The person’s mind and sense of self are the last to fade away. This happens within mere minutes before the final curtain call. No mind. No thoughts. No individual. Weak and helpless, people lay in bed, no longer able to perceive the material world. Their contract is expiring. The world, the society, cannot extract any more value from their lives and so they die. They must die.

He couldn’t understand why anyone would engage in self-destructive behavior knowing the fatal consequence. To save himself a cerebral short circuit, he preferred to explain such sabotage by a virus. The Erysichthon Virus he called it. 

The world was now different than it was fifty years ago. At last, the Order prevailed. Each individual contributed to the prosperity of society, sharing the best of their abilities and eliminating the parasites. Concepts of famine, violence, and injustice ceased to exist. It was an era of certainty and resolution. 

All that was accomplished by people like him, people who knew the price of progress and could sacrifice their paltry individual gains for the greater good. Was she one of those engines of progress? No, of course not. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be lying here, waiting for her time to expire.

“You can no longer speak. The world no longer needs your words,” he said aloud. The eyeballs under her eyelids started trembling. She heard him—no doubt about it—but her destiny was to remain a silent listener. She would never speak again.

He continued to voice his thoughts as he believed she had to hear what he had to say. No matter where she was about to depart to, or whether there were any other worlds beyond this one, truth must be acknowledged. 

“Your words were not consistent with your actions. You repeatedly agreed to be present at the Prioritization Group meetings, but you never showed up. How could you not tell others you wouldn’t be attending? Did you understand how disrespectful you were to those who value their time?

“Or how about your negligence in the workplace? You took the responsibility of providing the upcoming generation with the sifted knowledge database and yet, somehow, you let the notion of desire slip in. Your carelessness was detrimental not only to your career as an educator but to the next generation of our otherwise well-curated society as well. How could you not show remorse?

“But the gravest errors of all—your slanderous questioning of the New Law. It is not to be questioned.” His voice became a steel knife, cutting through her body. 

“The New Law—that fulfills all human needs and lubricates all of our societal mechanisms—is beyond question. You had it all. We gave you everything. Liquids, solids, security, and, the most precious of all, time. And you wasted these gifts.”

He looked around the room. A white cube with nothing but a bed, and yet, it had everything. All the tools, wires, and sensors were hidden. They served their purpose in the most elegant way—functioning properly without being visible. Temperature, humidity, and noise levels were perfectly adjusted so that the human body could function at its full capacity. Even the scent, which couldn’t be detected by his nose, stymied his brain and drowned out the smell of her imminent death. 

“All the amenities you have were created by society, a group of highly functional individuals that I am proud to be a part of. And you… You had the abilities, yet you chose not to contribute. The inconsistency between your words and actions created chaos and accelerated the process of your termination. Nature does not encourage the propagation of destruction. Neither does society. Unproductive life is a waste of resources. Lives that do not benefit society must end.”

He caught himself quoting lines from the New Law. But how else could he convey this beautiful creed to her? His own thoughts had long since faded under the grand wisdom of the Law. He no longer remembered what it was like before mankind found the optimal way of existence, that is cultivating productive members and weeding out the unproductive ones. 

He belonged to the highest caste, the Kreints. Those who were at the forefront of technologies that improved the present and led to a bright future. Always bright, always superior to any times that were before. The other castes, less prestigious and influential—The Gvidilos, The Perantos, and The Instrumentistos—all worked to ensure that the envisioned bright future wouldn’t be hindered. And the Sklavos, the lowest, served them all, without any notion of the future, or the past, as all they had was today and their today was enough for them.

The castes did not interact at work. Any attempt to mix them in the past resulted in low performance, so now every group had their own workspace, nap room, gym, and dining area. How did it happen that their paths, of The Kreint and The Instrumentisto, crossed? A malfunction in the canteen seating. She struck up a conversation swiftly and at ease. She wanted to understand the principle by which the PsychTech department, where he worked, divided individuals’ thoughts that spark actions from those that hinder them. Did they rely on the word “no” detected in their thoughts? Did they take into account the past history of a person’s actions? 

Thus began their friendly relationship, which boiled down to him answering her endless questions. ” ‘No’ is an unreliable word, we look into chemical imbalance,” he had said. “The past does not necessarily predict the future. I’ve been working here for 76 years, how about you?”

