Chapter 11

Lost In Translation

 

Days go by, and the pieces were slowly coming together to show me just how big of a mess I left behind for my family. And it’s the kind of mess that’s greater than just me and myself. The kind of mess that is just beyond me to clean up on my own. It’s a shitty feeling to be left helpless and heart-wrenched as I watched everyone carry the cross that was supposed to be mine to bear. Then it hit upon me that I was starting to feel something that I haven’t felt for a long, long time: Uncertainty. It was not a time and place that I was proud to find myself in, but the arrogant demon in me so conveniently chose this moment to keep my eyes open and make me see what this episode did to my inner game. There suddenly was a hole in the impenetrable fortress wall of my unshakable kingdom. It was that dreadful feeling that slowly creeps up your spine when you realize that you’re not bulletproof when all the gut and intestines start spilling out. That this man of steel was very much more damaged than invincible. But what felt even worse was to be ripped apart by the guilt and regret of someone who messed up and the alpha male that’s telling me to stop acting like a pansy. It just feels like I’m getting everything wrong. So I write.

I’ve been writing almost every other hour that I’m allowed my own activities. And gradually, it has been all I’ve been thinking about. I was slowly being enslaved to the captivating and fascinating world of words without even knowing it. Just as obliviously, I betrayed everything that I should be doing here and now; I was forgetting why I begun this anthology. And when you’re serving one master, there simply isn’t enough room for another. Nevertheless, every time I write, the letters form words, the words form sentences, the sentences form paragraphs, and the whole thing grows and grows to sizes big enough to topple the walls and show me a way out. Despite the treachery involved, my new master was helping me get by.

I write, as honestly and earnestly as I can, about everything my mind has been conjuring, may it be good, bad or downright ugly. I had confidence in the harsh and unbiased self-critic in me. But just how true and uncensored could your own self be when criticizing your own flaws? There was always room for error, and hence doubt in its credibility. That’s when I decided to seek the aid of an old friend.

Hairyback is probably one of those few friends of mine whose words I actually revere and take in high regard. Not to say that the words from the others are worthless, but he’s got that extra credibility in being relatively well-versed in some the lesser known but nonetheless valuable things that most people our age couldn’t be bothered with: the Classics. There’s a whole treasure trove of wisdom buried in there that a lot of people overlook as outdated and obsolete ideas. He’s a tad bit eccentric sometimes, with a cruel sarcastic edge. Alas, most people of distinction are usually this miserable. And to think this punk ass is actually younger than me.

He’s also one of the few people whom I’m in almost constant correspondence with through the electric sea all the while. That’s all we’ve got to keep in contact, with him back at his native land of India now (Hence his name).Through the twenty six alphabets, ten single-digit numbers and some miscellaneous characters on our keyboard, we converse across miles of waters nearly fully swarming with information, profiles of masochists looking for sadists, news and bestial porn. Hell, look in the right nooks and you can find anything in the electric sea. But we’re safe from all the nastiness hidden in there. Our minds aren’t that twisted yet.

He found out about the whole trolley fiasco through the friends who came to visit me. And he was, needless to say, both stupefied and infuriated by the baffling superior quality of my baffling inferior thinking. Through the privacy of a little dialogue box on the screen of our laptops, we initiated our conference.

Hairyback says:

What the hell were you thinking?

I think I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been asked that question.

Impaledfish says:

I haven’t actually come up with a decently functioning answer for that, actually.

Impaledfish was my usual moniker in these chats.

Hairyback says:

Look, I knew there was something wrong with your head, but I didn’t know it was that bad.

It was actually a compliment, looked in the right way.

Impaledfish says:

And it’s probably gotten worse, I guess, with the state that it’s in now.

Hairyback says:

Crowley, you’re fucking insane.

And the few sentences that came after that were basically derivatives of the same meaning of this statement. Let’s skip all that to get along with the story.

Impaledfish says:

Alright, yes, so I am insane.

Does that provide a more logical explanation?

Hey, I had to end it somewhere.

Hairyback says:

Yeah, that does sound a little better.

So, how have you been, dude?

Impaledfish says:

Still holding the pieces together.

Heard you’re not doing too bad yourself.

Hairyback says:

I’m getting by.

With you in this state, I doubt you can actually do much, much less step out of the house.

What can you actually do these days and not kill yourself in the process?

Impaledfish says:

Well, I’ve been working on a little book of sorts.

Hairyback says:

My my, what a lofty little project. A book, eh? What’s it about?

I knew for a fact that if I told him about the whole deal with Mr. Jeremy and the hanging torso, and say that it’s non-fictional, he’d just shut me up.

Impaledfish says:

It’s a fictional work with bits and pieces of me put in it.

It was a lie that was much easier to swallow.

Hairyback says:

Ah, interesting.

Having writer’s block yet?

Impaledfish says:

Not yet.

But it’s all starting to get blurry though.

Hairyback says:

A geyser never dies; it just lies buried.

Dig deep enough and it’ll all come gushing back out.

- Aristotle.

I smell a lie.

