A failing physique, and periods of confusion, render reality increasingly impenetrable. His world reduced to claustrophobic, grey walls, a mostly sightless window, and the incessant beeping and wheezing of a mattress designed to shift and release. No prospect of significant improvement. No meaningful respite from the pain. And yet…
On the eve of his 94th birthday, as Eric’s hopes of restoring his youthful zeal diminish, he turns steadily inwards. His potent mind buzzing with a lifetime of memories. From epic journeys upon sea ships visiting strange lands to starships adorning set-dressings in TV land, he has many a tale to regale his sons, their wives, and a multitude of grandkids. And anyone else who cares to listen. A life well lived providing a vibrant colour-palette with which to mask the grim reality of his now.
In quieter times, his gaze seeks solace in the images of his true love - no longer of this mortal plane, but very much alive in him. He whispers gentle words of loving devotion and assurance to her, the anticipated reunion evident in his peaceful demeanour.
Today, Eric straddles his inner and outer realms, a broad smile lighting up the room. His eyes dance with the sheer joy of watching nature’s pantomime. He’s caught a glimpse of gorillas in the trees, their swaying, leaf-laden limbs moving in and out of view, animated by a stiff Irish Sea breeze. The big bruiser of a male sits nonchalantly, high within the canopy, surveilling his mate gently cradling their newborn. Simian life playing out before Eric’s wondering eyes, eliciting squeals of unabashed joy. Without warning, a gallop of racehorses comes crashing through the scene, chasing an ill-defined finish line across the shifting leaf-scape. A delight to behold, and enthusiastically shared.
It matters not whether such whimsy is a patchworked reliving of distant memories, or the product of a fertile imagination. Even as the sands of time slip away, Eric dreams of youth and vigour, and of a life beyond the four grey walls. And he dreams of his long-lost love. It’s the ultimate escape. It’s Eric’s escape.
But dreaming isn’t the preserve of the elderly and infirm.
Children are corralled into ‘preparatory’ schools, creativity and exploration stymied by unquestioning obedience. Extended teaching hours and shortened holidays are waiting in the wings. Human essence quashed in readiness for a lifetime of work. Of servitude.
If only we could see the futility of an indentured existence. Our vitality squandered in a grey, uninspiring box of communal despair. No respite from the expense of living, so no prospect of improvement.
But, what price our very life’s breath? Our precious, irreplaceable time? Our prime?
I doubt many of us dream of decades serving in a generic gulag, personal neglect leading to ill-health of every kind, working ourselves into an early, miserable grave. And yet we resign ourselves to it like pre-determined fate. Why do we torment ourselves by conforming to such madness?
Because, to step off the conveyor belt is to risk everything. We have just enough to want more, but remain beholden. Never enough to escape the shackles, but seeds of hope are sewn to propagate aspiration and mitigate abject despair.
I’ve been dipping my toes back in conventional work of late because I’m afraid to believe in my dreams. To put faith and trust in something so seemingly intangible. There are mouths to feed, and bills to pay – simple non-negotiables. But, my conscious mind is subverted when I put pen to paper. An altered state painting pictures with unscripted words, channelling thoughts from deep within my soul. There is ecstasy within this release, the joy and wonder of reading it back akin to watching gorillas in a dancing tree. But no imminent remuneration.
How do we square the circle of this universal conundrum?
We choose to live.
There is no mercy in prolonging the misery, so we lift our heads from our stumbling gait, and embrace our precious life, by acknowledging our heart’s desire, and dreaming of making it real. Perhaps the old adage is true; if we can dream it, we can achieve it. There really is only one way to find out…
The light is fading from Eric’s eyes, his soul yearning for merciful release. His final flourish a message to us all - carpe diem.
Before it’s too late.
***
4 years to find your feet and
14 years of aptitude,
3 years to hone your skills and
50 years of servitude,
Now your time is all but done;
The lure of perpetual quietude.
Dare to break the cycle,
And dream a little dream.
Something to satisfy your soul
As you dip your toes in life’s stream.