The World Is Temporarily Closed

Do you hear it? That noise which will shake you with a longing for escape. I hear it now, that noise of old travel and rusty steel. The humid night air hits my already sweaty skin as I push open the squeaky basement window. The train is far; farther than I'd like, but I stay and listen. I let the noise wash over me. First my bruised and scarred hands, then my tattered and scratched up arms. It inches its way along my body until it reaches the very bottom of my feet, making them ache. Is this what its like to have nostalgia for a past I've never lived?

An uprooted tree sits outside the window. It was already dead when they pulled it out. "Dead on the inside," they said, "You wouldn't know it unless you tore it open." The roots dangle and reach for the ground, wanting to find their home again. Isn't it strange how trees look the same on both ends? One end just grows leaves, that's the big difference. I look at this tree and imagine the kind of things it has seen, because of course it has lived through our history, watching us. We hardly watch their history.

The train sounds it's horn again and I let it take me with it. Trains don't travel as far as they used to. I haven't traveled anywhere further than my own small town. As this world rapidly closed, I realized more and more just how stuck I've become. I live in a stranger's basement, because that is what I can afford. I work part time at the deli down the street, and the rest of my time is spent on my art. I thought I was happy with my circumstances. Satisfied with the way I've developed my living, but I've realized that my art is bland. Train track after train track finding itself looped in a circle, open roads leading to nowhere. I paint my ways of escape, but I never succeed in leaving. Now I am truly trapped.

I leave the window open and and waddle towards the bed, still feeling the longing under the bottom of my feet. The moon's light cannot reach most of the room, and I trip over something hiding from under my bed. I grab my foot and the ache is replaced with an overpowering pain in my toes that struck the object, one that brings me to the ground. I hold back the curse words that are seconds away from spilling out of me. I know if I count to ten the pain will subside.

I look to the object that pokes out from under the bed. I can barely tell in the dark that it is a frame. I don't remember hiding anything under there.

I pull the frame out slowly. When I turn the picture towards me, I see mainly dark. I squeeze my eyes shut, readying myself for the blinding light of my lamp. After a few seconds, I can finally see hidden in a fog, Bolt Mountain. My eyes immediately roam to the colorful mountain feature. It is not a hole where one can see through to the other side, but more like a sideways bowl carved into the mountain. It is painted across with different shades of red, orange and tan. The fog covers the mountain feature, as though the fog wants to keep it a secret. With my eyes always roaming over that same spot, I half expect it not to be there, as though it had never existed before, like the spot was a figment of my imagination the whole time.

I painted this mountain only once, finally getting it off my mind. As a child, I obsessed over this mountain feature. Always asking my grandmother what it was. Her house sat on the mountain parallel to Bolt Mountain, and every morning, I woke to find the mountains trapped in a lake of fog and that feature staring at me. Disappearing and reappearing as if by magic.

Staring at my painting, I am brought back to those cold, mysterious mornings. I would be all alone on their living room couch. Windows lined the wall that faced Bolt Mountain, letting it watch our lives. A valley of trees spread before our mountain connecting us to the other. It was a perfect place to feel like the only human left on earth. Sometimes, the sun would filter through the trees and highlight the dancing dust and skin particles that sparkled like glitter. Who knew our decay could look so beautiful?

This mountain feature, this hole, I thought, was something more than just a hole. I used to sit on their couch and imagine that this hole was blown into existence by ancient Romans who used it for chariot racing. I would close my eyes and envision myself in the roaring crowds looking down on the fierce competitors. Wagers were being made, coins tossed about. There were people throwing pieces of paper and other trash down into the arena and booing their least favorite competitor. The men were lined up in their chariots. All of their eyes were on the Emperor, who would be decked out in a white and red robe, his crown feathered around his forehead. The Emperor would stand from his throne, and the crowd around would grow silent with anticipation. The competitor’s eyes bloodshot and wild. The Emperor’s thumb would turn and the horses would thunder across the hard-packed earth…. Dust would fill the middle of the stadium. A deafening roar would come from the crowd once more.

I knew the moment I asked my grandmother what that hole really was that I would regret it. Of course, the hole was not used for any such ancient purpose. It wasn't hand carved out of the mountains for a champion to emerge; it was blown up by Americans for the purpose of mining. The beautiful colors that are striped across the hole indicate strip mining. But every time I left that house, I would forget the purpose of that hole, as though the mountain willed me to see it as something other than what it really was.

I put the frame down and look back at the darkened window. The train horn slowly fading. I guess even as a child I wanted to escape to a life I could never live. One so far away, I could only see and hear its echoes from afar. I guess being stuck in one place for so long, one notices these echoes more and more.

I put the frame back under the bed. Maybe the mountain will make me forget again. I lay down with the light still on and let the fog seep into my eyes and nose and mouth. I feel the mountain's power over me, and when I close my eyes to sleep, I am back in the arena. There is an ugly man next me with missing teeth who spits at the competitors as they soar past. A cloud of dust begins to float up towards us, but I can still see the fuming horses’ race by. The sun glints off the metal of the competitor’s armor. The air is dry and sweat collects in every nook and cranny on my body, but I do not care. I begin to shout with the crowd. I can feel the excitement rise inside of me, and I begin to crave blood like the people surrounding me. The Emperor sits on his throne, smiling down at the sight below. I also begin to smile. And in the far distance, I swear, I can hear the train's horn fading further and further away.