Impaledfish says:

For real?

Hairyback says:

… Ok, it was just something I made up off the top of my head.

But a quote you come up with always sounds a little more credible if you credit it to some renowned historical figure, no?

Impaledfish says:

Point taken. A placebo worth keeping.

So I told him the premise of the whole story and the events that came to pass, both believable and unbelievable.

Impaledfish says:

But I added a bit of me in the thoughts, emotions and feelings.

Hairyback says:

I figured as much.

You dramatic little bastard.

Impledfish says:

I don’t know if it’ll all come through, though.

I do my best to be my own harshest critic…

But before I could finish…

Hairyback says:

That’s a whole load of bullshit, man.

You can never be your own harshest critic, no matter how hard you think you may be trying.

Even if you can bring yourself to the limit, and even if you don’t flinch when you come face to face with the darkest parts of yourself; you can never bring everything out.

You’re not supposed to.

There will always be something in the way; something stopping you from nipping it from the bud.

That’s why writers always lose something in the translation from their head to the paper.

Impaledfish says:

Any idea how to get around it?

With all that has happened, it’s high time I oughta come clean with myself.

Somehow, I already knew I was fighting a lost cause.

Hairyback says:

There ain’t no way around it, dude.

I get what you’re trying to do, and it’s cool; I respect that.

But you simply can’t be trusted to be totally honest with yourself just because you told yourself that you will be.

Same goes for everyone else.

And this is when he gets all analytical and diagnostic.

Hairyback says:

I mean, I’m not much of a psychoanalyst, but there’s just this something in our heads; some sort of defense mechanism, that preserves the wellbeing of the self.

There’s a constant tension between what you’re showing everyone as far as the eye can see, and what you really are inside.

After being exposed to the nuclear fallout called life for all this time, it has turned the latter into quite a fucking mess.

Now, the filters in your head; the things telling you what’s conventional and ‘right’, will push this wreck into the top secret part of your head.

But you, being the occasional nosy parker, may find your way into this shady little section.

And just when you’re about to open the Pandora’s box, that’s when this little defense mechanism in your head comes in to stop you.

It will do just about anything to protect you from going postal.

Even if it means covering up the dark and twisted parts of your mind with some nice and pretty lies.

Impaledfish says:

The lecture ended an hour ago, Mr. Freud.

Hairyback says:

You bloody fool, are you even listening?

People actually pay to hear these priceless nuggets of info.

Impaledfish says:

I hear you man.

Loud and clear.

Despite the impossible task to actually fully experience the whole scenario play out in my head, I knew that was what was happening to me. All this; all I’ve written. That’s proof enough.

The screaming started. Laptop curfew was up.

Impaledfish says:

Hey dude, gotta go now.

I’ll go cry and mope in my room now at the pointlessness of my work.

Hairyback says:

Hardy har har.

Send me what you’ve written so far before you go.

Impaledfish says:

You still want to read it?

Shit, who knows, this might actually be the next critically acclaimed work in the world of literature.

I’m not going to let you plagiarize my baby.

Hairyback says:

Hey, if I wanted to plagiarize someone’s work, I’ll pick someone with his brains still intact.

Just send it over.

It’ll give me something to do during office hours anyway.

Like a message in a bottle, I sent it floating across the high speed currents of the electric sea.

Impaledfish says:

Alright, it’s done.

Don’t go getting a brain hemorrhage from reading it, now.

Hairyback says:

Are you being the usual arrogant prick, or am I actually seeing a humble side of Crowley for once?

Impaledfish says:

Sorry to disappoint you, dude; you know me better than that.

My time’s up.

Cheers.

Yeah, that’s where them demons are hiding: the little top secret section in my head. Ironically, the pursuit of literary perfection has brought me back to them. Seems like all the pieces of me I’ve invested in this little book are hiding a deeper, bigger truth about myself that will never see the light of day. A truth that I know will never be exposed unless I rid my head of them demons. And that’s just beyond my means. The most this book can be is the first volume of probably many more diligent, albeit mostly pointless, attempts in the future to get the truth out. Because it’ll always have that tinge of cowardice; that preprogrammed fear of the consequences of letting everything out. But perhaps that ‘something’ in our heads is really doing us a favour by protecting us from what we might see when we do get all them demons out.

Maybe we just can’t handle the truth.

It seems to be the latest trend in town for things to go breaking down. First my head, then my academic life, and now piece by piece this illusion is collapsing. I was slowly being stripped of my trophies and winnings, and this infallible self was dwindling down. Now that I’ve been brought down to my most fundamental level, I wasn’t so sure who I was anymore. A robot gone haywire. Yeah, it might actually be easier to think of myself that way. A machine that was dysfunctional by design. Slightly impaired and severely confused, what becomes of me now? I become what every other thing that wants to keep living but can’t quite be fixed becomes. To always be in repair.

So what now, pack up my bags and walk away from carrying on these words? I can’t walk away now. Not after going this far and putting in this much. Even if it is indeed futile…

I’ll squeeze it for what it’s worth.