It turned out that she had just completed her education. She refused to use the Memorization Chip and was only starting her career at 32. Why she rejected that beautiful piece of technology was beyond him. The world had accumulated so much knowledge that learning the basics took two decades. His predecessors at the PsychTech department gave people the opportunity to expedite the process to three years and thus extended an individual’s career. Although there were occasionally rebels who did not want bits of information to be implanted directly in their brains and preferred to employ their eyes, ears, and touch instead. She was one of them.  She also claimed she picked up a job not because “it was the highest moral thing one could do” but because she created a mission for herself, and to accomplish it she needed to be employed.  

Her frankness, the ease with which she addressed the innermost tenets of his world, thrilled him. In theory, they should have angered him and he should have denounced her to his superiors, but her smile, and curves, tinted his judgment. He could have sworn that her indistinguishable scent, in particular, was the one to blame for his attraction.  

And now, like so many times before back in the dining room, he still found himself unable to move away from her. 

“Two days ago,” he started, almost hoping for some kind of response, “we finished testing a new technology responsible for thought-switching. We’ll liberate people from useless, empty thoughts and confabulations. No longer will there be a broken record in their heads. We’ll be able to use the free space of mind for the creation of cutting-edge technologies. We are moving forward fast and steadily. I am proud of the actions I perform and the results I obtain. Is there anything greater than this?”

Her eyelids were motionless. Even on her deathbed, she was protesting the New Order. He could have stopped moralizing the ungrateful listener who had no chance of changing, but he persisted. Time was running out, and the most important things had not been said. 

“You know how dangerous emotions can be when they are volatile, when there is no control over them? I warned you against your emotional indulgences but you kept exercising your outrage and disaffection, making yourself, and me, miserable. And what did all your offenses, crying, and self-doubts achieve? They ruined your potential and infected mine.” 

He was getting somewhere with his words, but the aim, clearly visible a couple of minutes ago, was now drifting away. He felt tired. Being a man of action, not words, he wasn’t used to much talking. He should have stopped, left the room, and never looked back—there’s so much to invent: Switch for Feelings, Memory Eraser, Conscientiousness Booster—but the unidentified force kept him next to her. If only he could solve that mystery, he would be truly free. 

“I will miss you. I don’t know how I know it. But I sense that with your cessation, I am destined to grow more attached to you. A cruel joke, I imagine.” 

His hands started trembling, and unable to stop his unfortunate physical weakness, he squeezed her hands. Still warm. 

“I must expedite the Switch development for personal reasons. But let’s just keep this to ourselves.” He could have sworn by the New Law that the corners of her mouth twitched.

“Do you remember…? It’s foolish of me to ask knowing that you can’t answer, I know, but I will ask regardless. I remember you used to call me ‘the creator of smiles.’ I used to make you smile, didn’t I? It’s a pity I don’t remember how I did so.” 

He felt thirsty. The hydration level of his body fell below normal and his train of thought weakened. To correct this deviation, he licked his lips and a compartment on the wall next to him opened. He took a glass of water and hastily drank it.

“Do you remember one evening you lured me outside–to a cold, snow-covered street that mercilessly stole away at our bodies’ heat? And what for–to make a snowman? What a futile endeavor. The snowman melted. It always does. But here’s what I didn’t share back then: I enjoyed the very process of creating something from nothing and for nothing. Why? That is so unlike me.”

He felt a shiver in her fingertips. A couple more minutes and those fingers would never twitch again. He leaned to her face. Aware of the madness that possessed his mind, he kissed her. He was ready to renounce all the progress just to feel the reciprocal movement of her lips. Unvoiced desires whirled in his head as unrelenting emotions flooded his chest. What was he doing? There’s nothing to be achieved here but wasting time, standing and holding a soon-to-be corpse. He should return to work. But moving away was beyond his control. His willpower stretched to the limit and bounced back. To her. 

“I loved you.” 

The tone of regret poisoned his confession. He didn’t intend to share this weakness, even less did he mean to turn it into a rebuke. No matter how painful his love was, no matter how inefficient it made his days, he clung to it as if it were the answer to his existence. 

He pulled back. He must not look for answers. All the answers that he ever needed were already provided by the New Law and must not be questioned. 

