How
I wish life was structured like an operating system! When things get cluttered
and performance lags, all you need to do is a quick reinstall and all is well
again. Unnecessary programs deleted and all junk removed. You get that pristine
pine fresh feeling that gives tingles of excitement coupled with that beautiful
speed.
Unfortunately, life is built quite like a house instead. We work on a foundation and
build bottom up. Even if everything crumbles down around you, there is only a
finite and fixed amount of space and time to start all over again. Quite often,
you are forced to recycle ruins that remain; repurpose bricks of a broken wall
to build a kiln to make more bricks. There are those who come to see your ruins
and even haul some of your broken stuff out. Maybe they would bring a lampshade
that goes with the new furniture that lies scattered across the room. But in
the end, when the dust settles and the hustle and bustle of life fades out,
it’s just you lying awake in the middle of a makeshift bed in a broken house,
trying to fight the urge to get up and search for that drip sound that
permeates the gloom.
And
when you are done building somehow it never feels quite the same. The walls are
crooked or something creaks. It is still your space but you do feel alien in
its midst. It is still your four walls but the coat of paint is not what you
chose and it bothers you. You gingerly take steps around the room, testing the
floorboards to ensure that you don’t fall through again. You don’t go down to
the basement anymore because like every basement it is spooky but more so for
you. Here in the basement where walls didn’t cave in, is something familiar and
something that remained. Remnants that did not get damaged in the tumult but
damaging to behold.
It
pains you to stay in the basement but once you are there, you linger. Maybe
it’s the odd familiarity, the presence of things that have been discarded a
long time back but retained without an afterthought. You want to run your
fingers thought the musty walls, you want to pick up a knickknack that lies in
the corner and reminisce. There is part of you that wants to run away screaming
to the heavens but there is that perverse side of you that forces you to remain
and review all that remains despite the pain.
It's
then that the air gets to you, thick, heavy and toxic. Your chest begins to
hurt with every breath and all objects in the room swim around your very eyes.
A loud crash upstairs brings you back to life and you stagger out of the
basement choking and coughing as the air rushes back into you. Winded but
curious you look for a sign of the commotion. Something has fallen on the
floor- nay something has been thrown down. You trace the carnage back to the
two feet that start firmly in the shaky ground and stares you down, arms
combatively folded across the chest.
From
the frying pan into the fire !
"What
were you doing in the basement? "
You
don't have an answer and you can see the white of the knuckles across the room.
Somewhere the bugle of an incoming onslaught blares and you brace for the
opening salvo. You fight back feebly but your arguments are moot. There was no
purpose in the visit to the basement nor an excuse that could get you off the
hook. Fight or flight - the question rattles your brain but you stay rooted to
the very spot.
You
will not throw the first punch nor will you place the last blow. The victor of
the battle will wipe your blood from the gauntlets, only to know that in
victory lies the greatest defeat. Because like the game "Jenga", the
basement is all that is keeping you up. A tantrum can be thrown and a few more
punches thrown but there is no joy in that anymore. The only question that
remains is whether you are helped to clean up the mess or you listen as the
door slams shut and the victor shuffles away from your desolation.
With
all luck, you place a padlock on that door to the basement and you move on to
furnish the house. But more often than not, it will remain open, a siren call
that spirals you into depression. Maybe you will end up on the floor of that
basement, wrists slit, silently hoping as your blood coagulates through the ground, all this will end and perdition will not be an infinite loop that
throws you back into this again. Maybe you'll take a sledgehammer to the walls
and try to work through the clutter. Maybe you will leave a little chair and a
bottle of wine down in the basement so that you spend a quiet night ruminating on the
items left behind.
Whatever
you do, remember the basement is never for living - its where things go to die
or be forgotten. Go back up the steps.
