Momentum (short story)

I don't wish to be gratuitous, and for that reason I have used no names and no details -- but this is a poignant story based on all true events. If you are affected, you will know them: if not, then you do not need to know.

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Sometimes it takes a disproportionate amount of force to move just a small object in a short period of time. Often it will not even be requested, and we’d rather simply wait it out and grind through, eventually getting what we want. Sometimes, though, things happen that are simply momentous, life changing and bear down on upon us with such incredible weight that by the time we have opened our eyes we’re halfway down the path we, only seconds ago, wished to slowly embark on.

It seems to be a fact of life that anything we experience – be it love, beauty, peace, comfort, happiness – is necessarily preceded and followed by its antagonist: hate, ugliness, strife, discomfort, depression. It cannot be denied – and it is, of course, inevitable: even a kiss would lose its lustre if it was repeated day after day with no hardship to juxtapose against it. Accepting such facts as these, it was during the best month of my life that I began to muse on these things more at length.

In my many conversations with that beacon of hope – my muse, if you like – amongst various topics of varying levels of absurdity or philosophic import, I happened to riff on the idea: ‘It’s almost as if I’m running out of things to do,’ I said, thoughtfully. I was half-depressed at the idea. She laughed – no, she giggled, in her fantastic way – and told me not to get depressed during such a wonderful phase.

‘Honestly,’ I continued, ‘this isn’t sustainable. I can’t physically keep up with it all – it’s impossible to be this happy for this long; this productive, this content – life simply cannot be this close to my dreams.’ I paused as I struck on something genuinely worrying: ‘I can’t imagine anything worse than actually achieving my dreams.’ She looked at me as if I was crazy (as she often did, but in a loving way).

‘What’s left when we reach our goals? We cannot simply make new ones. Well, of course we can – but they’re not the same. The dreams I’ve had for this long, for so many years – if –‘

‘—When—‘ she chirped in, with her unstoppable optimism and muse-like effect, cooling my nerves all over and making me smile.

‘When,’ I resumed, smiling, ‘I achieve my goal – the goal – what then? I cannot simply conjure up a new lifelong dream. Lifelong dreams are exactly that: life-long. I will have to make up new ones on the spot.’ I sighed. 'What kind of lifelong dreams would they be?'

‘You mustn’t get depressed!’ she repeated. That was often her job: to stop me from overthinking myself into the ground. Too much thinking, like anything else, is counterproductive and gratuitous.

‘You’re right. I won’t. It’s just… I have the drive, but I don’t necessarily have infinitesimal destinations that I want to get to. But I suppose I am getting ahead of myself.’ She looked at me as if to say, ‘Just a little.’

As with any conversation I had with her, it was both the culmination of a lot of my thinking and the inspiration for different trains of thought – for both of us. This conversation occurred about half way through the month in question, and I managed to bury its themes just beneath the surface in the following fortnight. I had so many potent, almost magical thoughts swimming around that it became impossible to keep track of it. So, so great was the contrast this period had with my depressive episodes that I could fashion a smile out of thin air whenever the thought crossed my mind: in the middle of streets, in the middle of conversations -- perhaps even in the middle of my sleep. But it was to return, much like a tide does, in an inevitable and rhythmic fashion, continually lapping and encroaching towards my comfortable shelter.

Eventually, I was displaced, and after two days I can barely remember, I found myself in a poorly-lit room with the light of a computer screen mesmerising and irritating me, chastising myself almost. All that I remembered of the two days beforehand was a lack of sleep. I remembered that my mind has begun to almost dissociate: where wit had once been, came only irritability and a triteness of expression. The quick and challenging intellect that had been the foundation of the month before had become slowed almost to a stop, and I could perform only the most mechanical of tasks with minimum efficacy. Yes: I can barely remember those two days, somewhat in a state somewhat between waking and dreaming – but I must recount them at a later date…

So, there I was: unaware of how long exactly I had been there, but certainly numbering well into the hours, sitting in a room listless, indolent, pointlessly. The very fact that I was in darkness paid testament to the lack of motivation I had: the lights were only across the room. I was in that intoxicated state of angst where to suffer in a very slight way – such as the strain of the eye to face a bright screen in a dark room – was just enough of an annoyance to allow one to feel sorry for oneself. And yet there was no pain to be had, nor even any reason for it. This was simply a necessitated lull after such a sustained and intense high. I was not miserable, nor bitter – I accepted that it was necessary. Still, however, despite my best intentions, I became one with the mood and succumbed to the lethargic perfume of the moment.

Of course, what follows hours of doing nothing – no physical strain, no intellectual breakthroughs, and no emotional toil – but insomnia? As surely as the seasons segue into one another, an unproductive and wasted day gives rise to a restless and tiresome night. As surely as such a lack of motivation followed from such a month-long surge, hungering sleep too much always yields negative results. There is certainly something to be said for trying to lie to yourself: if one really, truly, desperately wants something, they could do worse than accept that it is unlikely that it will occur, and (whilst pretending not to care) casually make motions towards it… Of course, such a method is not applicable in many situations – especially not in regards to lifelong dreams which require utter devotion, self-faith and effort – but as a combatant to insomnia, it is among the best I have found.

