Opening:
Ensnarement in Recollection
Dearest
reader, I’m not facing this blank page willingly; not addressing
you willingly; not commencing this recollection willingly. Believe
me, I’d much prefer to have succeeded in returning to the
stable manner of life I enjoyed previous to when the experience
I’m going to recount shattered that life; much prefer to have
succeeded in reassembling the pieces of that life, assimilating
the experience which troubles me; much prefer to remain unknown
to you, pass my days in obscurity, be as silent as the grave. But
the fact of the matter is that, even though the events I’ll
be describing transpired over three years ago, the unanswered questions
connected with those events continue to distract and disquiet me,
swathe my thoughts and dreams in oppressive shadows, transform all
efforts to sleep into cold-sweat-anointed ordeals. The fact of the
matter is that time, instead of healing this wound, has further
opened and infected it; that time, instead of inducing merciful
forgetfulness, has seen fit to prod and sting me with unceasing
speculations as to what actually occurred during those tumultuous
months; that time, instead of restoring me to a manageable frame
of mind, has brought about a degree of mental distress which is
more impossible to force into the background—lose in any amount
of mindless diversion or conscientious effort to resurrect a professional
life—than the searing pain of a knife-thrust. So yes, I’m
facing this page because I need to wrestle with the memory which
haunts me, transfer an unnerving experience onto it and those which
will follow; because I hope to purge myself of my past, rid myself
of it once and for all.
I’ve
been attempting to avoid this moment—I’ve fought it
off for as long as I possibly can. Because, dearest reader, to repeat
something already stated above in a slightly different manner: if
you’re inclined to suppose I’ve commenced this reminiscence
because I feel writing’s a fine thing and that it would be
commendable to frame a past sequence of bewildering events in the
form of a novel for the edification of others (demonstrate that
one can, indeed, exert oneself to rise above suchlike events and,
perhaps, succeed in doing so), then you’re wrong. The only
reason I’m going to complete this paragraph and begin another
one is because there’s nowhere else for me to run. If, for
one moment, I could believe suicide was a solution; if, for one
moment, I could believe the act of shooting myself would instantly
liberate me from this present which is a ceaseless accumulation
of distress fueled by a memory that steadfastly refuses to declare
itself, resists all my efforts to get to the bottom of its stranglehold
upon me, then I wouldn’t hesitate to point a pistol at the
side of my head and pull the trigger. But, although I wish with
all my heart I could believe otherwise, nothing will ever convince
me that the next world is strong enough to serve as a refuge from
inner conflicts left unresolved in this one: a persistent inner
whisper—which, try as I might, I can’t shout to silence—informs
me that discharging the pistol would be nothing but a futile, naive
and misdirected, postponement of the cure and that, like it or not,
I’d eventually find myself—in some future equally unsettling
life—right back to where I am now: being under the necessity
of coming to terms with a disquieting past.
I
well know what I want from the next life: complete and everlasting
annihilation. That’s right, no memories, no sensations—not
the slightest trace of thought in my head, most infinitesimal flicker
in my nerves. But, again, the inner whisper informs me that such
an afterlife—hardly-to-be-hoped-for state of permanent insentience—must
be earned; yes, informs me that such an afterlife is beyond one’s
reach as long as one’s in a condition of disunity with oneself;
that all inner rifts persist into the next world, and must be resolved
in the present before one can hope to attain to the state of deep
dreamless sleep one craves. So there you have it: a resolution of
inner differences is what I’m endeavoring to accomplish by
penning these words, the sole reason I’m bothering. And I’ll
say it again: if I thought I’d instantly be propelled into
everlasting silence by the act of discharging a pistol aimed at
my temple, I’d do it this moment without hesitation and this
sentence would never be completed, the words you’re reading
wouldn’t exist.
And
now, dearest reader, I ask: do you dare to fall in love? I no longer
do! What’s love? It’s the sudden seizure by unfamiliar
emotions which delight and frighten in equal measure, subordinate
one’s will and personality, transform one into someone else.
