Hob: “Hail to the media industrial complex. A heavenly body
that triumphed in the wake of ‘the rapture.’ Talkin’ heads ablaze with
commentary, leaking toxic sludge from every orifice of their bloated and
protuberant skulls, consigning each electromagnetic wavelength to become fetid
with the stench of their verbal diarrhea. At least that’s how I saw it.
Hob took a long pause. Enough to gulp down the rest of his
beer and stare off into an empty chasm of universal enigma. Jesse only gawked
back, awed by the parable she was just assaulted with.
Hob: “And this is just a second hand telling. I’m surprised
you didn’t get a chance to catch it live yourself. It seems like you’re the
first one I’ve told that hasn’t heard it from another source by now.”
Jesse: “I’m old school. I’ve purposefully blocked the media
direct feed. It was givin’ me a fuckin headache.”
Hob: “How’d you even do something like that. That channel’s
firmware ain’t it? I mean, they’re the ones who sell those chips for fuck
sake.”
Jesse: “You ain’t wrong. I got this one on the DL, so I
don’t go around flaunting this feature or anything. But it was worth every
fuckin’ cent I paid for this bad boy.”
Hob: “Can’t fault ya for wanting some peace and quiet.
Anyway, do ya want me to continue with this menagerie of misery and woe or not!?”
Jesse: “Please continue, oh great and wonderful sahib of
sahibs.”
Hob: “So as I was saying, bandwidth, on countless media feed
channels, is being filled more quickly than a turducken on Thanksgiving. And
I’m struggling to remember why I can’t place the day when all of this happened.
I keep hearing these two talk about these horrific atrocities, stuff I think I
would recall, but for the life of me, I can’t put a finger a single iota of
what they were saying.”
Jesse: “Maybe I could give you a hint: ‘Dude, what the fuck!’
Hob: “Anyway, so I keep listenin’ and they keep spoutin’
really just like the talking heads they were defaming a moment earlier.
Hypocritical Cretans. But, hey, aren’t we all. And they stop dead in the middle
of their glib, narcissistic mental masturbation and begin staring off into
space, gaping maws and all. This brought my attention back to reality and I
noticed the entire bar had gone silent. Everyone in the bar had this dull stare
on their expressionless faces. This shit was starting to freak me out. Either
they had all drugged themselves simultaneously and I was missing out on the
greatest high of my banal, quotidian existence or I just missed something mui importante."
Jesse: “No shit, Sherlock.”
Hob: “You’re really not making this easy on me.”
Jesse: “When did I say that I was tryin’ to do that.”
Hob: “Fuck you. Fucking asshole. Why am I even bothering to
tell this to you? It’s not like you even give a shit.”
Jesse: “Jees. I’m sorry ok. I was just havin’ a bit of fun.
Sensitive lot are we. Ok, continue my Homeric, Virgilic, Ciceroic friend.”
Hob: “Now that’s what I like to hear. So they were all dead
eying me so to speak. All 12 of ‘em. Like zombies. And I looked back at the bartender
and he looked like he was about to fall over himself. And then back at the
couple of gabbers. Then just as I was about to leave the bar to get help,
everyone snapped back to life, instantaneously and ebulliently. It was almost
as if time had stopped and I was left to descry that infinitesimal instance.
That piece of history. Everything was laid out on the examiner’s table. I had
all of the time in the world and none of it. It’s actually kind of funny,
because part of me misses it. Being in that moment with everyone and no one. It
was the best of times. It was the worst of times. Ok, we’re back."
Jesse: “Says you.”
Hob: “….So I ask the bartender if he just saw that and he
gives me a look like I’m fuckin’ nuts, so I drop it. I head for bed, trying to
process what had just occurred, when this real fuckin’ nutcase stumbles out of
the room next to mine. The garb he has on could only be described as such
because it was a potpourri of hand towels and doylies and dish rags and mop
heads sewn together. It was like a quilt of discarded textiles. And he was
hunched with a scraggly beard, unkempt hair, and finger and toe nails long
enough to be mistaken for letter openers. I assumed that he was put up by some
kind stranger who felt sorry for him. But as I was actuating the lock on my
door, he turned his grizzled head towards me and trepidatiously sang: ‘Better
watch out, better not cry, better not pout, I’m tellin’ you why….’ Then he
paused and blankly stared into my soul. Man, that fuckin freaked me out. Another
moment frozen in time, but this couldn’t end fast enough. Like a cold shower on
Christmas. A chill crawled down my spine. One dorsal root ganglion to the next."
