Ladders to Insouciance

It is pitch-black all around, eyes fixed on the ground, searching for any sign of the cold asphalt which must be hiding underneath his naked feet, for he fails to fall into endless abyss. He walks in no direction at all, his legs following orders of an absent mind. A progress that is merely intercepted when the weary muscles are overcome by an intolerable fatigue that forces the mind to stop torturing the ever so loyal limbs. Hence, upon surrendering, they can rest for a couple hours, before entering the vicious circle again and another stroll through the never-ending darkness has begun.

This time however, it seems to be different. In the distance, a penetrating noise can be heard, louder and louder, and whatever it is, it comes right his way, for the sound becomes more and more assessable by the minute, to the point where it clearly resembles a horn made by a car that must be slowly creeping up on him and warning everything in its path to be aware of its destructive power. Sweat starts to run out of every pore, the throat is getting dry and the hands start trembling. Panic fully kicked in and he is lost in an unescapable anxiety. The monstrous machine, while still out of sight due to the wall of black nothingness blocking the view, is getting notably closer and louder. The heart starts racing, seemingly trying to expel itself from the body, for it realizes that it is hopelessly lost; trying to safe itself if no one else – but to no avail. The speeding chunk of metal crashed straight into the man, flesh and bones exploding in mid-air, leaving nothing but a trail of thick blood on the windshield, quickly wiped away. Out of sight and out of mind.

Panting and covered in sweat, he wakes up, and to his surprise the dazzling sound of the horn is still to be heard and as he looks through his rearview mirror, he sees a red-headed man, sitting in another car, who furiously hammers on his steering wheel, while gazing at him through the gates of hell torn open in his face. A frightening spectacle, but fascinating all the same, so fascinating indeed that he is obliged to keep staring at this wrathful creature instead of exiting the parking garage. The explosion of rage, caused by this careless reaction, can possibly be heard from miles away – which makes it all the more intriguing – and after a feverish outbreak of irate emotions the sounds of anger suddenly vanish. An irritating silence has occurred as the red-headed man turns noticeably pale and faints in his seat.

Smiling, he turns his attention back to the machine to his left which desires to swallow his ticket before it can lift the bar that blocks the exit. The tiny sheet of paper already in his hand, he meekly slits it in the designated slot before waiting for the machine to deliver its part of the deal. Nothing of that sort happens. The long metal rod still blocks his way out and the ticket machine seems to ignore him. Overwhelmed by his current situation and baffled to what he is supposed to do next, he cautiously starts to call for help, sending soft sound waves through empty spaces. To his surprise, he witnesses an immediate reaction to his desperate attempt at “solving” his problem, for about twenty men in dark blue jumpsuits, with slightly lighter blue stitching on their backs that spell “staff”, are hastily walking in his direction. Sedated by his success in apparently acting accordingly, he contently leans back in his driver’s seat, calmly closes his eyes and patiently waits for the staff to fix the machine that prevents him from going home.

Just as rapidly as he had attained a state of complete isolation, nearly falling asleep again while listening to the diligent hands around him, buzzing like a swarm of working bees, he is torn out of it again as those same hands suddenly start to touch him. “I don’t need fixing,” he protests, but to no avail. Six sturdy staff men grab him with such adamant persistence that his weak soul quickly gives in, forfeiting all resistance and embracing its fate. They pull him out of the car, no questions asked, his circular eyes now pinned to the concrete ceiling of the parking garage. The shock quickly transitions into hope. A kind of hope that tells him not to worry. In fact, he ought to be grateful. These men are not evil and mischievous. They are his guardians; his saviors who will finally turn his life upside down and end all of his grueling misery, and introduce him to a worriless – better – life. A blissful life, fully detached from sorrowful thoughts and depressing concerns, as they are now handled by higher forces.

Relieved by his newly-found optimism, he is master of his eyes again, enabling him to look around and observe the scene to which he was oblivious just a second ago. He catches sight of the fainted driver who is taken care of as well by numerous staff men. They both are carried away towards a destination that has yet to be defined. For now, all he can see are the moving concrete walls around him; walls that have never been restored but stood strong and tall nonetheless. Like in a tunnel that leads nowhere, time seems to be endless; until both him and the driver arrive at a pair of gateways; one spiraling upwards, one downwards; and it is here, where they part ways. He watches the staff men, who are occupied with the other driver, pass him, while he takes a closer look at the fainted man’s face, and shockingly realizes that he looks rather dead to him; so motion- and lifeless, pale white merges with a cold blue. They go up, while he is heading down, both towards unknown territory. He slowly feels his eyes taking back control over him, as they vehemently fight to shut. They won; as they always do.

Another feverish dream. He wakes up, panting and covered in sweat. As he hastily looks around, he recognizes that he is sitting on a bench in a police station. The wooden door to his right is opened and he can see the metal bars of three cells, one of which has an inmate who is resting on his bed; the bed itself looks softer and more welcoming than one would expect from a police station. Noticeably confused by this sudden change of scenery, he is immediately put at ease by a soothing masculine voice, entering his left ear canal to cut its way straight to his welcoming mind. "Calm down, it’s all good,” tranquilized by these words, spoken in a gentle whisper and clinging to his face like a soft pillow, he abandons his panicked thoughts that seem unreasonable to him now, and instead surrenders himself to deep sleep.

