Teetering Hope

As the depths of oceanic struggle fight their carnivorous wars in dark seclusion, an alarm bellows from the heavens. It flashes: red, starry void – red, magnificent starry void. Marine life isn't superstitious and pays little to no attention to superiors. Once the illuminated portion of red sea fades, not a fish will question how or why, nor will any recall the moment. In this minute space of water titled The Atlantic, a cargo ship headed from New York to Greenland has already weathered a horrendous storm and is now, in the night following, sinking from a leaking hull. At this precise moment in time we find a few passengers, and still few (but more numerous) crewmen, hustling in a frantic attempt to save their lives.

How wasteful. Spending what's likely their last moments alive in states of instinct without reflection. They're just like the fish below, swimming through air, solely focused on continued living as opposed to experienced living. This is where I sit, finally free from the torments of conventionality. Perched upon the railing of the upper deck, witnessing anarchy and the members of my own race devolve as my brain feeds my consciousness processed light. I hardly feel amused or intrigued. Rather, my mind traces ambivalently back and forth from thoughts of my past life onward to the serene calm of the night.

Stars, light years away, find themselves rippling in reflection on aqueous waves of a distant planet, thus granting the night an ancient feel of permanence. One transient interruption erupts in tragic glory and I, a coalescence of timeless atoms, am trapped within its raucous vicinity. How I wish to find myself rafting upon one of the nearby icebergs. Escaping at last. Freed from the binds ship life bestows. If I had found myself resting here on any other night during my trudge through many murky years abroad, I would've immediately been reprimanded and sent back underneath. Each member of the crew passing by would've declared, “Get back to your quarters before you get killed out here, old man.” How unkind to the unknown and ostentatiously predictable they all are. But, more importantly, think how strange this moment is. The unshackling I've always longed for only comes as my demise draws near. A fear of death seems to even everyone out, all benefitting from a sort of classlessness, if only for a short while.

I remember living in the Midwest as a child, always dreaming of a life of adventure and travel. The only sea I knew then was the fields of wheat waving in the puffing wind. The wind used to howl on those gold-littered days of summer. The wheat and milo were sent into a shimmer and the fields sprawled out to every horizon. Now, in this frozen landscape of sea, the gold has wilted to white and waves of water flow more treacherous than the fields ever did. Yet here they are, all those people still clinging desperately to life by plunging into lifeboats floating on depths of death. They all clutch at the same strings of consciousness they've spent most of their hours shearing. Even now, as each thread stretches thin, they continue to shear, simply hoping to return to their precious shearing practices of the squandered past.

Down below, my fellow mariners are obeying the orders they've followed their entire lives. Yes, they're heroes for spending their last breaths exhaling on others. But they're hollow heroes who aren't living for themselves and aren't sacrificing peacefully observed lives. I value their existence just as much as my own; we are all equal, subjective experiencers in this life, after all. They've just accepted their lot and therefore are expected to respond in no other way. I however, selfish as it may sound, am inclined to find solace before darkness. Those on the emergency boats won't find safety, merely a struggle unto death. Some may survive; the majority will fall to the bitter waters. The ocean in its expansive grandeur will make the task highly strenuous on all parties. It'll likely take the coastguard at least a day or two to find the wreckage. Additionally, last night's storm sent us too far off course, not to mention knocking out all connection with both mainlands. There's no way our rescuers, either from Greenland or America, will have the necessary coordinates or the means to find us in the dark. Even if the survivors live through the subzero night, their luck in slipping fate another day is even slimmer. By the following nightfall, every life boat will float with unfulfilled intent.

So, each individual spends the remaining
moments of his or her life doing what was ingrained during landlocked civility: They follow. Almost instantaneously, they reject newfound freedom and appoint some to positions of power. Either chosen previously by the hierarchy of the crew, or those of ambition seize the opportunity to self-appoint authority. Nobody questions their dire tones; they simply obey and consciously determine, “If I place my unquestioned faith in someone else, surely I'll survive this disaster,” thereby relinquishing any responsibility for their actions. Of the few families on board, it is witnessed most explicitly. Fathers drag the mothers to their proper places, followed by the mothers ordering their bewildered children to safety (or, in actuality, prolonged death). But isn't life always just one form or another of prolonged death?

