To what do I owe this fleeting glimpse into a distant
reality? Each new smell sparks the
nostalgia of hazy memories that I cannot for sure say I have ever actually
experienced. Parallels can be drawn, but
they twist and turn into a helix so complex it cannot be untangled.
Sights and sounds seem surreal; they flicker and buzz in a
blurred web of fading nothingness. But
still there is something in these hills:
something very real about these trees and ferns, these rivers and
valleys; something so real that it extends to the bounds of the universe then
travels back again only to disappear.
How long has it been since I have seen another human face or
pulled the sweet smell of pears roasting on the fire pit into my nostrils. Days months and years merge seamlessly
together into an eternal lifetime then revert back to a single moment before
the spirit escapes the body for a brief tour of the universe. And what fathomless secrets did my spirit
uncover while it was on its grand exodus?
It cannot accurately remember – or maybe it just refuses to tell me!
Days and nights pass me by like the leaf fluttering in the
autumn breeze. I used to keep track of
the winter seasons but have since lost count after the 20th; I’ve
seen at least nine more pass me by, then again it could have been 12. Time seems to matter less and less when your
only concern is finding dinner – or not becoming that of the wolves. My old legs may not carry me as agilely as
they once have, but my club arm is still powerful. The wolves discovered that the hard way
on one of their hunts; now it seems they check in on
me every so often to see if I still stir.
Even so, the wolves have become my only companions as my old acquaintances
fell through the disintegrating web of a distant past life.
But still, for how hard as I’ve tried to avoid it, I
continuously find myself trapped in this memory web, struggling for freedom
against the bonds of the past, disrupting the delicate webbing and letting
loose the ghosts of forgotten faces and battles. And now they’ve chased me across the plains
into these hills where I’ve attempted to create my wooden sanctuary. Ah, but this beautiful forest has become my
forked palace; my retreat by day but my prison by night. You see, each sunset the memories and ghosts
return to terrorize me; coming back to life and playing out before my horror
stricken eyes. There is no escaping this
nightmare, no wake from this horrible dream, no repose from these coercing
illusions, for this is my reality and each evening it reoccurs.
At first I thought I could contribute the madness to my old
age; however only now in my self imposed exile have I been able to explore the
deepest chasms of my infected mind - and my diagnosis reveals no cure. I now understand I have been stricken with a
disease that has manifested itself over my entire life. But please, do not think of me as another mad
old man, for I once was a very impressive individual. I discovered in my 7th year that
I alone was different from all the rest.
Perhaps it best if I start from the beginning:
Jason Cholewa, Ph.D.
