The visors showed 2:45, the date was lit in a fluorescent neon light. Apparently, it was march the 15. A night like any other I thought. The sky was nice and clear, void of any premonitions of bad weather, although spring was right around the corner.
The northern spring is not like the one experienced in the countries closer to equator. Springtime where I live consists of a day or two with the sun guiding the plants and wildlife out of hibernation, accompanied by bird song and the laugh of children. The remainder of the time however, it only means that the temperature does no longer allow snow to fall, enveloping my whole existence in a rainy cocoon.
I directed my gaze forward. Looking at no point in particular, I thought of my children. Well, not my children per say. I worked at a school in the neighboring town, commuting home in the weekends. The children were my pupils, but I liked to think of them as my own. After all, I spend more than 6 hours with them a day. I believe, no I'm certain, their parents does not do the same. I experience their highs and their lows. I'm there to comfort them when they get hurt and to smile when they are happy. A troubled bunch, sometimes I have to show them the hammer of adulthood and the nail that is morality.
My thoughts returned to the task ahead, getting home. I estimated it would take me another twenty minutes, though I could be able to do it in fifteen if I walked more briskly.
Resolving that I had all the time in the world I decided to assume a leisurely pace, it was my day off after all. I tucked my hands into the pockets of my blue suede vest craned my neck back and inhaled, taking in the brisk spring air.
I had read an article not too long ago. Though the details were vague, I remembered the main points. A popular article, but based on scholarship, it had really struck me as an inspiring writer. Looking at many intelligent writers, as well as mathematicians, philosophers and other what-one-could-call-smart people, the writer of the article had deduced that many of them were purposeless-walkers. This meant that they would spend ridiculous amount of time walking aimlessly about. I too enjoyed walking towards no point in particular, and not for the exercise mind you. Myself, I had often found that thought and clarity found me most when I was moving, but not if I was hurrying to an appointment or to the next task of my day. My mind had to be completely blank for my mind to start meandering. Often it would take some before the river found a basin and the good stuff came . One of the people in the article, a writer whose name I could not remember at the time, would walk for months on end and doing nothing in particular. Sometimes, he would walk out of his own country and into the next. I was not in his league of course, I had a job and other commitments to attend to.
The watch told me that five minutes had passed, it was now 2:50. Still no sign of rain. The sky was still clear, its monotonous darkness interrupted by the flicker of distant stars and a full moon. I was nearing a set of old wooden houses, the historian in me calculating that they must have survived the second world war. The germans had burned all the fields and houses before they left. Leaving only bedrock and ruin for the survivors to surmise. Therefore, it was rare to see any houses predating the second world war.
The row consisted of five houses, their red and white facades looming out into the street as if casting their watchful gaze on all the passerby's. For no reason in particular I came to think of the Ents in Tolkien's universe. I imagined what stories the houses could tell, but I quickly laughed the idea off. Houses can't speak. I stopped.
All rooms in the houses around me were dark, save one. A silhouette occupied it, too vague too make out. I thought that maybe it was another restless soul like myself and for no reason I approached the window. Drawing nearer I felt a cold, tingling sensation all over my body. My thoughts stopped as well, all I could think of was the silhouette. Was this fear?
Only a yard or so from the window, the mystery only grew. There was no one inside the lit room. The silhouette was a man, mouth agape and eyes screaming shock, but he was not there. Like a photography, the image was glued onto the window, like a mural in the great Gothic Cathedrals of Europe. I thought about this, but found no logical explanation, only fear and uncertainty. My mind was now solely focused on the mysterious window. Could someone have painted such a life-like rendition of a man on their window? If so, for what purpose?
I shrugged. Took a deep breath and exhaled. I closed my eyes and repeated. When I opened them again, the room was dark and the silhouette was gone. The light allowing it to exist quenched. I heard nothing, no footsteps or talking or laughing. It could not be a prank, although children would go to great lengths to terrify adults, it was way past their bedtime. Bedtime for children is not anything like bedtime for adults. They go to bed at fixed time, they can argue and fight, but at a set pint their days end. They do not have a say, unlike adults. I had often caught myself still reading a book, or purposelessly browsing the commercialized channels on my tv when I should have been sound asleep. I looked at my clock again to reassure myself of this fact. 2:53.
