Of Time and Faking It

     Filmmakers are able to capture and convey the illusion of a heart-stopping moment. They can make time stand still by precise placement of light and echo of sound. But you can only appreciate the genius of the scene if you've experienced it in real life and you have some basis for judging the realism of the acting, direction, cinematography, and sound.

     There are, as well, rare moments when the relativity of time is so vivid in real life that one feels that it could be swatted out of the way or dragged into focus with the right amount of concentration. Certain aspects of one’s environment slow down; others blur. Still other things fade out altogether like light left behind by a speeding spacecraft.

     By Sunday, I felt weary from long days of lingering rain and cool air. Heavy fog snuck in my open window and tumbled into bed with me while the sun clawed its way over the horizon. A few optimistic songbirds cheered the rising light, but blanketing clouds and sharp pellets of spring mist soon scattered both the sun and sound. Another day arrived amidst the whispers of wetted leaves.

     The morning fell away, quick and heavy, like wet cardboard left beneath an open window. I felt the tacky, damp uncomfortable scraps of soggy air, and my shoulders shuddered to slough the feeling off as duty set my pace.

     I swallowed pills for my breakfast before heading out in hope that some small sliver of the uninvited feelings might be waylaid and distracted if I could only clear or cloud my mind. I used drugs as a coward uses a blindfold before the firing squad.

     The odd thing about relativity is that it also offers safe harbor.

     I settled into a bizarre routine that day. I felt detached from my surroundings: detached from the ground I walked on, detached from my own skin. And though I was still compelled to greet the same people on the street that I always greeted, half of them looked through me. The other half was yet again divided between those who smiled and said hello (as ever) and those who scowled.

     Throughout, my mind revolved around an ache in my chest while my ears echoed with all my unsaid words, all my unshed scales. I’d hardly ate or paused or slept from the swirl in my brain, but through pain came clarity. I would take it as a lens through which to henceforth examine my life.

     Thus I went about my business examining each action, habit, and process and pushed myself to wonder if I were faking it. Was I faking my way through scant and skimpy meals, through roughshod work, through each very ordinary conversation that punctuated the hours? Did I genuinely care about the health of every person that I how-do-you-do’d? Did that even really matter?

     When I got home again, exhausted, I slept all the rest of the afternoon. Early in the evening, before twilight, I woke heavy and sluggish and absolutely ravenous. I lay suspended outside of time and place for several moments as each sense processed the world around me. The smell of damp air and the familiar musty mattress, the sound of chickadees chasing each other around the feeder- spreading seed on the ground for squirrels to enjoy - and the aches of a weary body too long at rest: stiff neck, slow knees, and a dull need to pee. I felt my sticky tongue drag against my lips as I rolled over onto my back and scratched my stomach.

     Moments later, before I knew I had decided to get up, I found myself in the bathroom with one long narrow window high up on the wall. Through it I could count the tarrying clouds on a single hand. All the pinks and reds and oranges lit them up like neon petals floating across the sky. The light dimmed as evening gathered her skirts for a sweeping exit over the edge of the horizon, ducking out to offer me privacy and stillness.