The moving has somehow already begun. I’ve managed to locate a new abode in the Lakeview area, and deposit gripped firmly in hand, I’ve procured movers and started the lengthy and arduous task of packaging my meager belongings. The management company appears excessively paranoid, perhaps even fanatically rabid when performing background and other sundry checks on prospective renters. What began as a simple rental application quickly escalated into a veritable gauntlet of eerily invasive and laughably obtuse hoops I leapt through in hopes of obtaining shelter. Along with the usual credit check, my boss was forced to endure a questionnaire on my overall employability, containing such gems as: “What is the likelihood of this employee remaining employed over the next year?” Both he and I openly wondered if they wanted a number in terms of percentage, a repeating decimal, or an R-squared analysis based on my last performance review. Then came the deposit, either a Cashier’s check or a money order, no other form of payment would suffice. I kept waiting for them to require a DNA health-risk categorization to ensure I would outlive the lease.
Regardless of the grueling catacombs of distrust I summarily vanquished, part of this process invariably involves cataloging and absconding with what can only be described as: my stuff. Sadly, the first casualty of war is my stained-glass studio; long unused and rather bulky, making trinkets of lead and glass is no longer in my future. I’d originally purchased the entire setup as a form of nostalgia, because working with the metal and glass while enjoying some music was undeniably relaxing and fulfilling as a High School art class has any right to be. But my writing and DDR-addiction have overshadowed any interest stained-glass may have once held, so I’ll shed no tears. My couch, unwilling and unfortunate sidekick in multiple rough relocations, broken, torn, and weary will go to a better place: someone else. Though only six years old, the trusty marble-green fabric monstrosity needs to be replaced, and some college or lounge somewhere will likely overlook its ragged condition. The loveseat was already discarded in the move to Chicago, so it’s somehow fitting nothing of the pair remains. These two objects are probably the first of many things I sell or end up at Goodwill, if only because I’m moving from two bedrooms to one. My bookshelves are probably next on the chopping block, as none of them match, and my livingroom literally threatened to messily eviscerate me, should I fill it with four shelves of completely differing dimensions and wood grain. I’ve been acquiring far too many objects lately anyway, and while I’m not exactly a hermit, I try not to be a vapid consumer either.
But I fear my patience is wearing thin these days. For the last few years, I’ve lived in abject terror of my demise, knowing the nothingness before life could easily be the nothingness afterwards. I intrinsicly reject that possibility, but I can provide little explanation or alternative to displace its impact. For those wondering: yes, this has been the underlying message of those seemingly inspired and artistic posts of late, and more are coming when I start working on my Magnum Opus when Kildosphere the web-fic takes shape after I move and unpack. Beyond that, I’m exhausted and defeated. My goofy exterior and mirth can only succeed so far in subjugating the futility I ascribe to life in general. Why live, when even the most notorious is eventually forgotten by history? Why learn or love, if in reincarnation, we are robbed of every lesson, experience, or precious memories which differentiates us from others recycling this mortal coil? Each philosophy offers an incomplete and unsatisfying answer to the ultimate rhetorical question. Oddly enough, while it plagues my own existence, I’ve designed a fictional response as only a writer can; if I am to be bored, let my last bastion of sanity envelop an activity to ease the banality of the common man.
And so in the sea of our thoughts, there was a darkness stayed; the jewel of life but a glimpse of an aspect without shape yet glimmering with facets infinite and eternal. Through refractions uncountable, one becomes many yet remains unchanged. Thus we are eternal, and we are one.