This story actually happened to me long ago, while I was facing the hurdles and isolation of the pandemic. It starts dark, but it is not a dark story at all.
It’s a late morning, I almost had no time to rest after breakfast before lunch is the next heavy duty. Too tired to count the bathroom breaks. For what? I know anyway that I did not achieve anything useful this morning.
As soon as I start to even grasp a thought of doing something, I feel it is time for yet another walk into the quiet room where every thought of hope drips off the weakest part of mine, every breath, every noise I make echoes back on the gloomy old tiles as if they were only there to reprimand my existence.
I try to resist my body this time, not letting it let go of it so soon, to squeeze out a few more minutes from this bad and ineffective day, so I stare at the wall. Behind my old laptop, there is a subway map of Munich. Although I don’t know when or if I’ll ever be able to go into such a big city, I’ll leave it there. We can keep hope alive more likely when we refuse to remove its signs.
Outside, a car comes and vanishes. Something inside of me freezes. I wish I could drive… just to get away unseen for a few minutes… maybe sit in the car on an open place behind a dilapidated building, watching some sparrows, blackbirds or scrubby squirrels, or taking a few photos with my phone, while nobody would be with me, nobody could share the air I’m breathing, nobody could be coughing at me…
It has been months that I did not see anybody but my neighbours and a few shop assistants. To avoid getting the virus, I was even practising holding my breath so well that I’d even consider adding apnoe shopping to my list of skills. At least, at home, there is no limit to breathing. I could do some squats, but these days, I feel too weak to resume exercising. Sometimes, I feel too weak to take a walk.
Not yet.
Not now.
Not as long as I cannot even eat enough.
The will to stay alive is like a heating that needs fuel first.
But fuel alone is not enough.
A candle won’t start burning without a spark, right?
It won’t keep burning against the cold wind either though.
My black plastic laptop hums. The bottom corner lights up, with a flickering light telling me about yet another incoming email, tossed on top of the virtual pile of unanswered ones full of pressure, full of doubt, full of hurry, worry and, yes, full of emptiness.
My phone on the side table answers back, wondering why I don’t react, why I don’t even move.
Still no progress in my efforts to find work. But what does it matter? It doesn’t matter anymore. Who on earth am I supposed to do a good job for when I cannot remember names, when I cannot write a single line of code without first googling, when my fingers cannot even properly hold a bread roll? My whole life is going down the drain, no wonder as to how often I press flush, and I wonder if there is any way out or maybe there’s a way to end it faster… stop! I say to myself. Ffs, just stop!
Do my best. Day after day. Another day. Sometimes it’s the only way.
Do one silly thing today that does not change anything, yet lifts you up a bit.
But first, do what they told you. Take notes of where you’ve been.
My chair creaks under my weight while I bow down to pick up a pen.
I move closer to take a few notes on my paper calendar.
I move the pen to yesterday‘s date and write: »Groceries, approx. 2 p.m.«
(We say 14 Uhr) Was there anything else? Nobody.
That neighbour greeting outside? That was the day before yesterday, wasn’t it?
Yes, I wrote it.
Minimum contact to people. How long will this take? Can I take it?
A noise reaches my ears. Something falls down or hits something else on the other side of the wall. Like someone slapping something hard. Repeatedly. Almost following a rhythm.
I raise my head and stare into the direction, into a grey and brown void, where the air is still smelling faintly of yesterday‘s dinner. It was hard to stand still in the kitchen for a quarter of an hour, but convincing myself was worth it!
I try hard to silence myself enough to listen.
A different sound reaches my ear. It seems strangely familiar, shockingly, however misplaced, as if I … was in a different place, in my childhood room: Didn’t I just hear the garden door snap into its place? Exactly!
And wasn’t that the squeak of a door handle under my mother‘s hand next to my chair? It cannot be anything else.
My neck becomes tense. This can’t be true, can it?
Garden doors can’t be found in a floor three metres below a roof, can they?
I wonder. Is that still my room, or is it not?
So, where the heck am I?
I stand up and rush forward, carefully gazing into the open kitchen door …
The slapping sound returns. This time it’s closer, just behind the wall.
I sit back down on my chair. My nerves flicker, making me feel I’m not even here, not anywhere really … making me feel swept away … as if the horizon tries to draw itself at the wall with light, as if… as if the pictures were coming undone in my head, hard to describe… as if… is there a stranger in my room?
I ask into the void: »Is there anyone?«
A bit louder.
No answer.
Silence, accompanied by sounds of what I only can recognize as danger.
Then the silence becomes broken. Just noise around me, no silence remaining…
I try so hard, try and try, but I, I cannot listen to what’s behind it.
I cannot… do anything about it.
But wait, what was that?
Didn’t I just see a silhouette? … I wonder if I am awake… I pinch myself in the arm, clench my fists. Nothing changes.
Was there anything in today’s bread? You fool, that’s rare. Too much caffeine? No, it was the usual amount. I google negative symptoms of a lack of B vitamins. Not lack of sleep, that would require more than just staying up late for a few days. I’m used to it anyway. For years. It… I wonder, is it an aftermath of Covid?
But my breath somewhat tries to keep me calm — as if it‘s trying to remind me of something.
I give up analysing, stand up, slowly moving, as I am afraid of falling, finally getting to the sofa, away from the screen. After all, there is no use in pretending to work at all when there is nothing to do. Does it make it any better? Not really…
Finally I recognize a scene. It’s not here, but I… know the place: a vacation room from years ago. A breakthrough. Some wooden furniture. A TV set. A sofa. Even the pattern of the carpeting. Fascinatingly, every detail is precisely redrawn on my inner screen.
However, the story which gets unfolded, isn’t real, can’t be real… those things cannot happen to me at all anyway?!
In my inner world, yet, I seem to know him, and it feels too real — but when I return from my sudden self hypnosis a few minutes later, I cannot drag out any information, as if… I was hired as a detective of my own life, whose scripts just fell of their bicycle, or who’s failing on asking questions of scrutiny to a suspected stranger. How familiar. Then again, how weird!
From the young junior developer’s point of view, it’s just as if … I had forgotten to stick a storage folder to a running docker container to keep the data for later, or, poetically speaking, as if … the story itself was made of snow, and by sunlight, it turns into water — no tears of fear though, but of joy… joy without a name…
Wow, Daniella. Storyteller writing. Magical images.
To see sharply these thoughts and feelings of mysterious places of mind.
That's truly a stirring story💛💛Loved it💛💛💛