Memoirs of an open mind

Old Teller lived way up high.

It was a way to survive.

Once he got up to the very top of the tower he never went back.

However strange it seemed, he had gotten used to the loneliness. It was a way to survive.

 

Old Teller had nothing in his possession but a tiny little white watch made out of plastic. It had a long time ago died – due to Old Teller never having changed the battery, he had only thrown out the old one – and was now more so than ever a decoration lightly weighing down his wrist. It was his reminder of the vast emptiness without and within, the nothing he had come to expect among the clouds.

 

He opened the door and went up the stairs. The stairs ascended to the spire where a small lighthouse had been installed by Old Teller. The body itself – where the stairs were fitted, without any windows – pierced through the cloudy surface in such a way that if you kept up residence below the lighthouse you could still see the ground below, but would only see the smooth milky surface of the heavenly clouds above.

Downstairs was where he lived. Upstairs was where he had worked forever. His duty had become to watch over the skies far and wide, a way to survive.

 

His shift was over, with a deep sigh he looked at the watch (still twelve o’ clock, as it had always been), and turned around, heavily shifting his feet in the direction he intended to go, where he knew the stairs would appear as soon as the sun would settle on the horizon, embedded in the soft almost pillow-like texture of the cumulus clouds. He looked at his watch once more – still twelve – and started descending the narrow spiral below.

 

Old Teller had a night routine, which was no more different from his morning routine than, well, anything. He would take of his clothes, stare at the blank space of wall above his bed for a couple of minutes, then go to sleep. In the morning he would do the exact opposite.

Sometimes he would dream. In the dream his name was Eric. Eric would wake up and walk down the stairs where he then usually would be greeted by his lovely and caring wife Ellen – she usually woke just a few minutes before him – and then they’d eat breakfast together. He would kiss his wife and with a smile from ear to ear he’d be off to work. That was it. That was the dream.

Eric would not think of noticing two extra chairs in the dining room, neither would his wife and they wouldn’t talk about it. But why would Eric think of something as absurd as two empty chairs? It wasn’t like they had lost both of their children in a tragic car accident a few years back. Nonsense!

Then Eric would come home, but the house would be empty. And he didn’t understand why.

 

As Old Teller woke up the day after he would usually not remember any part of this dream, curious as it was he actually had the picture edged in his head – as clear as day – this time. He pondered for a while but couldn’t find anything logical or reasonable about it so he let it go. But the feeling lingered.

Pain festers…

It is a way to survive.

 

He ascended the tower and lit the lighthouse. His watch had begun. He looked down at his wrist to realize the strangest of things! It was now five past twelve, but how?

Old Teller tried not to think too much, as thinking would not matter. He continued to watch for any irregularities, but he found none. For the first time in his life he realized that the normally soothing feeling of having nothing change, ever, was actually making him a little bored. This did not make him comfortable at all and he found himself soon looking down at his watch over and over again, but the time had not changed. Why would it? There wasn’t any battery. He assured himself that he must’ve turned the screw during his sleep. It had never happened before.

“It would happen someday.” he mumbled.

 

The sun started to set once again and as the twilight struck his lighthouse he too stopped the old engine and turned for the stairs. Like clockwork the door appeared and he once again went down to his little room in the vast nothingness.

As he underwent the usual night-not so different from day-routine he wondered what the next day had in store for him. Maybe he wondered in secrecy (since you can actually hide feelings from yourself) if not the next day would surprise him a little more? Not that he actually wished from an answer from himself, he did not want nor did he need it. He needed only to survive. Such where his thoughts as he lay softly in bed and let the drowsiness take over.

 

Old Teller had a dream that night. In his dream his name was Eric. Eric woke up from an irregular and discomforting sleep only to find himself soaking in sweat. He did not know why. The room did not feel right at all, instead of the bright cream-white colors he was met by a dark-lit room with a grayish quality. After a quick shower – for he must certainly be in a hurry by now, although for what he did not know – Eric went down the stairs, expecting his wife to greet him with a loving peck on the cheek. But there wasn’t anyone in the kitchen, nor did he find her in the dining room, or living room for that matter. Besides, she wouldn’t have left the house without opening the windows (the air was damp) or at least leaving a note? Eric stood in the living room, frozen for lack of a better word. He hadn’t the faintest clue what to do.

If this was a practical joke it wasn’t very funny. He quickly realized that wasn’t the case. Even Eric had to understand the direness of the situation. His house – their house – seemed as if nobody had lived there for a long time. A tear ran down Eric’s face, he felt sad without any recollection of why. He could not understand where his wife had gone, nor why there had been four chairs in the dining room instead of two, why he had seen old dusty toys in the living room, or why there had been kid’s drawings on the wall in the hallway.

He went outside – in his pajamas – half expecting her to stand there laughing at him. “You dummy! I’m just joking with you!” but nobody came.

It rained. He slipped and fell on the wet pavement; Eric could hear a crack as he landed. Something was broken?

 

Old Teller woke hastily with a gasp. This wasn’t what he wanted at all! He wiped the tears from his face, realizing how discomforted he had become from dreaming, but he couldn’t tell why. He stroke his long, grey beard, pondering what it was. But he could not figure it out. Old Teller rose up from his bed and almost forgot the morning routine before going on watch.

His hands were shaking, but he didn’t know why. He hadn’t looked at the skyline a single time, but he didn’t know why. He hadn’t observed the sun playfully jump out of the clouds as if playing a game of hide and seek, he knew he wanted to observe but didn’t know how. His one thought, only thought was the god damned watch. Hands shaking he gazed quickly and then looked away.

The clock had started ticking.

The clock had started working.

The clock worked.

 

Eric knew he had lost something. He knew very well what it was.

Eric and Ellen had tried for a new child – a new start – after many years of mourning the loss of their previous two beautiful little gifts of joy. But not only had that attempt been squashed so mercilessly (as if fate just wasn’t in the mood to deal them any good cards at all), but he had lost her too. She had lost too much blood the doctors had explained in a sterile tone Eric just couldn’t stand. He had punched one of the doctors over his jaw and gone out in the rain.

The clouds were blue and the sun had just risen above, like a comforting guardian, promising to protect its citizens from harm’s way. Eric knew now, it was all false. Its comfort but lies and its protection nothing more than empty promises.

In a drunken drowsiness he had driven way to fast on the highway, almost driving headlong into the concrete when driving off the intersection. As threw himself out of the car he had promised to never forget what fate had done to him.

Eric didn’t know how it had come to this.

Old Teller didn’t remember what Eric did.

 

Eric came home.

Old Teller ascended the stairs.

He quit his job.

He started his watch.

He closed the door.

He awaited the stairs.

He drank.

He went through his routine.

He forgot.

He slept.

 

He couldn’t recall what for he lived such a life amongst the clouds.

He couldn’t recall what for he lived such a life.

He couldn’t recall what for he lived.

He couldn’t recall what for.

He couldn’t recall.

He couldn’t.

 

He had only survived.