He sat comfortably on the yellow chair, with his chest propped up and his hands gently resting on his knees. He put a pillow behind his back for added lumbar support, threw a pair of earbuds in, and began to slowly close his eyes. He took a deep breath. He began to notice the minute intricacies of his nasal passageways, as the way air seems to easily commute through his left nostril when compared to the right. He exhaled with a long and controlled sigh. The sigh paralleled and blended seamlessly with the cosmic yet ghastly sighs of the ambient hums. An assertive soothing voice arises from the ambiance. Her guidance redirected his focus back on the breath, and away from the numerous intrusive thoughts plaguing his mind. Again his mind lingered, like a lost little boy—trying to find his way in the woods.
It is only in these moments, of imposed stillness and focus, that he realizes how much our brains refuse to shut the fuck up. It’s crazy, isn’t it? Our brains never stop running. A lifetime of endless rumination and thinking—a truly hell-like state. Regardless we try. Over and over again. we attempt to liberate our minds from the same shackles that remind us we are slaves to ourselves—That our reality is made up of our past mistakes and a future that will never arrive. That the brighter tomorrow will always be a day ahead. We pray and hope for a day of reckoning, a day that will outshine all days. Needlessly, we fight for a sunrise that we’ll never see. We attempt to unshackle ourselves from the endless pits of entropy, callousness, and pain. Yet, we always seem to fall short of emancipation from this mental prison. He remains stuck and frightened, like the lost little boy he is. Frozen in fear. Scared of what lies deep within—the revelation of our ugliest truths.
To address that fear is to address life itself. It’s to address the fact that we are the slave and the slave master. The one responsible—the one behind the pain. Us. A defying moment of self-reflection. Looking into a mirror and catching the conniving sonofabitch red-handed. It’s him—It’s been him all along.
He would have gotten away with it too if it wasn’t for the soothing voice guiding him through his breath. If it wasn’t for the ghastly hums elevating him into different perspectives. He sees it now. The sunrise. The liberation. Fear becomes warmth, and uncertainty becomes home. The truth lies within that little boy—the truth that no one is ever truly lost forever. We all eventually find our way back home.
The soothing voice stops and the humming begins to fade. He lets out one final sigh before slowly opening his eyes and looking at the four walls around him. He plops out the pair of earbuds and gives a good, long stretch overhead. He begins to rise, leaving the comfortable yellow chair behind. “I’m home” he quietly whispers to himself. He was home.
I think about that little boy from time to time. I think about how frightened he was during his journey back from the woods. How so many times he believed he would never find his way back. True emancipation begins by recognizing the prison we are in, and knowing we are the only ones who can free us. That little boy was never really lost—he was just finding his way back home.