What’s love? It’s the hunger which increases with one’s
every attempt to sate it until one’s adrift in it, being whirled
and knocked about, like a leaf in the frothing water of a swift
stream. It’s a sure thing the sun will set in the west every
evening; it’s also a sure thing, as regards love, that there
will come a point when the woman with whom one’s captivated
will begin to dissolve and vanish from under one’s caresses,
provide not relief from but added temperature to the fever which
is burning one up; a point when one will find oneself engulfed in
surge after insatiable surge of roiling desire, desperate for a
means of calming oneself all but impossible to find. Too much is
never, ever, enough. “More! More! More!” is the one
and only thought buzzing in one’s head.
Yes,
love—wonderful love! What does love do? It carries one outside
the established boundaries of one’s existence, uproots one
from one’s accustomed manner of life. What does love do? It
does away with all points of reference, guidelines of conduct, and
rules of convention. Is this a good thing? a romantic thing? Not
if one suddenly finds oneself helpless to resist impulses one was
formerly rightfully wary of, begins to recoil before the possibility
of committing unforgivable acts!
It’s
a fact that checks and balances no longer exist when the sight of
the face of one’s beloved—vertiginous plunge into the
bottomless brightness of her eyes—is one’s reflection
as one’s never seen it before, an onslaught of churning dreams
one never knew one had. It’s a fact that the inevitable outcome
of love which refuses to compromise and suppress itself—become
habitual, submit to the impositions of civilization—is a state
of sensory overstimulation that begins to isolate one from not only
the object of one’s affection but from the world at large,
and cause one to blankly stare in response to all words, rituals.
What follows? There’s no telling what the state of isolation,
intensity of thought-dissolving desire, brought about by love may
compel one to do; no telling what one may resort to in efforts to
be liberated from one’s affliction, set free.
So
I ask again: do you dare to fall in love? dare to permit unbridled
love to run its full course within you? And further: have you ever
fled from your loved one at the very instant you were craving her
embrace because you knew a few more moments in her vicinity might
be enough to inundate you with sensations you’d be unable
to reliably regulate—perhaps propel you towards loss-of-self-moderation-engendered
criminal behavior? I have! That’s right, I fled from my beloved—my
endlessly doted upon one-and-only—because her mere presence
was convulsing my senses, obliterating my thoughts, eroding my personality
to such an extent I was fearful of losing every trace of inner stability,
tasting of urges sane individuals avoid. Yes, I fled from her even
though she was the beginning and end of everything that meant anything
to me—fled from her while soul-alteringly in love with her!
But
flight from one’s beloved, the permanent removal of oneself
from her physical proximity, is one thing; flight from the love
one feels for her, the persistent effects of that love upon one,
is something else altogether. Because love doesn’t relinquish
its claims, permit itself to be relegated to the sidelines, without
offering resistance. So yes, although I saw no more of my beloved,
the love I felt for her continued to generate itself within me and
I was unable to distance myself from it: an understatement if there
ever was one. That’s right, I did my best to run from love
without looking back—without remembrance, reflection, regret,
any thought whatsoever; but love continued to flare within me and,
deprived of its usual outlet, forced me into prolonged periods of
sleeplessness during which increasingly vivid and attention-monopolizing
waking dreams reined unopposed; yes, gave birth to an uncontrollably
excitable imagination which steadily substituted itself for the
world about me; an imagination which laid claim to my mental and
sensory faculties to such an extent it soon began to affect my feelings,
determine my actions.
And
it was in that atmosphere of love’s aftermath; atmosphere
of perceptual distortion and emotional disarray, nonstop abrupt
mood shifts, unceasing swings from one extreme of behavior to another;
atmosphere of imagination-inundation, such that I was incapable
of believing I was able to determine if I was actually feeling a
certain way or only imagining I was... But why am I acting as if
this love-aftermath atmosphere is a thing of the past? It continues
at this very moment—it’s the reason I’m writing
this introduction, commencing this reminiscence. That’s right,
dearest reader, it’s the memory of that love which haunts
me; it’s the tumult-obscured events of that love which afflict
me with devouring doubts; it’s the unabated influence of that
love which undermines my every attempt to think clearly, get to
the bottom of how I could’ve possibly acted as I did, determine
in exactly what manner I did act; it’s that love which both
forms the subject of and forces me to pen the pages that follow.
But, enough—no more procrastinating! My reminiscence begins
on the following page...
_______________
SELF-MURDER
Opening:
Ensnarement in Recollection
Copyright
© 2009
by
Robert Scott Leyse
All rights reserved.
|