“I loved you and it made me weak. I cannot afford to be weak. Human fallibility drove the world to the brink of collapse. People nearly exterminated themselves giving into capricious wishes, animal desires, sinusoidal emotions… Our generation is beyond them. We now create great things. We maximize everyone’s potential and prosper. We eliminate regrets. We…”

A fragment of his phrase hung in the air. She was gone. Her chest stopped moving and her jaw fell slightly open. Low-temperature freezing air started to fill the room and thus began the cryonic process. He stared into her young face. That couldn’t be true. He shook her body, trying to trigger its mechanism back to life. He shook himself, trying to stop his tears. He knew her death was coming, he thought he was ready to let her go and proceed with what matters—inventions for people’s prosperity. It couldn’t be that one inept soul, so disorganized, so variant would alter his trajectory of life. 

The truths of the New Law echoed in his head, but they ceased to have power over him. She won. She counterposed his beliefs against his feelings. She weaponized his chemicals against his survival. She accomplished her mission while he lost the dearest he had—answers and her. 

The platitudes he so prickly scattered became empty phrases that never made sense and could have no future. He realized with horror that he, too, had no future. The pain that came with her death had torn through the wall of certainty that the New Order had built in him. He could no longer hide behind its definitive answers and auspicious progress. To go on living, he must question her death and his life’s purpose. And the New Law is not to be questioned.

He failed the test and the account of his days went backward. 

The post Utility appeared first on Anastasia Why.

But that never happened. Instead, the anticipation of approval and encouragement from others only dulled the sense of my creative self. I produced no artwork, but I mastered the art of producing excuses. As a result, I had nothing to show for it and plenty to despise about myself. But is that how it ends?

***

I was most productive as a writer in my teenage years. Despite that tender age, I wasn’t concerned with others’ opinions of my pursuits. Back then, writing poetry, lyrics, and a novel was simply an act of exploration with one goal in mind — to see where my imagination would lead me. No expectations. No comparisons. No fears.

Naturally, the world supported me too. When you’re young, your parents and teachers encourage your pursuit of art. Any primitive painting or half-baked story would be rhapsodized over. But when you enter university, that tune suddenly changes. Practicality and career opportunities come to the forefront and creative ambitions are encouragingly cast aside. My story is no different.

I gave up writing. Studying hard and having a stable job became my top priorities. I had bills to pay and preferred to secure my future. No harm in that. Yet, as I worked to build a secure life and provide for myself, I drifted further away from my aspirations.

I had graduated from university, found a job, and had been living what is considered a normal life. But with the exception of a few paltry short stories, I stopped writing altogether.

Everything would have been fine and I would have gone about my life if it weren’t for that one thing: I kept wanting to be a writer. Inexhaustibly. Greedily. But somehow, and unfortunately, my laziness and self-doubt were stronger than my desire to write.

Instead of using my longing to take the necessary actions (that is sit down and do the work), I justified my inactivity with a bunch of excuses.

“I don’t have time” was one of the more popular ones and it even seemed like a decent reason. I had a full-time job, after all.

This excuse, however, should have been easily refuted. Work takes up about a third of a day, which is a significant portion, but not all of it. Sleep takes up another third. What about the final third? You name it: going out with friends, watching TV, and getting lost in the web of social media profiles. But no, there was no time for the mentally excruciating but incomparably satisfying artistic pursuit.

To expose my hoax, I cited countless people who published novels while working multiple jobs. Particularly, the stories of single mothers like J.K. Rowling and Toni Morrison obliterated my lack-of-time excuse.

“I have no talent,” was another popular self-pitying whine. I was raised on the belief that talent is essential for creative endeavors. Only naturally gifted writers can produce great work. Since I didn’t want to be a mediocre writer (duh) and I didn’t believe I had a talent, I capitulated without resistance.

It would take me years to let go of that impenetrable conviction. I had to intentionally seek out hundreds of examples showing that work can and does surpass talent. The evidence mounted, and when I could no longer arrogantly claim “Talent is all there is to it,” I dropped that excuse.

“There are more important things to do” was an excuse that short-circuited my logic, yet it still prevailed. I kept telling myself that writing was the most important thing to me. Yet when it came to action, I procrastinated hiding behind the necessity of doing laundry, going shopping, or cooking meals. Those routine errands that were not supposed to take up my productive time did so with my explicit permission. I had to get sick of my words not coinciding with my actions for years before moving on.

