I’m having the dream again.
I’m in a maze. Not the scary
type, like the one in the Jim Henson movie, Labyrinth, well, not mortally scary
anyways. It’s just empty, plain, cold. There’s a long corridor of gray stones,
infinitely long it seems, and I’m standing in it. The ground is crushed gravel of the same
stone. When I walk my footsteps follow
me, grating, mocking me. One listening
to my footsteps would assume I was going somewhere, that I was a person in
action. But really, I’m in inaction, or
useless action, like struggling in quicksand, or a hamster on a wheel. As far as the eye can see, in either
direction, there are paths off the corridor.
I’ve tried going down a few, yet have had the same outcome each
time. Dead end. Sometimes I can see the ending, and I don’t
go down the path. Sometimes I haven’t
been able to see the end, so charge blindly on, till I hit the wall. I want so badly to get out of the maze. Not for survival. On the contrary, I seem quite comfortable
overall. I hunger for nothing. The temperature is unnoticeable, like when
you dip your foot into a still pool of tepid water, and barely notice it’s
submersed, the temperature is such a match to your own. The air is still, no breeze to chill me, or
tickle my skin. I have the sense I could
exist in the maze forever without physically wanting. In fact, it’s as if my physical being no
longer exists. I know it’s there, I can
see it, and touch it, but it matters none; I’m completely numb. Only my fear of passing my years away uselessly,
in this isolated gray world, feeds the urgency of my escape. My footsteps on the sharp stones leave no
trace in this world.
A long time ago, I would wake up every morning, greeting the
day with enthusiasm, thinking about the things I looked forward to that
day. This was not some exercise a
therapist made me conduct. This was
genuine happiness with my life. These
things were not necessary big things. Sometimes
they were very small things, like the knowing a graded test would be returned
in class that day and feeling confident that I’d aced it, or a promise that Mom
made that she’d buy me a new outfit for school, or that they were serving
chicken nuggets in the school cafeteria for lunch. Sometimes they were bigger things, at least
in my mind, like in elementary school, when I’d jump out of bed for a fieldtrip
downtown to the National Mall, where I could visit the American History
Museum and see my
favorite exhibits. Like the huge
dollhouse, taller than myself, where every little detail was recreated in
miniature so lifelike, even down to the tiny, motionless fish in the aquarium,
as if you could jump in and live in that perfect little world. The father sitting in the armchair reading
some newsprint, the mother cooking miniature cherry pies and cookies in the
kitchen, while the children play with alphabet blocks on the floor. I longed to make myself tiny, like Alice In
Wonderland shrinking down at the bite of a pill, to explore and live in that
great bourgeois house, from cellar to attic, with all its elaborate treasures. Or the movie memorabilia exhibit, which
consisted of such relics as Fonzi’s cool leather jacket from Happy Days,
Harrison Ford’s jaunty hat and whip from Raiders of the Lost Ark, and Dorothy’s
magic ruby slippers from the Wizard of Oz.
For some reason I adored the latter, despite my shock at their ragged
appearance, discovering that there was nothing really special about them. They were old and rusty looking, not rubies
at all but faded sequins hanging by worn threads to plain ladies pumps; rust-touched
plastic turning transparent. They seemed
to hold the promise of good things, that the right pair of shoes could make
your life’s voyage safe, even take you over the rainbow. What I should have learned then though, was that
things weren’t as beautiful as they were made to seem, that most things were
shabby under their polished façade. That
there were very few truly special things in the world.
Then there was a period of sudden change in my psyche,
brought on by deep currents of uncertainty and fear in my world and the world
at large, amplified by personal failure and loneliness. A feeling of despair, and the revelation that
I would flounder in this life, that I was ordinary, and nothing I did would
ever amount to anything notable, so there was certainly no need to put forth any
effort. In this dark time, I hated
mornings, wishing as I climbed out of bed that the day were ending rather than
beginning, that I was once again returning to my blanket cocoon, so I could
hide face-down in my tear-stained pillow until sleep relieved my mind of its
cheerless wanderings. Mercifully, this
period was not too long in duration, continuing for less than a year, after
which I returned to a state of mental equilibrium. Gone was the bright enthusiasm, optimism, and
contentment of my younger years, but gone also were the depths of despair. Most mornings I greet the day with
indifference, peppered with days of happiness, mainly those days when I’m free from
the chains of my futile job.
I cope with my job in much the same way I imagine people
remove themselves from mortal pain. My
mind wanders free from my body, drifting aimlessly over ways for me to escape
my current life path, while my fingers do what’s required of them, the smallest
portion of my mental capacity committed to work. And yet, I still perform at a higher level
than most of my coworkers. I wonder if
this is because of my relative youth, whether they are just so much more
removed from their work after years and years of boredom, or whether it is a
matter of aptitude. I have no definite answer
for this question. Upon overhearing most
of their hallway discussions I am inclined to believe the latter, but then, who
am I to know? My guess, and an
admittedly conceited one at that, is that it’s a combination of both.
No pain, no gain.
That’s what my track coach used to say.
So I worked and labored, really felt the burn. And I gained, yes, the work paid off! But it was clear in my head what the goal
was. To be the winner of the race, to
run the fastest, was the goal. And I
trained for every scenario I might encounter in a race. Ran uphill, downhill, around the track, over
logs, on the street, on the path, in a pack, alone. Based on the success of my running training
regiment, I took care to apply the same principles to life. Labored at everything I put my mind too. Whatever I did, I tried to do it the best,
thinking that must be the secret to life, to do everything the best. But inexplicably, it wasn’t! Not at all!
Much to my surprise and discouragement, unlike in running, effort did
not seem to have the same effect on outcome of job, life happiness, health,
wealth, etc.. Even more annoying, was the realization that not everybody
started from the same point. In a race,
there was a set start line, and every runner had their toes on it, not one inch
farther ahead or behind anyone else.
Fair. In life, some people were
just ahead to begin with. Their Daddy
owned the family company, their sister could hook them up with a great job,
their grandparents left them tons of money.
Rarely, they were just born with extraordinary talent, but usually even
this gift was ineffective when not coupled with effort, so I never begrudged
people with great talent. I knew that
without some lucky turn of stars, or the correct mind-set and will-power, they
could be in the same boat as me, as the talentless. The only thing I envied about people with
great talent is that their path in life, their proper labyrinth corridor if you
will, seemed pre-chosen for them. At
least to start, maybe their path grew gray and the air dull after awhile too.
And yet I could walk in a day like this, among the sunlight
and the trees, and not care what I did for a living, whether I’d failed or
succeeded. In fact, maybe I should thank
my stars I had time to enjoy it.