Limbo
Summer is brief and oppressive. The ceiling of my barracks room gives the illusion of ventilation with pronounced plastic slits grouped together next to a larger unit, drab gray and ineffective. I have a box fan propped against the screen pointed inward toward my bed, a gentle hum that rolls my green blackout curtains. People around me are convinced winter will be especially harsh this year, but I’m impatient. Winter before last I walked off the Patriot1 at the end of March to heavy snowfall. Six months of training behind me and everything I owned crammed into two sea bags. Two years have passed since then, leaving me with a growing sense of displacement. My time is measured by five blue work shirts and five black pairs of boot socks. At the end of the work week, I undress and drop the last pair into my hamper. The following day they’re washed and folded, placed in one of two tediously arranged rows for next week. I never imagined myself becoming so dull.
I stopped dreaming during boot camp and I don’t know why. I fantasized about falling asleep on an overstuffed couch bathed in the soft glow of a large plasma screen and an ever changing cast of friends on the love seat next to me — I hummed Peter, Paul and Mary songs to myself, and punished friends and well intentioned acquaintances with overly emotional letters — and yet, through it all, I couldn’t dream. Each night I cocooned myself in a sour smelling wool blanket and plunged into blackness. That blackness has stayed with me for nearly three years.
The ceiling fan above my mattress matches the rhythm of my heart. Five blunt wooden blades buffet hot air against my mattress, against me. I should consider myself fortunate. I eat enough, have clean running water and steady employment. The adult part of myself pushes me towards fulfilling my daily obligations, but at this point I find it all unbearably peevish. Dreams were once so important to me. They were the cornerstone of my twenties. Between university and a bevy of part-time jobs, I was optimistic. Surrounded by books, worn out running shoes and a carefully cultivated sense of self. I thrived in a way I haven’t since then.
I close my eyes and imagine snow. It gathers in my hair and turns to dew, sparkling with errant light from passing cars. I drive north into the mountains just as the season turns to catch the first snowfall the same way the Japanese admire autumn colors in the same area. Bare trees line a winding road, interrupted by lengths of trails now covered in dead leaves. I stay there for hours watching the snowfall alone. Red Shinto shrines standout from the whiteness as I drive back, framed by low hanging clouds wending their way through distant mountains. A three hour drive that takes me to an even more remote area than where I’ve been living for the past two years.
Sweat outlines my forehead. Air above me slowly circulates down, pressing droplets deeper into my hairline. Outside is bright and lined with large bland buildings, mine being one among many. I live in two nauseating shades of blue that makes everything I own feel out of place. Cheap pressed wood furniture compete for space. It’s all I have and most of it isn’t mine. My car keys are within reach and glimmer from outside light. With them comes a simple coastline and out of the way parks, abandoned except for small signs of life. Simplicity is my lifeline. It’s the difference between drowning and breathing deeply, and most of the time it’s one in the same.
A small plane used by military and their dependents to travel for significantly lower prices than through civilian operated airlines.