I know that once my body reaches the chilled water, I'll die in physical agony, but may my essence flee swiftly. May my memories seethe into the afterlife or quietly dissipate from this world. I'll only truly miss my sweet memories of youth.

I remember spending entire days adventuring out into lengthy fields, searching for small creek beds surrounded by trees. Even at a young age, I was already at peace with nature and sat captivated by every moment of stillness. The intensity of spying on an animal, whether it was a deer or just a small raccoon, fed a craving that pulled me back at every chance. Knowing how serenely life can abide without humans (or other consciousness carnivores, for that matter), I thought about how those animals must find all others as mere nuisances to perpetual peace. These were my fond memories from that time, including moments spent with family and friends.

Work, on the other hand, never appealed to me. I always felt the greatest joys in life were constantly disrupted by work, and this conviction seems to have only grown stronger with each progressing year. Back then, my family worked together on our farm, and we often spent time with each other. Presently, fathers, mothers, and teenage children all work separately, and the youngest are sent to school or daycare for most of the day. Work, back then, joined us all together and made us feel as one: a family.

I aged and eventually moved on from the only town I'd ever known. I would never feel unity of that form again.

My love of travel led me to Chicago, Illinois, where I found work on an assembly line. However, I quickly found that I couldn't handle the repetition any longer. Soon after, I was employed as an engineer at the nearby railroad station. My life at this time didn't allow for stable relationships, neither friends nor girlfriends. Instead of searching for people, I was searching for myself and satisfying a longing for adventure. I found adventure in travel, and while a search for self never ends, I would like to think I made progress during those times. The metal track men labored years over created a crunch in travel times between cities, but my distances traveled still left plenty opportunities to ponder every thought I had many times over. I found perfect comfort chuckling at myself like a quack or even taking both sides of an argument to find where I truly stood or if I stood at all. This freedom of time and thought left me with many of the beliefs I hold today as I breathe in the tundra's prickly air. These strong convictions have led me to my present state. I have founded a life built upon individuality and nothing else. I have followed many tales of existentialism and found solace in my individual discovery, and stayed wary of taking the absurd seriously. These principles helped me survive the passing of both my parents around that time, and established my power over emotions. I have gained the capability of self-sufficiency in an emotionally webbed world.

My life as an engineer traversed incalculable miles and seemingly more places. One of my typical stops was Memphis, Tennessee, where I'd rest for the night, wake, and travel onward. Usually on these stops I'd visit the local tavern, have a few drinks, find my way back to the motel, and prepare for the following day's journey. I followed this regiment every few weeks and discovered interesting people with fantastic tales and strange beliefs. Most days I'd politely chuckle and give them the spoken floor to preach about aliens, anti-Christs, government conspiracies, communists, and the end of the world. However, there were those times when the drink soaked my brain and I'd feverishly argue with a particular man or nearly the entire bar until the moon croaked and the phoenix of the sun emerged. My life followed suit for many years, with empty relationships falling in-between.

My, how those times in my life seem blurred; separate nights merge into one impossibly concerted night of madness. One particular night, however, is propelled to the forefront of my mind's eye, so much so that even thinking about it now pastes a smile upon my chattering lips and a nostalgic tear in a fading heart.

I had arrived in Memphis slightly later
than usual, around five in the afternoon. The sky was kaleidoscopic in a persistent flash of sunset. After rushing to finish my shift, I quickly began preparing myself for the night ahead. The sun tumbled over the horizon an hour before I started my stroll down one of the many busy streets of Memphis. I was searching for any thing or place of intrigue. After nearly a quarter mile of aimless sauntering I spotted a decrepit bar shoved underground. The sign outside was promoting a live show featuring a singer-songwriter by the name of Leslie Moreau. Curiosity reined me towards the ominous building. I had always enjoyed viewing live acts and any form of art, possibly out of my lack of natural talent in any type of artistic endeavors, but I'd never risked my life for such interests. Disregarding the danger I stepped inside to witness the show. Immediately I was taken aback, directly astonished at the beauty of the woman on stage. I found her voice sweet and elegant. Her hair strikingly blonde. Her frame petite, yet without frailty, and her eyes a shimmering blue-green.