However, that night, I was soundly defeated. Even after so little sleep the days before, I somehow managed to escape the clutches of the cousin of death. I made up for it by sleeping in a little late, and naturally felt all the worse for having wasted more of my day. Upon waking, I resolved that I wouldn’t try to fight the lack of energy that weighed down every limb: I would simply try to ride the waves of the tide that was now well and truly dictating my existence.

I can hardly describe this feeling: it is beyond words simply because it is beneath them. How can one describe the feeling of lugging one’s limbs around with the express wish of its being night time, and thus time to enter unconsciousness? It is as if one is a gambling addict, where sleep is the lottery to be played, the day wasted is the wager, and the prize is waking up the next day with any motivation whatsoever. As always, it was the juxtaposition between the stellar month before hand and the mundane, dreary nature of the current period that was weighing me down. To be so close to one’s perfect existence and to have to come to such a low can, as I have said, barely be described. It is merely a lack.

I had been sprinting up a steep incline – higher than I’d ever known – and I had reached the peak. I now found myself at the trough that followed it (having little recollection of the descent) with no apparent way of escaping it other than to slowly, methodically, painfully ascend the next incline.

These were the thoughts I had; and I spent a lot longer thinking about them than before. My mind was no longer racing, it was moving at a much slower pace. The vigour and passion of my life was on hold, it seemed to me. I thought more methodically, perhaps, but by the same token these thoughts became cumbersome to me: I wanted to get back to the month I had just had. If I was trying to persuade someone who had the choice of whether to exist or not, I would have described to him the month I had had.

So it was that I was sitting at a table conversing with friends in idle chit-chat, half-musing on my own situation and taking part in the conversation with listless input when a piece of news punctured through.

An old school friend had died earlier that day. He was younger than me by a few months. Seeing those words… My blood ran cold – I’m quite sure it stopped, briefly –my veins solidified and my blood ran backwards, I’m sure of it. My expression dropped, and I felt numb. I left the room and sought isolation. A mirror was my first port of call, and all I could do was repeat various rhetorical questions to myself. What? Really? Surely, this is a cosmic joke?

I will not hammer the point home: I had not spoken to him in many years, but I had spent two years seeing him most days of the week and had had various conversations with him. His image was fresh in my mind – it still is now: I could see his mannerisms, his various, comical expressions, his frame, his sense of humour, and his harmless nature. What I couldn’t conceive of was the fact that he was no longer alive. He had been killed by momentum – I will leave it by that, for the details are unnecessary – and it had been swift. Setting out for a journey, who knows what he thought? Probably the trivialities any of us would, like what’s for dinner this evening? But no: he would not return. The last time I’d seen him, would be the last time for eternity. Never again would I see him.

Such a piercing feeling, I can barely retrace – it stings and paralyses me now. The first thought I had was – I’ll wake up soon – what a horrid dream. Whilst clichés are my most detested foe, this really was what I thought: it seems the human mind is physically incapable of accepting certain changes. This is what bereavement is: the utterly slow process wherein after days of asking yourself, When will I wake up?, your psyche finally realises that you’ve been awake the whole time, and reality now resembles a nightmare that little bit more.

I cannot even begin to attempt to empathise with closer friends and family: out of respect I would not even dream of it. It affected me with such a heavy blow that I scarcely knew who I was for quite some time. I merely bow down and tremble at the thought that all of this is necessary, and inevitable.

But to the point of all this: what is the correct reaction? Such horror I can still taste, its impression having left an indelible mark on my mind and on my personality that I shall never scratch away – nor would I want to – for I feel that I have endured and understood life more than I did in that month hence. That I am yet to feel such sorrow hitting closer to home is both a gift and a curse: I cannot bear to muse on it any longer, here.

All that I know is that my indolence was torn out of me – I dare say that I will never succumb to such a feeling ever again. I will drag my bones from whichever resting place they lay and I will curse any inertia with the full force of my being, and I will achieve whatever it is that I must do.

Insomnia? What was that? But a time to work harder. What was a lack of motivation? A chance to gain motivation. The less I have, the more I have to gain. No, I could not dare wallow: I had no right to. For a short period I became intensely angry: I was accosted by someone in a menial position of authority who spoke down to me – usually I would have borne a grudge, but the contrast – for it is always via contrast – between the triviality of being wronged in such a way with such a grave shadow hanging over me made it impossible to wish her ill or to spend any longer on such topics. I merely became angry -- angry with myself, for entertaining thoughts that did not align with my solemn and weighty ideals. I must carry that weight and grow stronger. Sorrow passed into anger, which in turn became fuel.

No: I had been at the trough, at the lowest ebb: stationary, slow, and languid. But sometimes it takes the by-product of a disproportionate force to move a small object with unprecedented speed. And here, I find myself cherishing each second as if it was a lifetime of its own: where the joy of each moment is followed by heartbreak – and then it repeats, like a dynamo – always pushing me forward, always up, always towards the next incline. And I am not a fool: I know that there will be other troughs – for this is a necessity – but I can promise this much: I will plummet with such force through each decline that I will, upon opening my eyes, be halfway into the next incline and headed towards the future with impossible speed and indefatigable resolve. I shall embrace momentum, and it shall lead me on: faster, more thoroughly, and more passionately than ever before. I owe him – I owe myself – I owe humanity that much. All of this I wished to say tell my muse – to inspire her. I worded it like this:

The only error I could possibly make in life would be to slow down.

R.I.P.
(Rest in Peace  -- not in life)