My Four Horsemen
Overworked. Underpaid. Over stimulated. Undersexed.
It’s a fairly meagre existence. A collection of frantic rushes to the end of the clock only to begin again in the confusion of dawn without as much as an inkling of the hour, day, month or season. After a while – and that while varies rather widely based on a number of constantly changing variables and absurdities – one develops the unpleasant notion of spinning one’s wheels, grinding one’s gears, trundling rather dumbly in a series of slowly widening circles of despair and self doubt and panic.
Anxiety is a funny thing. It rarely announces itself…yet when it does, it’s a resounding crash rather than a far off whimper. It sets upon you with the fury of fast-moving storm; blows over a few trees, knocks down a power line or two, tears the roof off a middle class home and gives two or three geriatrics heart attacks.
In the eye of the storm, I find you. My lovely little distraction. You’re really not all that unique, or fascinating, or special. Yet, if I acknowledge those facts…then you’re really nothing at all. A “dead clam” as Miller once put it – and rather crudely, I might add.
In those few brief moments, this happens: words, thoughts, glances, movements, form links in a chain, create memories and experiences, hopes, inspiration, notions, jealousies, weakness and fear.
And while I’m sure I’m beholding something rare and beautiful, a sudden red mist sets in, that chain is wrapped around my neck, the bottom drops out and I’m choking.
And then, it’s gone.
You’re left picking up the pieces…and there’s a pinprick of panic hanging around just behind the eyes. You hear footsteps now…and as little as a gull’s crazed squabbling sends you scrambling for safety.
My watch recently rotted off my wrist. I took this as a sign…which is odd since I don’t believe in God and thus am at a loss as to who would send such a sign. Still, in terms of this narrative, it’s a rather impressive and timely (ha!) symbol.
All this to say, I’m almost certain I could be doing something far more productive with my time. I know for a fact that my time is finite. There are only so many years in one life, 365 days in a year, 24 hours to a day, each hour having 60 minutes and each minute the result of 60 seconds.
I often find it terrifying that these moments are ones I will never regain and so we arrive at my greatest fear.
Boredom.
And purpose.
And mathematics.
At this precise moment, I have lived:
27 years…
or 332 months…
or 1,444 weeks…
or 10,108 days…
or 242,602 hours…
or 14,556,148 minutes…
or 873,368,924 seconds…
At this reading, those numbers are no longer accurate. In fact, by the end of this sentence my age would have been 873,368,930 seconds…for yet another second before that answer rapidly melts into an error.
Now, an entire legion of dead questions will shake off their shrouds and walk again.
How many of those seconds did I spend sleeping?
Dreaming?
Eating?
Crying?
Fucking?
Lusting over one waste of time or another?
Sitting on the toilet?
Working?
Wondering what the fuck I’m doing with those seconds?
You see, now I know exactly what Miller meant when he wrote
“Chaos is the score upon which reality is written.”
Chaos and time…two things I seem to be very rich in these days. The third is boredom. The fourth, an odd sort of harnessed insanity. Together they are my four horsemen – let’s call them Charlie, Timmy, Billy and Ian. Ian’s a fucking a nut job. He rides a mule and carries a pearl-handled pistol.
My preoccupation with time and chaos, purpose and boredom is derived from current conditions. Life, while a blessed gift, has been both coldly cruel and wonderfully giving in recent years. In an odd harmony, each gift comes with a challenge. This necessitates a “day by day” existence where each 24 hour period ends at a slowly receding black wall…and begins with the four horsemen smashing through my front door and chasing me down the hallway.
Ian’s aim isn’t very good, thank God…and his mule isn’t very quick.
The end result is one runs scared almost all of the time. Sleep is a semi-concussed version of consciousness. Any sort of respite is spent trembling in anticipation of the next onslaught. While inherently positive and hopeful, I find my shoulders sagging, my feet heavy, my gaze is of the thousand yard variety – give or take a yard – and my mind punch-drunk and mired in cobwebs of regret…and there’s a debris field of bad decisions in my wake.
And so, we arrive here…somewhere between the horsemen’s herald and the crawling black wall.
Inch by inch…
Second by second…
Each word set upon paper, a small relief…each second spent is one closer to salvation, closer to you and the moment you materialize from the black wall.