At once enrapt in enamor for this delicate woman, my carefully crafted previous beliefs were shed and my individuality disabled. I awkwardly stood stammered without any real idea of where these destructive thoughts could take me. Once I regained a sliver of composure I found a nearby bar stool and absentmindedly fell down upon it, sending two legs teetering upwards then gently returning back to stability. Here I sat in perplexed amazement for nearly an hour before realizing the show was concluding. Panic stricken and flustered, I instantly grew immeasurably warm and itchy. My mind was spinning. I wanted to rise from the stool, rush over to her like a madman, and proclaim my love (for what else swells our emotional threshold to its brink?) to this stranger. Instead, I sat seething in nervous anxiety, appearing as a frozen shell to all others. She politely thanked the crowd to an avalanche of applause. The spotlight abruptly faded, and inversely her shocking appearance was concluded when she vanished quietly and without hesitation. For seconds ticking timelessly, I fluctuated from chasing after her to not risking definite rejection. Sadly, I waited far too long before plunging witlessly into my desperate chase. By the time I made my way outside to frantically search the crowded streets, she had gone. Just as I suspected, I suppose.

Upon awakening the next morning, sore of heart and with thriving pangs to my ego, I replayed a summary of the night before. My realization was crippling. I had unraveled the fabric of my being. Rashly giving up the core of my beliefs without any compensation for the lapse.

The next day I quit my job to remain in Memphis and continue my search. I found work selling merchandise for a nearby market and made enough money pay rent and feed a failing body. The locals at the bar she had played in the previous night knew only as much about her as I did. Every weekend was spent walking the town in search of her show with random abandon.

After a duration of five plagued years, I gave up, and to this day I've never forgiven myself for that night. I've thought many times about the overwhelming emotion of feeling I felt then, at once entwined yet sublime. Driven partially insane by my loss of an essential counterpart, I eventually found myself in a hopelessly squalid form. Once I'd given up, I spent days sleeping without end, showering less and less, followed by moments of such despair that I had wished to end it all, but by some inkling in the small of my mind, I found that I must survive. Likely due to my state of delusional malnutrition, I believed we were incomplete without each other, and thereby couldn't bring myself to strip her of her only chance at a perfected soul. I came to the decision to live, just in case my selfish destruction would bring about her fall as well. This was the sort of delirium I sank to back then. Thankfully, that was many years ago.

Eventually, I gathered enough hatred of Memphis and decided to find my way to the coast, where the ocean waves could crash and cleanse my mind. I settled upon New York City in order to lose myself amongst the masses. I found a job as the cook on a cargo ship and headed out to sea. I've spent many years, far too numerous to count, working on this steel ship. I've reverted back to an existential point of view, and have found that the only way to cure my difficulties is merely to release them and try to find little to no importance in surroundings.

Thus bringing me to my present predicament. I'll simply sink with the ship as though I've commandeered it from assembly on. It's easy to see how trivial most of our lives are, once we're faced with the prospect of death – once we stand on the precipice of the unknown. I have, through much deliberation, prepared myself to face death with poise and a smug smile. Timelines are thinning, and I'm prepared to simply observe the desperation of those on board until our lines snap.

Most of the life boats have been filled, and those who have been directing all the others are finally taking their own turn to abort this life trap, only to settle into another. It's times like these when people don't think; they simply react – fight or flight, if you will.