The cherry on top of my self-inflicted-bunch-of-pitiful-excuses cake was “I can’t afford to pursue writing.” That was a tough one. This excuse had deep psychological roots, making it challenging to dismantle.

I was (and still am) insecure about money. I grew up in a low-income family. Though we weren’t poor, my parents’ modest lifestyle made me realize I couldn’t rely on them for financial support. Instead, I helped them, and that responsibility made me pragmatic.

I became more cognizant of how I spent my time. I was quick to divide all activities I did into “useful” — those that brought or potentially could bring income, and irrelevant, idle activities — those that took time and had no immediate return. Writing, as the frivolous and time-consuming activity it was, had no place in my anxious, productive world.

I had other fears, too. I had the fear that I couldn’t really write, or if I did, it would be poor and I would be poor alongside it. the fear that there would be no audience, or even worse, that if readers were found, I would be ridiculed. In other words, I was afraid of rejection and inadequacy, a fairly common fear when joining the realm of creators. So ubiquitous, in fact, that it’s unseemly to use them as a valid excuse.

As much as I recognized the fear in the face, its power didn’t go away. It diminished but in an annoying manner — enough to discourage me from writing, but not enough to make me give up the idea of becoming a writer altogether. I wanted to create, that desire never went away, but my actions didn’t align with my wants. The more I tried to ignore the pervasive desire to write, the more miserable I was. I felt as if my life was passing me by, and it made me despondent and apathetic.

I actively sought solutions from the outside to resolve my inner conflict. I began to ask my confidants, family, and friends whether I should write. Now I see that a lousy question can only generate a lousy answer. Of course they supported me, fully aware of my zeal, however feeble it was. But I ignored that support as superficial and worthless.

I began to seek out praise and exhortation from strangers who were not afraid to hurt my feelings. Their permission would be unbiased and should provide enough fuel for my writing process, I reasoned. I started posting articles on Medium and social media and had exclusively positive responses. But that resulted in diminishing returns. The hypertrophied praise of my meager efforts devalued its worth. I couldn’t trust such an endorsement and I turned to the final resort.

I contacted authors who had published books and received acclaim. If they would tell me that I was talented, then I should definitely, unapologetically, and ceaselessly write. Lucky me, I got my feedback, but not the kind I expected. No criticism, no praise, no encouragement. Only “if you have to ask, then you shouldn’t.” To my surprise, rather than discourage me, that response set my mind straight.

I realized no amount of praise and prodding would get me to write. Permission from someone doesn’t hold the same weight as permission granted by yourself. To give yourself permission, you must let go of the idea that someone’s approval is a magical force that can set everything right, able to make you let go of your fears, do your work, and believe in yourself.

Only the permission you give yourself removes the fog and sparks the action.

We are complex creatures. We can dig into ourselves for decades and find all sorts of reasons, excuses, and explanations for our behavior. But what we can’t hide behind is our actions, here and now. Their straightforwardness does not lend themselves to psychological analysis. They are brutally transparent and eloquent.

I was extremely dissatisfied with my actions; that being my deliberate avoidance of writing. I grew tired of my fears and excuses. My final straw was realizing that I had wasted so much time seeking permission from people when, at the end of the day, it made no difference.

This train only runs in one direction. Nearing my 30s, I feel more acutely that I can no longer afford to waste my time seeking approval and permission from others. If I want to write that book, that novel, that article, I must act now. It can take years to hone a skill (as I learned in my battle with the concept of ‘talent’) and time passes far too quickly to just sit around idly.

I no longer chase surpassing quality of verse, audience recognition, and monetary revenue. I have reconciled myself to the idea that, quite possibly, they would never come. And this acceptance frees me from the fear of failure.

Failure is the default state of life if we do nothing. But when we keep showing up every day, despite our internal blocks and insecurities, it’s a victory that gives us the power to carry on.

I’m sick of the excuses as well as other psychological traps, such as imposter syndrome, writer’s block, and perfectionism. That doesn’t mean I’ve developed immunity to them. They are part of my ecosystem and, sadly, aren’t going anywhere. But I accept their presence and the pain they cause. Better occasional doubts than perpetual mental anguish.

Now I write every day. Sometimes it’s nonsensical, wacky thoughts that no one will ever see. Sometimes, it’s essays like this one that I hope will reach an audience. Sometimes, it’s ambitious art projects, both frightening and uplifting, that have no delineated destiny. I continue to write even without publications, dithyrambs, or acclaim. This is the state every creator must reach. So deliberating.