Jesse: “Fuck dude. Yeah, me too. I could feel that shit in
my bones and I wasn’t even there. Just the way you said it.”
Hob struggled to regain his composure. He couldn’t feel his
legs anymore. His vision went blurry and began to fade. But just then, a shot
of adrenaline went coursing through his bloodstream. His had baroreceptors counteracted
his dangerously low blood pressure. A stimulant from Mother Nature.
Hob: “Woo, shit. Thought I was about to lose it there for
second. Ok, I’m good. So I don’t get a lick of sleep…. That dude creeped me out
way too much. I’m sure the fact that there’s at least one star constantly
beaming down doesn’t help matters much. My circadian rhythm must’ve been messed
up somethin’ awful.
“So our story continues. I wake up, sun still menacingly
bearing through my treated window, and I get a call from the front desk. They
tell me that my son, three years old, just passed away. My first thought, and I
still can’t believe this was my first thought, but it was a ponderation as to
why my family hadn’t let me know directly. My feed was working, at least I
thought it at the time…”
Jesse: “So what’d ya think happened?”
Hob: “I’m not so sure. Maybe my link to the emergency broadcast
feed had been severed. Or maybe I was the butt of a cruel practical joke. I
doubt it though.”
Jesse: “No, I mean TO YOUR SON!”
Hob: “Oh right… man that still haunts me today. Why did I
care that much about how the news was broken to me? It was almost as if the
grief wasn’t even real yet, you know? As if the world stood still, time an
enigma far more complicated, effervescent, and fleeting… I don’t know where I’m
going with this, but it was like my head was dunked into the slurry of time. Everything
got blurry. Then vertigo. I didn’t really know how much time had passed since
the concierge had broken the news, but I knew then, as I know now that I would
never be happy again.”
End Part 2
Depression at its
Worst:
I’m not sure if people really understand what depression is.
It’s a sensation I would not wish for anyone to endure. And, for many,
including myself, we don’t know that it’s occurring at the time. We see it as
our reality. Truth. The lenses we see the world through, smudged with the stink
and filth of sadness, guilt, and shame. The different species of slime and
protozoa, representing the sundry forms this mental illness can take. Anxious,
aggrieved, guilt ridden, immobile, incapacitated, a sadness so unshakable that
it grinds your innards to a pulp. The outside feels like a tiny speck, so small
and insignificant, so far away it makes the Earth look huge on a universal
spectrum. Hyperbole and sarcasm are the only things that give you comfort,
eroding your aching bones into ash and dust.
While some people are preprogrammed or wired for it from
birth, others come to experience it from trauma, heartbreak, sickness, life’s
normal stresses brewing a bubbling cauldron of despair that unleash themselves
like pandora’s box on the unsuspecting denizens of the Proto-Greco-Roman
civilization. Shear melodrama, right folks? Well… no. You may think that, but
no. I just may make it sound that way. Depression through the eyes of the
depressed.
I will say now that I was one of the lucky ones. I responded
to treatment, somewhat. I was there and came back. I saw the Icaran light and
did not melt. But what of it. Am I stronger for it. Probably not. It’s just
something that happened; Another struggle like every other person on this Earth
goes through. Life is not lived without it. Now, it is on me to keep my head
above water, to stay afloat like a buoy with no shore in sight. But I believe I
can do it, because so many other people have. Group Therapy is wonderful like
that. The ill helping the ill. I dedicate this to them, those that struggled with
me. And not just the ones that were pained themselves, but those of you that
chose to support me without abandon. I just want to say I appreciate it and I
will live the rest of my life knowing I have that support at my back and
strength to go on. Hyperbole forever!
