Luke Alden: Happy Birthday Eternity

Too distant to remember.

I close my eyes and struggle.

My body, it keeps on living, even though my memories, the ones that I thought would be cherished forever, they disappear. Memories replaced by something new. Replaced by football stats and investment earnings.

I love Evaline.

I loved her.

Now, the everyday rot of commitment has taken its toll.

‘We should get back to work.’

This is me. I’m done talking.

‘You’re right.’

And Franklin walks off.

Part of me wants to just stay here. Unmoving and unchanging.

My feet start to carry me. Back to my desk.

Papers shuffle.

Electric lights hum.

Someone coughs.

I’m thinking about what Evaline’s note said. My feet feel weighted.

Entropy.

The tendency for all matter and energy in the universe to evolve toward a state of inert uniformity.

The inevitable and steady deterioration of a system or society.

Everyone is supposed to hate their job.

Everyone is supposed to despise their boss.

Everyone puts a cap on their human experience.

Everyone enjoys assuming that they are at the penultimate stage of human evolution.

We’ve seen all the colors that there are to be seen. We’ve thought of all the ideas. We’ve written all the melodies. We’ve danced all the dances and we’ve heard all the secrets.

There is nothing we haven’t experienced.

The comedy is that we’ve only perceived and imagined the smallest fraction of that which is out there.

The tragedy is that when we live forever, we come to the point where we don’t care if there is anything else to life. We don’t care if there are new things to experience and new perceptions to realize.

I believe there are emotions that no one has felt.

I believe that there are perceptions of time and space that we simply haven’t understood yet.

I believe that we are all ignorant of our own stupidity. Like the barking dog that assumes it is a genius.

At least I think I believe these things.

I just never seem to realize or remember them.

They keep getting lost in the day to day.

My hand is on a table. Clenching the wood grain. I can feel the bumps and grooves and imperfections. They feel perfect and real. My thoughts feels damp with exhaustion. Drowned and pained and labored to the point of disappearance.

I’m at home.

Looking at the wall.

How is it that I’ve done nothing with my life in the last two thousand years?

I fell in love.

I forgot about love.

I got a job.

I fell into routine.

Part of me remembers an echo of a dream that used to exist in my head. Thoughts of changing the world. Thoughts of revolution. Important ideas. Ideas that moved me forward in life.

I haven’t moved forward in centuries.

Perhaps the concept of relativity is right.

Perhaps we all move in a relative stance to the time in which we exist.

Perhaps human beings are fated to only experience so much before they die. Maybe we’ve just stretched and torn the boundaries so badly that eighty years of experience is now stretched out into infinity. Maybe when you’ve experienced all that you can, maybe everything just starts to repeat.

I look at Evaline’s note.

Maybe she’s right.

With her scrawled out handwriting.

Scratched onto the paper in a fit of passion. Her handwriting is alive more than anything else in this house.

Crinkled and pulled back to the brink by a second thought and a shaking hand.

There are only a few words, but they make more sense than anything else in my life. An indictment of my routine. An indictment of my complacency. Now I wonder if these words will change me.

Can I change the course of a river that has dug its bed for the last 2000 years?

Every day I would wake up with Evaline’s hand on my chest. She would make a low grunting noise when my alarm went off. I’d be gone to work before she even got out of bed. I’d kiss her forehead as I left.

After work it was back to home. Evaline would sit in her chair directly to my right, we would watch TV. We would fix dinner. We would talk about nothing in particular. We’d already talked about everything there was to talk about, at least it was assumed that we had.

Occasionally I’d try and kiss Evaline.

She was bored with sex.

I’d take care of my business elsewhere.

After that we’d both go to bed.

I don’t remember ever doing anything else in life. My past is a blur.

There’s a dull ache in my chest where she’s missed, it’s under my ribs and to the left of my lungs. I miss kissing her forehead when I leave to work. Her pouting lips and conversations about nothing, there’s a strange emotion where these things once were.

I try calling her cell phone.

It goes straight to her voicemail.

This is only the third time I’ve tried calling her in the last two days that she’s been gone.

‘Evaline, it’s Ellis, please call me and let me know that you’re ok.’

I have no clue if she’s getting these messages. If she even knows that I’ve been calling. Does the fact that I’ve been calling her prove that I love her?

Routine and love. Were they ever separate? I’m told that it takes us a while to experience romantic love, we have to build up a neurotransmitter in our head called oxytocin. It allows us to long for someone in a way that transcends lust.

It takes several years for us to build this chemical up in our head.

Most people just assume that lust is love.

Some people simply do not have oxytocin neurotransmitters.

Some people take drugs that replace the oxytocin. Drugs so that they can feel ’True Love’.

Perhaps I was just never meant to love.

Perhaps love is unnatural.

Perhaps love is illogical.

Perhaps love is like driving or watching television; conveniences created by modern society, just another vice to keep us in check, to keep us from getting too bored.

My phone rings.

The caller I.D. says that it’s Evaline.

I hold my breath.

There’s a gentle sobbing on the other end of the line.

I look at Evaline’s note. I listen to her soft weeping.

Her note: ‘You forgot how to love me.’

‘Evaline?’

And then there’s a dial tone.

I sit alone at home.

Things feel empty.

I can still smell her perfume.

A few stray hairs are still lying in the bed.

It’s Thursday night.

We used to go dancing on Thursday nights.

‘She called you?’

‘Yeah.’

Franklin looks curious. Intrigued. He’s getting sucked into the drama.

‘What’d she say?’

I’m hesitant to tell him. My lip pulls between my teeth in a sort of nervous tick. My fingers are tapping my desk. My feet are tapping the floor. There is no discernible rhythm, but it’s not for lack of trying.

My only response is ’Don’t worry about it.’

‘Why’d you tell me about this if you don’t want me to worry?’

There’s no real answer. Why does any human being spill emotions out into the open air? Perhaps it’s just a basic cleansing ritual; perhaps it’s just habit and routine. Perhaps it’s biologically imperative that we feel understood by those around us.

Feet tapping.

Fingers tapping.

My stomach has a dull ache. A sort of ache that I’m not familiar with. It pulls at me.

‘Ok, you can worry about it. Just, fuck, I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

And so Franklin goes back to work. I sit at my desk. From the corner of my eye I’m watching him walk away. He seems frustrated. Agitated. Perhaps it’s because I’m not telling him everything. Perhaps it’s because he genuinely cares about me.