I still have my dark moments and weaknesses. I can sit and stare at a blank page calling myself all sorts of names. I avoid reading the stories of young writers who have released books in their 20s. I don’t have a novel in draft. Not even an idea. I constantly hear the voice in my head calling my efforts pathetic and my work mediocre. But I’ve been there, done that. I choose to move on.

My psyche, my personality, my soul, whatever you want to call it, sees writing as one of the most rewarding activities I can do, so I better listen to myself and write. Otherwise I’ll go crazy. The daily ritual of writing heals the wound of inactivity, which had been festering resentment and depression for years. Now I’m on my way out.

***

You may also be seeking support from your family, friends, and loved ones. Praise, acclaim, and respect from the world are certainly welcome, too. And that sweet, ultimate self-esteem booster: a person who you look up to recognizes your work, your contribution to the field. What an honor. A dream come true.

But what if that never happens? What if you leave your half-finished book and stop your creative endeavors because someone doesn’t encourage you to keep going, because others ignore your efforts? Then what? In my experience, it just leads to misery and regret.

We rely too much on the external world for power and ignore the strength within us. We succumb to our weaknesses and it costs us dearly in unfulfilled potential. Waiting for the right moment, the right time, and the right response is a way to avoid responsibility for your inaction. Your laziness. Your self-doubt. I know it because I had my war and I barely made it out mentally fit.

You don’t want to be in that place. And if you are, if you are fighting your battle over whether you should pursue creative work or not, don’t turn to others for an answer. The permission given by someone else is worthless. Your nurtured belief in yourself is worth everything.

I’ll leave you to it.

The post On Writing appeared first on Anastasia Why.

The post On Illusions appeared first on Anastasia Why.

“Where? How?” I ask her.

“Gloves tear,” she answers.

As I look at my mother’s fragile, delicate hands, my heart clenches. These very hands swaddled me before diapers became affordable, mashed my food before baby foods were accessible, and washed, and scrubbed, and scraped away the corollaries of my infant state before I learned to take care of myself. These very hands kept me tidy, healthy, and happy, and only now am I really seeing them.

“Try other types of gloves that are stronger and don’t erode.”

“It’s not just that. Liquid gets in anyway. I have to wear medical gloves and then cleaning gloves on top. It’s inconvenient, but I’m adjusting.”

And she knows a lot about adjusting; too much for a fair taste. During Perestroika, with its ceaseless shortages, she had to learn how to exchange milk coupons for a meat coupon, as well as how to get coupons, to keep us fed. After the collapse of the USSR, when the money devalued and savings evaporated, she had to learn how to sew a coat from drapes and a blouse from curtains, so she could dress us. And then, after numerous economic disruptions, she lost her business and had to take an ungrateful job to support us.

And now, she has lost her country. Her simple but meaningful life. She used to work in the office during the day, cook meals for her family in the evenings, and if she had time left, play the piano. On weekends, she couldn’t rest and, like a whirlwind, cleaned, washed, and ironed around the house. She did it all with care and love for her family. Our home was always filled with coziness and comfort. But now, she doesn’t know if she has a home of her own. Two master’s degrees, forty years working as a metallurgical engineer, and her hopes for a peaceful retirement have been flushed down the other people’s toilets she is scrubbing. That’s her present and foreseeable future.

That said, she doesn’t complain. And sometimes, it gets to the point of absurdity.

“Mom, that burn you have is terribly inflamed! Are you doing something about it?”

“I should. But working every day doesn’t give the wounds time to dry. Maybe I should go to the drugstore. But I don’t speak the language and feel like an idiot.”

My anger at myself, at my mother’s circumstances, and at the government of a country with remnants of its former empire eats at me like the chemicals that eat at my mother’s hands. How many more burns, maimed fates, and irreversible hardships will have to occur before justice prevails?

I don’t believe in justice anymore. But I have hope that everything will take a turn for the better. That the wounds, physical and mental, will heal, and that my mom will not judge herself a failure just because in her 60s she had to move to a foreign country and work a degrading job.