The mystery did not cease to perplex me as I continued homewards. I wrestled with my mind. My pace was faster, and the heel of my boot made a hard sharp noise as it fought its way along the concrete. After a while, the restlessness ceased. My breath deepened, I slowed down some and my mind returned to its meandering toil.
I though again on my children. All thirteen of them now sound asleep in their beds, ten year olds know how to sleep. It seems as they grow up their sleep is corrupted gradually. Few of my friends are able to sleep as good as a child. My thoughts returned to myself, all my life I'd had trouble sleeping. My solace constantly interrupted by thoughts, often malign of nature. I felt sad now, and thought back on the lifeless silhouette anchored in the window. A snapshot perhaps? A terrified moment captured and lent to eternity, all the while locked in that same window, terrifying all the passerby's unlucky enough to pass it's gaze. My mind too had snapshots of the same kind.
My feet meandering, through a posh street where all the houses had balconies and gardens which seemed as from a medieval fairytale, I turned left and walked on past a nursery home and a derelict church adorned only by a pack of wild cats and a statue of the suffering Jesus. I stopped at a gas-station, contemplated venturing inside to buy a capri-sun and some tobacco. Looking through the window, I decided that I had not the strength to deal with the clerk, whose face was twisted to show of his inner feelings of hate and anguish. No doubt it was because of the graveyard shift. Further ahead I passed a bridge, the river beneath calm and serene, reflecting the night sky above. I stopped for a moment, looked down at my red Skedline sneakers before adjusting my Harem pants, who had begun to sag due to my long night-time parade. Then I looked at my watch, 3:00 it said, I had used longer than anticipated. Reassured that my body was still there and in perfect order, I leaned over the railing and down into my own reflection.
A snapshot. A man in white robes, sprawled on a marble floor. Laughter accompanied the blood, meandering through the layers of his garments. The image struck me so hard and fast that I almost toppled over. Like a dream, it hit me so fast and when it was gone I could not clearly remember it. I felt chilly and put my hands in my pockets in an attempt to warm them. White and Red. The life of a man. A snapshot. I did not feel like myself. My stroll had been quite out of the ordinary, I felt weird. Egocentrically perhaps, I decided to steer my mind towards me. What would my snapshot look like? Would anyone care? A snapshot of me on March 15. 2015. Would I be happy, Sad? What if a stranger saw my snapshot 1000 years from now, what would he see? What would my children see?
Too many questions and too few answers spurred me on my way? I walked on, consciously trying to put as much determination and power into my stride as I could. I feared the moon might think me a coward and to be honest I was scared. After long I came to the park.
The park was one of those typical to my country. A spot of land, well a very big spot of land flanked by a pond untouched by human hands. I remembered from a tv show that these parks were owned by the whole country. A pretty nice girl, probably in her mid twenties, had led the piece. Nevertheless, the government could not interfere in any way. Therefore, it seemed as if walking into a forest, only a small muddy path hinted at some sort of civilization. It was circumvented by a thick canopy of every tree imaginable, from huge pines to slender ashes, blocking out the sky above. The leaves rustled in the wind, I thought of the Ents again, what were the trees trying to say? My thought turned to civilization. As a major in history I had great experience in dealing with the issue. Civilization is a word as ambiguous as it is useful. Modern scholars argue that civilization is approximately 10.000 years old, originating in the deserts of north-Africa, the middle east and in various places in the Mediterranean. It spread from there, from the conquests of Greece and Rome, through the church doctrine of the middle-ages to the imperial Britain. Now, it encompassed the whole world. Civilization. But civilization is a modern concept. Invented in the 1700's. Does it denote peace and prosperity? Civilized Rome conquered peaceful tribes in barbarian Germania by the sword. Science and Economy? No, the barbarians had those to. They had cities communities and networks of trade. They were fully fledged societies, albeit different in structure and ideals than the "civilizators". Was civilization perhaps the eradication of difference and peculiarity, was it globalism and main stream culture? Or was it just a front, and excuse to cover up all those monstrosities of men. Rome "civilizing" the world by the sword. Britain abolishing public executions to pave way for more "civilizing" punishments, which were often far harsher. A swoosh made my mind jump from its contemplation. I stooped and looked frantically to both sides, hoping for the best, but expecting the worst. My strange stroll was far from over.