It was a dreamless sleep; the one you wake up from blissfully at ease, thinking that you are able to break through the wildest obstacles; this feeling however vanishes in an instant again, as he consciously looks around and finds himself in yet another, different, location. It appears to him like a replica of the former police station, merely a lot bigger and the reception has been replaced by several ladders in various sizes, all of which are rooted to the ground and leading nowhere but up into the air. As his eyes follow their metal bars, he realizes that the roof has disappeared as well. In fact, he can feel the soft impact of raindrops on his face, oddly warm to the touch. Oblivious to the rest of his surroundings, he cautiously moves over to one of the ladders, decisively grasps its sides and unperturbed by the cold rails he starts climbing. He turns out to be in a weaker shape than expected and every step further up proves harder and more tiring, to the point where it is elusive to continue. Huffing and puffing, his eyes wander around, a desperate stare asking for help, as he slowly loses his hold of the rungs, all of his power abandoning him in an ailing heartbeat. He faints before hitting the floor.

This time around, it is not his familiar perspiration that woke him up, but an unnecessarily great amount of cold water. A woman, holding an empty bucket in her right hand and wearing a white coat, stands in front of him, surrounded on both sides by prying eyes. “Are you alright?” she wonders. “No. Far from it.” I retort, finally having reached full consciousness. I quickly get to my feet, push myself through the nosy mob and begin to search for a way out of this nightmare. “There’s got to be a way out of here. I want out, you hear me? Let me out of here and leave me alone for good!” I yell at no one in particular, while still trying to find an exit; but to no avail. The only doors I can find are the ones to the holding cells. There are no windows either; merely the ladders that lead to open sky and moving them closer to the walls is impossible for they are fixed to the ground by screws and bolts. My last hope is to somehow jump over the wall by climbing up the ladder closest to it, so I run for it and hastily engage the ascent. I feel strength and energy floating through my veins, fueled by the newly-won consciousness and the chance of escaping this limbo; a prison of mind and thought. The claws of staff men vainly try to pull me down again but twelve steps later I reach the top of the ladder and as I am looking down on all of my freshly-made enemies they seem so obscure and petty to me; apprehensive of what I might do next, since it is out of their hand for the first time. They have no control over me anymore; they fear my very next maneuver, whatever it may be. I can read it off their silly faces; like a babe in the woods, they watch my every move. They disgust me. I shake it off and focus on my next step to abandon this filthy place for good.

Gazing straight at the wall, I am convinced that I will reach it if I am to put all of my remaining strength into a final leap of faith. That, for one, is a relief, however, it is impossible for me to get a glance at what lies beyond that towering obstacle. Its crackled frontage blocking my view, I am terrified at my ignorance of what I shall find on the other side. “It might be worse than this,” I begin to worry. Anxiety is creeping up on me, as my determination starts to crumble, like a hand full of sand slipping through my fingers. Take a risk or stick to the devil I know. The unknown frightens me and here, I at least know what I have got. There is comfort in the knowledge of what lies ahead of you. No huge surprises or challenges that need solving, merely a life equally lived by millions of others. “There is no need to break out. You will be fine here, with us,” I hear a female voice from down below. They must have noticed my indecisiveness and are now trying to win me back…with success.

Dazed by his defeat, he stares at the people below him who intently wait for his reaction. Shortly after, he commences to sluggishly descend downstairs. Each new step hurts his soul more than the last, to the point where his feet seem to break. He suddenly slips, his head hitting one of the rungs. Images of a happy life flash in front of his eyes, and merely by heavenly grace he manages to hold on to the metal rails. Shaken by this event, it took him a while till he regathered his thoughts.

“What am I doing here?” I promptly scrutinize, my recent trepidation curtly forgotten, and begin to change course again towards my earlier destination. Up, up, up I climb, destined to try my luck this time around, while I keep imagining myself jovial and blissful in the near future. As I reach the top of the ladder, I set myself ready to take the leap. “Now or never,” I tell myself, as I push my feet off the fly section.

His half-hearted attempt fails however, for right after his feet leave the firm ground, the distance between him and the wall seems too far away, like an ever-extending tunnel, whose end is impossible to reach. Hence, he tries to turn around mid-air to hold on to the rails of the ladder again and consequently falls to the floor. Fortunately, the staff men still manage to catch him before he reaches the ground, which prevents him from severe injuries. Seemingly unconscious, one can hear him stuttering, “I shall try again,” before he is carried away by the men in blue jumpsuits.

Kurzgeschichte vom Januar: The Sunroom
Kurzgeschichte vom März: The Greatest

Wie immer freue ich mich über Anmerkungen jeglicher Art. Zur Berlinale werde ich, wie bereits angekündigt, ein kleines Reisetagebuch führen.

Tims Traumtagebuch - Februar

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