I nestle her hands in my palms and kiss them. What thin, delicate skin. It smells of love and kindness even through chlorine and ammonia. It’s astonishing to me how these delicate hands can beat off all the life’s vicissitudes that came in their way, and how, with just a simple touch, they can send so much care and a sense of belonging that an unfair world can be tolerated.

Mom starts crying, and I start the engine of the car.

“Let’s go. We urgently need to buy waterproof Band-Aids and antibacterial cream. And please, if you need anything, just tell me.”

I’ll cry later tonight. And my mom will cry. We’ll feel each other’s pain, but we’ll also know we’re there for each other, in both good and bad times, hand in hand.

The post A Whirlwind appeared first on Anastasia Why.

I’m scared. My head hurts. Feels like there’s a heart beating in my head. I can’t hear myself. What is it, Mama? I hear the hum of thousands of bells but not my voice. I’m calling for you, Mama, can you hear me?

Can you hear the mosquitoes? They’re buzzing close by. They’re all over my face, in my ears. It’s like going fishing with Daddy over again. Only now there are so many of them. They’re biting me. I can’t stop them. Please! Someone chase them away! I can’t… I can’t do it myself. I don’t know why but I can’t. I can’t feel my arms.

Am I having a bad dream, Mama? But why can I smell then? There are no smells in dreams. I remember a dream where you just took my favorite bilberry pie out of the oven. It was so beautiful, with braided flowers. But it didn’t smell. And there’s no way your pie didn’t smell. And now there’s this bad smell. It makes me sick. It smells like burning. Like when Daddy worked on his car in the garage. But it’s worse now. Mama, where’s Daddy?

The smell tastes bad in my mouth. Like sand. And I know what sand tastes like. Tolya from 2B threw it at me a couple of times. Now I don’t go to the playground when he’s there. Tolya is so mean. But how did I get sand into my mouth? I want to swallow, but I’m scared. I don’t want to eat the sand.

The mosquitoes won’t go away. What time is it? Is it night? It doesn’t look dark. I remember I went to sleep in my bed. But I’m not in bed now. I’m not in my bedroom. I see a desert of gray stones around me. But how did I get here? The stones look heavy and sharp. Some of them are hurting me. Mama, where am I? Where are you? Why does my head hurt?

It’s so dusty. My eyes sting. I want to rub them, but I can’t. I don’t want to close them either. The darkness scares me. If I keep my eyes open, I can see the sun coming through a crack. I feel it on my face. The dust is floating in the light. It looks like tiny stars in the sky. I am covered with them and must be shining like a diamond right now. I’d like to look, but I’m scared to see.

My head hurts when I try to move. What is that? Is it my pink bedspread? It’s torn and pale. And there’s a big red stain on it. And next to it… Polina, is that you? You’re covered in this desert dust. And why do your legs look so weird? I want to cuddle you, but I can’t reach you. I’m sorry. Something’s wrong. I feel so hot, and everything hurts.

But wait… I think I know what happened. If I’m right, it’ll be over soon.

Mama said our lives are different now. She told me about the loud sounds. She called them “sirens”. When I first heard them, I got so scared. They howled and howled. They hurt my ears and made me want to cry. Mama told us if we heard the sirens, we had to run to the basement. I couldn’t even bring any toys. Even you, Polina. She was very strict about it. She said, “It’s a matter of life and death.” Her face looked so sad. But she also said everything would be okay. And Mama knows a lot. So maybe I missed a siren? I was asleep and didn’t go to the basement. But why didn’t I hear the siren? Mama and Grandma didn’t come. They didn’t wake me up. What happened to them? Where are they?

It’s so quiet here now. I don’t even hear the mosquitoes. I’m scared. It’s like when Daddy told Mama he was leaving. Why did he have to go? Where was this “war”? But Mama knew. She cried. And then I cried. And then Grandma cried. We all cried, but Daddy left the next day anyway. I haven’t seen him since.

I want to cry now. But my eyes sting. The warm thing on my face is moving. It’s right by my eye. And the smell, it’s getting worse. It’s in my nose. It’s so strong. Please make it stop! It hurts to breathe. I can’t stand it!

Mama … I want to be like you. But I’m tired. I can’t feel my legs anymore. Where are you? Why don’t you come? Is this a bad dream? I just want to wake up now. I want to see you, Daddy, and Grandma again. He’s coming back … isn’t he? You’re not going to leave me here …?

