I’ve been having nightmares lately…for a few months. I exist in a world mostly of my imagination, good or bad. My work consists of rote performances allowing my mind to wonder and my days off are almost the same just a different environment. My brain’s thoughts trail along as anyone’s would I suppose; things to be done, reflections of the last day or an incident, conversation, news report, and such. I’m not lonely, I almost avoid the company of others – a history littered with disappointments (maybe I set the bar too high or maybe other people are just as self-involved and indifferent as I am – moot point at this stage of my life). I live in a present and imagine a future as white space; a void that is forgiving of disappointments and unrealized goals. Occasionally I give in to pondering ‘end-of-life’ scenarios and think “what a waste of a life” and I feel sadness -or is it self-pity? Either way, I remind myself that I’m one of many or it could be worse or if there’s a purpose *i.e. a God with a plan, then I must be fulfilling my role or it would change. The circuitous pattern of a life lived alone is that the lack of interpersonal ‘drama’ creates an almost hypnotic energy that is very difficult to either boost or maintain an above ‘normal’ level of motivation to do anything.
This morning my phone rang – it seldom does – and I glanced at the face knowing it’s a number from across the continent or some other place and time that doesn’t exist in my world. I never answer these calls imaging them some survey or such thing. My glance turning into a startled wide stare as I took in the name displayed and then turned off the ringer. A message was left – even more seldom does that happen. The one and only time this person has called me was to relay my fathers death, a man I had not had contact with in my entire life but a handful of times – the last time I found the courage, knotted throat and halting expression, to tell him I didn’t want to hear from him anymore – there’s no reason to feign a relationship that has never existed. My grandmother, who I barely knew also has already died so I can’t imagine why the call.
Reality is a rude interruptor, a reminder that there’s a hard world beyond the comfortable musings where I live. I tell myself the call could be benign but how likely is that when the one and only call was a death? I remind myself that my brother is the only living link between me and the caller and this doesn’t bode well.
Today reality will follow and tug at me like a demanding child until I give it my full attention. Meanwhile I will pretend that there is some small matter I have to attend to later in my day when more important things are done – it’s nothing really.