"Captain Morgan, at yer' service!", the voice hoarse and thick. I managed only a scream, less manly than I would like, before closing my eyes shut. Children often do this to hide themselves. Children suffer from an illness you see, curable only by age, called joint attention. They assume that for somebody to be perceived, experience must be shared and mutually known to be shared, as it is when two pairs of eyes meet. Thus by closing their eyes, they believe nobody can see them, as they can not see anything. I had also heard some scholars argue that children believe the perceivable world stops existing when they close their eyes, but I could not remember the specifics. What would a blind child do? Anyway, I hoped the children were right.
After a while I dared myself to open my eyes. Me closing my eyes had only delayed the inevitable, it appeared. Before me stood a full fledged, rum-infused, Caribbean pirate just like in the movies. A strange night indeed, the light reflecting of the moon wound it's way through the thick overgrowth casting a gastly radiance on the colorful character in front of me. His sole covered boots were brown, interrupted only by white stitching. They reached all the way to his knees where black and yellow pants took over. A read coat draped over his shoudlers, imbued with a multitude of patches and buttons, I imagined he would have a skull on the backside but I could not see it. An old and moldy white shirt underneath, with holes telling of his many struggles and/or inability to buy a new one. He had a full, black beard, even glistening in the dark and finished the whole ensemble of with a hat akin to that of Jack Sparrow. However, the most curious thing was thing was his face. I can tell you that he was smiling because he was laughing, but I could not make out his features. Just as my mind began to wrap itself around the contours of his face, it would change, throwing me off completely. My eyes started to tear up due to the intense focus, and I resolved not to focus on it anymore, looking instead at those nice brown boots.
Was I dreaming? A vision perhaps? Am I drunk? Or is this real? I dismissed the first by pinching myself, then I touched the pirate. My hand felt cold against the intense heat radiating of off his face. After realizing he had shape I knew, he was real. This was no dream. I was caught in some surreal, magical reality, or perhaps a cos-play meet? I withdrew my hand.
What are you, I asked? my voice weak and high-pitched, betraying my feelings. "Captain Morgan, and you be?". His voice was deep and throaty, arising no doubt from some scarred part of his belly.
- I'm...
- You're?
Strange, I could no longer remember my name
- I'm...uhm
- Well Mate, it matters not who ye are, as long as ye is. Am I right?
- What did you just say? I'm sorry this has been a strange evening for me.
- Are ye okay? I have with me a nice bottle of rum right here, have a swig!
I took the bottle and did as commanded, the rum was foul and damn near burned a hole in my throat, but afterwards an ease felt over me. What time was it?
- What time is it?
- Time. Argh. You wanna know the time?
- Yes, please.
- Well, It'll do ye little good. Yer future has no need for time, and the present does not care, the past is gone, so time there is useless.
Struggling to understand the sudden turning of the conversation I managed only a stare before Morgan continued.
- Have ye been good? How long till you reach home? Where have you been?
- I don't understand.
- What I say is that ye don't seem to be doing so good. Might take it easy till ye get home. You have a wench?
- No, No I don't have "a wench". I only have my parents, but they live an hour train ride away.
I felt sadder all of a sudden. Anyway why did the pirate care?
- Who are you?
- I'm Morgan.
- No, I mean who are you?
- Yar! Depends, some call me a pirate, others an angel. To some I'm a concept, to others I'm real as their wives cunts.
- I don't feel anymore enlightened Mr. Morgan. I'm sorry.
- Well, let us say I'm the forest. That does not matter though, mate. What matters is, you need to stop checking your clock and get on home. Its getting dark, you still have some way to trod.