I hear something. It sounds like thunder. And there’s something else. Like the fireworks. Mama! I’m scared! What is it? It’s getting closer. Lots closer. It’s so loud too… it’s so loud! I …

Ma…

And I never heard anything again.

The post Under the Rubble appeared first on Anastasia Why.

We watch a TV show to temporarily escape the boredom of routine and immerse ourselves in an eventful world. But at the same time, we run away from it, checking our phones and sinking into oblivion while the show is still on.

Where are you now? Reading these lines and trying to make sense of its content, or are you thinking of something unrelated, like what you’re going to do next? Or eat next? Or maybe you just find yourself reaching for your phone or opening a new tab, without realizing it?

There comes a moment when the flow of information pauses. An episode is over, a feed has been reviewed twice and you are at the “You’re all caught up” line. Now what do you do? Escape the emptiness thanks to the auto-play feature of a streaming service or the auto-scroll feature of your conditioned fingers? Or will you dare to stop and face the void?

Emptiness is intimidating. Silence and darkness are fertile grounds for fear and anxiety to grow. Silence reveals your voice, darkness highlights your identity. Your lack of purpose and the futility of your hopes are all the more blatant.

In emptiness, there is no consolation and much less fun. There is you, the unhewn, the unkempt, the uncared for; as you, who is afraid of the darkness and flies into the light like a moth to the flame, are at risk of being burnt out.

What are you going to do? Run further from silence into noise or confront an encompassing feeling of numbness?

How about turning me off? I’m annoying, no doubt about that. It’s totally expectable that you’ll find me confusing and favor another piece of text or video over this one. But as much as I’m annoying and as much as your favorite writer or blogger is a charmer, don’t let us do the heavy lifting and fill your emptiness for you. Why not try, for a change, to do the uncomfortable thing? Turn me off, turn your device off (all of your numerous devices, I should say), and just be alone for an hour or two.

Confronting silence is agonizing. It reveals a void that absorbs any joyful moments of your being. Worst of all, silence, as if denying itself, raises questions that, although left unanswered, emit a lot of noise. Who are you? Why are you doing what you’re doing? Where are you heading and what purpose are you serving? It’s too much to bear for our overfed, media-engorged minds. We are switching off. Or, rather, we are switching on: the screens, the alluring land of possibilities made of millions of colorful pixels.

But then what? Instead of facing the questions that emptiness raises, we help ourselves with another, and another, and another bountiful serving of distraction. Netflix, Spotify, Instagram, and hundreds of other entertainment providers are there waiting for us. Tirelessly. They are what we treat as an antidote to boredom.

Meanwhile, boredom is best treated by accepting it. When we deliberately experience boredom, down to its smallest nuances, to the depths where time ceases to exist and the body loses its form, we’re able to break free from its depressing spell.

In this emptiness, if you’re focused enough, you’ll discover that it’s not nothing. Emptiness is never truly empty. Life pulses through it: shimmering lights in your closed eyes, tweaking sensations at your fingertips, urges of your hidden desires surfacing in your psyche, trepidations of your unspoken hopes in your consciousness.

When you listen to yourself, you fill the void. When you don’t run away from the emptiness, when you don’t fill it with whatever dopamine you put your hands on, it becomes tolerable and sometimes even revelatory.

Achieving inner peace doesn’t require sitting in the lotus position and trying not to think while thinking; it doesn’t require going on a tedious search for meaning; it’s not essential to be in a certain place and to be alone.

Surrender is the key. Accept the truth that the feeling of emptiness will come once in a while. That the sense of futility, meaninglessness, and grief for a life you don’t live the way you want will show up unannounced to block out any hope.

But it’s important to remember that this feeling is only temporary. Life doesn’t tolerate a void, and in a minute, an hour, or a day, you’ll find yourself back in the whirlwind of earthly things with a smile on your face — messages from friends, new episodes of a show, delicious meals. You can use these events to alleviate your numbness and enrich your mundanity.

As long as you’re honest with yourself, as long as you answer the question, “What am I doing right now and why?” you fill your existence with meaning.

Then, even when you turn on Netflix or check your phone, you don’t lose yourself. You know when you avoid life and need outlets for your frustration and you know when to accept life’s hardships and when you’re ready to grow.

You might find that a bit of emptiness actually makes your life fuller.

And now, why not turn off your devices and think about what you’re doing next and why?

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