ – and I was instantly distant from myself, imagining what sort of words and sorts of techniques the author of this title has employed so to test and challenge his audience? Though I remained hopeful I couldn’t help imagine it was the stifled words of a barely successful ghostwriter, whom had whittled to the crucks and bones of a person whom had gained relative success, and then had made a basic model so that those reading can follow along and see in what ways they are failing to be entrepreneurial or successful. I wonder if they have defined success, for it would be duplicitous to supply a quotation of only economic or fiscal success, for I had many more eyes than that, and I should have wished to have known that almost all of them would be counted and registered so to teach its readers to be successful in a whatever array of avenues it should take them. To be a successful mother requires many skills that to be successful at climbing without equipment would not take, and vice-versa. It is these nominable thoughts that course my mind, and through which I come to a conclusion that I must either buy the object of interest or ignore it from myself, so not to buy into the clause. For I wanted to understand my subject, before making such wicked and accusatory claims such as failure of itself, so that when writing the book of success and how you too can have it, the book attained none, and therefore was a failure of itself. So to say, that I had nothing valuable to share of it, and I should have liked to, if only to deter Mr Bale away from his endless bombardment of business tropes. Already I could feel myself drift away from the irrelevance of what Mr Bale was so eager to put forth. “I have taken a keen glance over your projects for this quarter Mr Bingwall, and the two that really make something of themselves are Project Barracuda and Project Xena. The reason I have chosen these two projects, as a reflection of your work over the last quarter, is because while one exemplifies you, the other has tarnished your efforts.” I felt overtaken by my eyes, as if they were in control of what I had to do or avoid so doing in order to get out of this office with a job and not a criminal record, this had me staring at Mr Bale’s wireless keyboard in a way that signified to me wanting to pick it up and nail Mr Bale’s poor complexion onto the wall behind him, but this was too far and excessively extreme, and what a mess should Mr Bale’s face make of that reliable and functioning keyboard, which is more than I can say of mine at my desk. It was the summer just gone, where I had accidentally spilt an entire can of pop over my keyboard so that now anytime I sought to use it, the keys would stick and there would be an almost ‘soft-close’ effect where the key would rise slower than usual and so I would then double-tap or not tap enough the letter I so desired to depress. “Mr Bingwall, which should you like to discuss first?” I hailed my thoughts and I thought about how I would be able to make the most of this basically asinine waste of time. “Mr Bale, I would very much like to discuss what has given me a good light first so that I should walk away from this office with thoughts upon which I should like to improve, which may be my work ethic or reliability, regardless of its final position, I would like to examine project Xena first” which should be the most riveting for me, as I shall see Mr Bale become more and more uncomfortable, as he is not used to praise, or talking with an intonation that says I have an internal emotional system that keeps me in check. “It would be my greatest pleasure to grow as a person and employee, so it is for this reason that I would like to hear of project Xena Mr Bale.” Before I could return to a less sardonic tone of voice, Mr Bale piped in with “alright, alright Mr Bingwall. Please do keep your socks on, this is only a formality, and I should not wish to have a brown nose once this formality is over. Your work in project Xena, is the sort of work Tim might wish he could produce and the sort I expect Jane and Sally to be producing, but are often, as I feel they are at times away with it, or holding something else to the accounts and perceptions of a mass negligence. Nevertheless, I think you have really come into a league upon your own with this one Bingwall” I detest the omission of ‘Mr’ as it makes me sound of an illegitimate sort, or a cartoon character. “What this tells me Mr Bingwall, is that your knowledge of company policy and direction are exemplified by this project, you managed to secure our processes and ensured the entirety of the project has run smoothly from start to finish, showing depth of your intelligence and wits. However, and here comes the dredging hammer of a thousand epochs’, where is your mind at sometimes Mr Bingwall, all I can see here, scribbled in the notes section, as a list of adjectives: “Arcadian; Contumacious; Munificent; Trenchant”. It does altogether worry me quite a bit Mr Bingwall, that although you are as reliable as my wife, whom so may never let me down god bless her heart, when your heart and mind are not aligned or even in the same room sometimes, to me it comes across that you have too many thoughts going through that skeletal cove of yours. I should like to say that I have a friend whom, might be able to help you with such a thing, his name is Dr. Jacques Duboix” This was most unexpected, as I should have never suspected Mr Bale to have encroached my personality and my tendencies to drift off into my thoughts, let alone have a cure or a fix for this, by all means, I shall give a solid display, but I am almost entirely intrigued to know what this Jacques Duboix is capable of, especially considering Mr Bale has done nothing to convince me of his credentials. “My wife had the same problem for years Mr Bingwall, and now she hardly ever complains of thinking too much, she now has more space in her mind than she ever thought possible. I say this with the hopes that you do not think less of me Mr Bingwall, as I am only trying to give you freedom from what I have discerned as a problem of the wandering mind.” It was upon this undeniably brilliant prospect of clearer thinking that I was unable to concentrate for the duration of the rest of the encounter, which I now concluded was everything beyond the idea of appointing myself before Dr. Jacques Duboix, as in that everything else was unremarkable and nondescript, which lead me towards the end of the day as 5.30, ‘The Home-Time Office Scramble’ was minutes around the corner, and as I sat at my desk, finishing off the final details to project Honeycomb, I lost my gaze over the thoughts of more space to think, and I thought about what wonders Mr Bale’s wife had experienced with her upgrade. I decided to take the evening to contemplate the consequences of such actions, endless thoughts and drifting focuses. Well, that and finish off the work I hadn’t the time to complete.