Suddenly, he was gone. In his place was only the dark, wiry forest. A butterfly whizzed by hovered in the gleams of moonlight remaining before disappearing in the darkness. I looked down. The path seemed narrower now. What was he? I had touched him, but he had just vanished. I checked my surroundings, but there was no trace of him. A thick mist descended on the park chilling me to the core. I stroked my hair, feeling drops of sweat beginning to accumulate on my forehead. My stomach felt thick, it felt like fear. I ran.
While running I thought about the questions asked by the pirate? Where had I been? Why should I get home? Does not time matter? I briskly checked the time. 3.17. I had used a lot of time, I needed to get home. That was probably what he meant to say.
I exited the park and my feet found asphalt again, clicking reassuringly as I took a left through a suburb. the city felt like a maze now. I needed to get home, fast. Why, I did not know, but I had to be home.
After taking a right, I followed the street alongside a row of houses. I would have to take the next left, and then I would be able to see my house. My white wooden house. Simple and elegant. A bathroom, bedroom and a dining room. All I needed. The dining room was were I spent my days, sometimes reading books, other times writing my own. I had a flat screen-tv on the wall next to the sofa, but I rarely used it. How I wished for the bed. How I wished to be safe. I increased my pace, now into a full out olympic 100m sprint. My muscles ached, but I resolved to endure it.
A group of guys stood in the middle of the road. I did not mind them and turned left as I should. My white house, no garden, but a white house. I went to the door. Fumbled for my keys. Placed them in the lock.
- Ey, Mate!
I turned. A baseball bat. Fists. A knife?
The pavement, my pavement kissed my forehead and it all went bright.
In an instant, time stopped. 3.25. Fore me laid my whole life, each minute detail woven together like a great tapestry. I had a happy childhood, growing up in the wealthiest country in the world. My parents had been supporting, but strict when needed, as they should. I had many faults. I envied my brother's success. Took too little regard for my own, even when in school I achieved excellent grades I would never give myself any credit. I had been good, but my faults haunted me ceaselessly, jeopardizing my happiness. I wanted to be perfect. A god to be remembered. This led me to drugs. I tried steroids once, but was caught by my parents and forced to the police station. Hoping for the perfect body, I had worked out till exhaustion and an eating disorder. I was in my mid-twenties now, I lived only for my children. They were not my own.
I drowned the guilt every time I went out. Drunk of my ass , I often did stupid things I would regret. My parents would reprimand me, to the point I stopped talking to them . A never-ending spiral downwards. I dreamed of success and happiness, but found only darkness and guilt.
Then I saw him, Caesar. March 15. 44. B.C. A blood stained toga. A lifeless corpse on a marble slab. A prophecy fulfilled.
In death, his son Augustus fulfilled his adopted fathers will. Caesar alone ruled most of the known world. His dictatorship ensured that his legacy was preserved for generations, through his son he laid the foundation for all of the western world to the modern age. My children knew his name. Would they remember mine?
I thought about Morgan, what he had said about time. In Roman times, the year had 10 months. So naturally it did not add up, months would shift around each year. Time itself was not fixed. The hours varied, not like today where an hour is 60 minutes. No, depending on the amount of sunlight they divided the day up into hours. So the hours changed with the seasons. The "august" (pun intended) Augustus, added two new months two the year making it twelve in total. August after himself and July, after his family the Julii. Time was still not fixed though, and many more changes came about before we arrive at the calendar and clock of our modern age. But does it matter? If we can change time around to our needs, it cannot matter. After all, psychologist argue that all that exists is the very present, not a second ago or a week from now, only now
I looked on my body from above, my mind searched but found no thoughts. My soul meandered away, I saw the silhouette again. It was me, as I had lived. I looked down on my body again. The blood shone ominously in the moonlight. The sky was still clear. I heard the laughter of Caesar's friends, his murderers, or were they mine.
A stream ran silent, but glittering, along a road. It passed under a bridge, by now it was a river. It ended in a lake next to a forest. The moon sat idly in the sky, casting its gloom over the world. It was spring.
Vale!