From my vantage point, one man catches my attention. In the rush of all the others he is hardly visible, being one of the few stationary people on the deck. He, apparently, neither knows how to fly or fight. Instead, the poor man sits hunched on a splintered wooden box, weeping over a picture of importance he holds close to his heart. He seems to know, just as I do, that a voyage on any of those rafts is surely death, so he sits drowning his heart with tears. His life will soon end, and all the love he feels for the picture will wane. At this moment, he has found what life's important mysteries are. Only now, near the end of his life, does he realize what he must do but is incapable. What he should've done, but didn't. And overwhelmed, this man weeps. He cries for a mistaken past and a corrected future he'll never see. But mostly, he just weeps for the eternal separation from a picture, his most desired passion held within the confines of time matted. As I watch this man overturn himself to despair, my mind falls into toil.

Here this mysterious fellow sits begging for his life, for he has much to live for, whereas I, the lost demi-soul, perch above him, seemingly convinced of the helplessness of the current situation. My conviction of hopelessness has effectively barred me from accepting any kind of responsibility for those who die. However, this solid conviction has started to crack at the site of the desperate man below. My being is revealing its true infantile, fragile nature beneath a crusted exterior.

Terrified, I come to a sobering conclusion. I hold direct responsibility for some of these peoples lives, for maybe – just maybe – if I help, some could survive, maybe myself included. I know the miniscule likelihood far more intensely than all others. They have simply reached for any desperate chance at living without brooding. I, on the other hand, understand the imminence of death. I chose to enjoy tranquility until my death, as opposed to the rash decision making of survivalists. (Besides, at any point in my life that pressure had been applied to me, I had unerringly frozen.) Instead, I've made a comfortable life with an uncaring attitude. A life without stress or pressure; essentially, life without failure. But this man, he had not. He led a life full of anxious suffering and was here not for himself, but rather for his picture.

His pitiable situation dampens my heart, and suddenly I find myself a nervous wretch placed on a ledge rather than a barstool. Within his picture frame, I could only imagine staring at myself with the enchanting blonde smiling back at me. I remember how I was then, and I know that I would've surely acted the same as this man had I not aged and found wisdom in loneliness. I feel determined to rise and run down the steps to save this man, but I can't. I am frozen, as is usual for me whenever a serious matter arises. I think back to the night when this fault allowed perfection to slip away into the cool Memphis night. My time has come and gone. I had let my inability to control myself take over, and I've payed for its consequences every day since, learning to unburden myself with a state of carelessness. But through this time spent without her, I have found my own sort of peace. I have even managed to find tranquility with the prospect of death. Even though she never loved me or knew me, she taught me far more about the complexities of life than any book or philosopher. I glimpsed love, lost it, and found comfort without it. This is my story, and it has concluded.

But here is another man's story just beginning. Maybe he has already found that love, and cannot live without it. Just as easily as it could've been a woman in his picture, it could've been his home, his son or daughter, his mother or father, or his pet. For everyone there is a different dire love, and though I've lost mine, he still grips a picture of his. Though I am still wrecked with nerves, I manage to lift myself from the ledge and begin heading absentmindedly down the stairs to this man. Somewhere in my mind, I have finally forgiven myself for staying seated that night in Memphis, and because of this I am capable of moving on to help this man rise from his own binding seat.

As I finally drew near, his eyes, child-like and tearful, drew upwards to meet mine. With vision blurred, he looked at me as though I was a trustworthy father. “Come on, we need to go,” was my simple statement. Deliriously he rose and followed me to one of the life boats, and we both stepped into teetering hope.

Epilogue

Lone Survivor, Cargo Ship Sinks

New York – A cargo ship headed from New York to Greenland sank in the Atlantic yesterday. The ship lost contact with both mainlands after a storm at sea disabled its communication, and the Coastguard was dispatched soon afterward.

On board were 36 people, including both crew members and passengers. Only one survivor was found; he was floating in a life boat near the wreckage, and is currently in critical care at Bellevue Hospital Center in New York City. All others are presumed dead.

International Cargo Inc. will investigate the details of the incident to determine if any faults in the ship's design might have led to its destruction. The safety of all the other cargo ships owned by this company will be inspected as well.

Samuel Shanahan, CEO of International Cargo Inc., has released a statement saying, “This is a very sad day, and I will take personal responsibility to make sure I'm doing all that I can to prevent another disaster, such as this, from happening again.”