Eternity

         He woke up aching and bruised. “Where am I? What happened?” drifted through his head as he opened his eyes. Nothing. He blinked a couple times to make sure. Still nothing. Suddenly, a ringing noise permeated through his head. He rubbed his forehead for a couple seconds. A loud squeaking noise filled the air, causing the man to put his hands to his ears in pain. It stopped. He had the feeling that something was moving in the inescapable darkness. He groped about for walls, or really for anything, but nothing was there. He finally found a way to stand up and continued to look about, hoping that his eyes would soon settle. Meanwhile, a low scraping sound was getting louder, and slowly but surely light was spilling out around the man. As the room lit up, the man searched for familiar surroundings. He found none. What he saw was white enveloping black. Light overtaking dark. He turned around to find that he was standing in front of two immeasurably large doors. Doors that were black as night and whose height seemed never to end. He looked past the doors to find…nothing. Nothing except white. His dark silhouette was an impossibly small speck in all of it. Meanwhile, the light continued to devour the darkness, until he found himself completely engulfed.
         He suddenly felt better. The aches and bruises were gone, and his mind was clear. Before, he had been unsure of what to think of the whole spectacle. But now, everything was so obvious. He understood it all. His eyes began to settle. Basking in his new found knowledge, he took the first step.

He was dying. It was so obvious, the fact that he was dying, yet those close to him refused to admit it. They sat with him, talked with him, read to him, really, they did anything he wanted except the one thing he most desired: to admit that he was dying.
         He lay on the bed that he would die in, helpless, hopeless and lifeless. He was practicing, he liked to tell himself as a joke, letting out a rueful laugh every time he thought of it. His arms hung limply at his side, his legs were straight, immovable pillars. Not pillars of strength, though, more like pillars of salt: ready to crumble at any moment. Everything ached, and his back and sides were bruised. There was nothing anyone could do to ease the physical suffering. But the mental agony, that was different. Tell him that he was dying, and set him free. Those universal questions that every human grapples with were no longer relevant to him. As he lay on the brink of the abyss, all he truly wanted was a true friend. All he wanted was to not be alone in death. Someone to own up to it, to look him straight in the eye and tell him that he was going to go, but they would soon be following. The purpose and meaning of life had no resonance with a dying man. The afterlife, well, that came after death, he would deal with that when he came to it.
         Death was something entirely different, yet something entirely normal. Every person went or will go through it, yet no one lives to speak of it. The living look upon it as cold, as strange, as wrong. Would the process of death be as profoundly pointless as the process of life? Or would death be the key to meaning? What meaning, he wondered. Why does there always have to be meaning? Death is a process like life, yet totally opposite. In its complete difference to life, there was also an unbreakable connection to it. A bond that only absolute and complete opposites share. Good and evil. Right and wrong. Peanut butter and jelly. He wanted a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
         The moment was coming soon. He felt it bearing down on him. He finally realized that he couldn’t share it, it was a moment all his own, uniquely his, and he would own it.
         The last breath quietly escaped from his lungs. It made its way up and out of his mouth, waving goodbye as it mingled with the stale air of his room.

         He was an important man, at least in his own mind. Sitting in an uncomfortable chair, in an uncomfortable position, he reflected on how important he was, going over every last detail. To be honest, something in him told him he was actually quite unimportant and uninteresting, but he stifled that thought continually, because to allow it to slip into his conscious would be to admit defeat. Defeat at whose hands? Defeat at what? These questions also did not see the light of day, because they would force him to think about something other than his immediate wants and needs. That was something that he did not want.
         He was quite proud of his family. A wife, two daughters, and, of course, a son. More specifically, a wife who persistently nagged him and spent his money, two daughters who dated too many boys and spent his money, and, of course, a son who showed no interest in anything that would translate into traditional success and spent his money. These were facts that he did not linger on, because to do so would be to confront some pretty uncomfortable truths. For example, that his life wasn’t perfect; wasn’t even close to being perfect.
         His son was walking across the stage. The man smiled as his son reached out and took the diploma. He graduated from high school. Success. Success for his son, but, more importantly, for himself. He had done a great job raising him. He smiled and clapped as his son walked offstage and the next student accepted their diploma.
         In his mind, he flipped through all the memories and images of he and his son together. There was that time at the park, when he taught the boy to play tennis. Oh, and the first time they watched the Super Bowl together, when he had affectionately rubbed the top of the boy’s head. He could see himself, so young, so proud, so successful. The boy had looked up to him then, as he still does now.
         
         He was in school. He sat in the back of a classroom, hand supporting head that was angled toward the corner of the ceiling. The other hand was doodling and scribbling thoughts in his notebook. Thoughts of what he would do after college flooded his head. He wouldn’t be a nobody like his father. He would be the man, the greatest, the visionary. He wasn’t sure if he had enough money to finish school, but he wasn’t too worried, because he had just taken a job to help pay for it. He was proud of himself, proud of what he had been able to accomplish so far. What he accomplished so far wasn’t anything in the traditional, physical sense, but he had made headway in his head with those universal questions that haunt every person. That they haunt every person wasn’t something that he was too sure about. He liked to think that he was the only one thinking about those universal questions, and he felt superior because of this.
         He considered himself an idealist. Someone who deals in the realm of ideas. A visionary, really. He knew that he would discover the meaning and purpose of life; he knew that this was the meaning and purpose of his life. He would change the world. Singlehandedly. By himself. And he would be humble and kind when the world thanked him. He would not let any of his success get to his head.
         He lifted his head to see if anything he was missing was something he needed to know. Then he remembered, and he scoffed. He didn’t need to know anything from anyone. He would learn things himself, teach himself to learn things himself. He reflected with pride that he never listened. This was beneath him, the visionary. To listen and learn from others would detract from his ultimate success: the solving of all those pesky universal questions. He would not be influenced or helped in any way. He didn’t need anyone. He didn’t want anyone.

         He was a mess. He stood in the muddy yard, hands and tongue outstretched to catch any little droplet of rain that was brave enough to fall his way. There was nothing in his head, nothing, that is, except thoughts on how to satisfy all his immediate cravings. Right now, he was satisfying the craving to get wet and dirty. He imagined the look on his mother’s face when he walked into the house. That made him smile. When he got hungry, he would go inside and nag his mother to make him food. When he got sick of being wet and dirty, he would nag his mother to give him a bath. When he got tired, he would nag his mother to put him to bed.
         He realized that he was an all-powerful entity, and decided that he would try to be benevolent in the use of his powers. Except for those rare times when he would want something, then it would be any means possible.
         He lay down in the mud. His arms and legs moved rhythmically up and down, to and fro, in an attempt to make mud angels. His whole life was ahead of him, but he didn’t really think about that. He wanted to grow up, but only because he knew that he could satisfy his desires all the quicker if he was older. Grown-ups always get listened to.
         He wanted to be Superman. Well, not exactly Superman, but a better version of Superman. He decided that he wouldn’t have any weaknesses, not even kryptonite. He would go around saving people, stopping crimes and being a national hero. Everyone would love him, everyone would give him things. He smiled a muddy smile when he thought of all the good times he would have.

         He was being pushed. Pushed out. Forced out of his comfy, warm little home. There was so much pressure. Pressure to leave, pressure to live, pressure to love this person that he would soon come into contact with. His head was out, never to see his trusty little home ever again. Never to see anything, it seemed to him, except a blinding white light. It was so bright, too bright. He closed his eyes in pain, but the light shined through, although it was a dimmer version.
         His arms were out. He waved them around and clenched his fists. This was to show his anger and displeasure to whoever was doing this to him. Someone was holding him, supporting his back. He did not like this, did not think it was necessary. He could do things himself, it’s not like he was totally helpless.
         What is this new life going to be like? Will I fit into this new world? These questions bothered him, and while he was preoccupied, his legs came out and he was completely enveloped by cold air and bright lights and loud noises. Someone cut the rope, the cord that had been his last link to his home. He looked longingly in its direction. Goodbye, my old home, I suppose its time to see the new one.
         Someone wrapped him in something that was warm, but also a little itchy, similar to his old home, but a little different. He could live with that, he guessed. Suddenly he was being held by someone else, someone who he felt an instant connection to. He looked into the eyes, those big blue eyes. They were his eyes. He saw the kindly smile, his smile. He was being held by himself. He couldn’t figure out how this was possible, but then again, he reflected, he wouldn’t be remembering any of this anyway.

         He woke up refreshed. “Where am I? What happened?” drifted through his head as he opened his eyes. Thoughts and memories rushed in. He smiled. The truth, it was still there. Suddenly, a ringing noise permeated through his head. He rubbed his forehead for a couple seconds. A quiet, almost undetectable squeaking noise filled the air, causing the man to strain his ears to find out where it was coming from. It stopped. He had the feeling that something was moving in the inescapable whiteness. He groped about for walls, or really for anything, but nothing was there. He finally found a way to stand up and continued to look about, hoping that his eyes would soon focus. Meanwhile, a low scraping sound was getting louder, and slowly but surely darkness was spilling out around the man. As the room got dimmer, the man searched for familiar surroundings. He found none. What he saw was black enveloping white. Dark overtaking light. He turned around to find that he was standing in front of two immeasurably large doors. Doors that were white as the brightest fluorescent light and whose height seemed never to end. He looked past the doors to find…nothing. Nothing except black. His light silhouette was an impossibly small speck in it all. Meanwhile, the dark continued to devour the light, until he found himself completely engulfed.
         He suddenly felt sick. His arms and legs started to ache, his back felt bruised and his mind was cloudy. Before, he had been so sure of himself, of what he was and what everything else was. But now, everything was so difficult and confusing. He couldn’t understand any of it. His eyes began to focus. Doubtful yet curious of what lay beyond, he took the first step.