Without Warning, I Suddenly Feel Everything

By Matthew Fish

I am alone. The darkness around me is illuminated by a single metal streetlamp that is besieged by common white moths. I watch as they flick about the surface of the bright beam in their rhythmic, phototactic response. I begin to wonder if people are drawn to luminosity the same way as moths. When deprived of light, immersed in total darkness, I have heard that people see things, hallucinations—fabrications of a mind deprived of familiarity and set free of contextual boundaries.
My life may be a hallucination. With everything that I have been through, I would believe this statement if anyone would propose it. Then again, I suppose, this is my problem: I do not know what is real. I feel real. My thoughts seem valid. The rough wooden planks of the pier beneath my bare feet feel the way it should—it makes me feel slightly more grounded. The sound of the waves, with its slow and rhythmic push against the shoreline, carries the familiar sonance that I have heard ever since I was a child. However, I remember the idea that the ocean’s harmony can be replicated by holding a large seashell to one’s ear. When I was young I believed this phenomenon to be some form of magic—like the shell had an audible sense of memory and possessed a longing for the place it once belonged. Now that I think about it, at this moment, I realize how non-magical and sad that idea makes me feel. I realize I want to be back somewhere that I belong. I just do not know if I can ever reach that point mentally or physically again.
After all, I have no clue how I got here. Given that statement, do not mistake this for a story about amnesia, or forgotten memories—it is nothing as simple or complex as that. The best way that I feel that I can explain it is; without warning, I suddenly feel everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Fish
• Release date: Mar 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476454689

Matthew Fish

Matthew Fish is an author/artist from Bloomington, Illinois. His writing reflects his love for nature, and the aspects of life that deal with grief, memories, and sadness while still holding on to that tiny bit of magic and hope left in the world. To contact through hotmail or live messenger: [e-mail]

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Without Warning, I Suddenly Feel Everything

By Matthew Fish

With Ella Isabelline

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Matthew Fish

All Rights Reserved

I am alone. The darkness around me is illuminated by a single metal streetlamp that is besieged by common white moths. I watch as they flick about the surface of the bright beam in their rhythmic, phototactic response. I begin to wonder if people are drawn to luminosity the same way as moths. When deprived of light, immersed in total darkness, I have heard that people see things, hallucinations—fabrications of a mind deprived of familiarity and set free of contextual boundaries.

My life may be a hallucination. With everything that I have been through, I would believe this statement if anyone would propose it. Then again, I suppose, this is my problem: I do not know what is real. I feel real. My thoughts seem valid. The rough wooden planks of the pier beneath my bare feet feel the way it should—it makes me feel slightly more grounded. The sound of the waves, with its slow and rhythmic push against the shoreline, carries the familiar sonance that I have heard ever since I was a child. However, I remember the idea that the ocean’s harmony can be replicated by holding a large seashell to one’s ear. When I was young I believed this phenomenon to be some form of magic—like the shell had an audible sense of memory and possessed a longing for the place it once belonged. Now that I think about it, at this moment, I realize how non-magical and sad that idea makes me feel. I realize I want to be back somewhere that I belong. I just do not know if I can ever reach that point mentally or physically again.

After all, I have no clue how I got here. Given that statement, do not mistake this for a story about amnesia, or forgotten memories—it is nothing as simple or complex as that. The best way that I feel that I can explain it is; without warning, I suddenly feel everything.

When I was a child I used to live by the ocean in Hawaii. The ocean used to terrify me. There was always something in its vastness—the deluge of waves and the overall perceived violence of it all. To me the ocean used to be this loud angry beast that could sweep me away and drown me in an instant. When I was a child I played mostly on the sand—only ever allowing the ocean to touch me in soft flashes of cool water against my bare feet. I never ventured any further.

Now I live in Wisconsin near Lake Michigan. Here there are beaches that, in the summertime, are identical in memory to those of my childhood. I know that anyone who has visited the beaches of Hawaii recently would fervently disagree that these two places carry any resemblance at all. However, my mind is an openly easy thing to deceive. One thing though, is very much different—I no longer fear the sounds of waves or the terror as a child that the massive volume of water would consume me. I now, as many people do, find the sound of waves against the shoreline a simple comfort afforded to my life.

Adding years onto your life adds perspective. Everything changes in both small and mighty ways. For example, I used to dislike onions. I like them now—raw, not cooked. I have never been a fan of cooked onions. I believe it’s a textural thing. Regardless, that small change has occurred—despite my inability to explain why. It just is.

The years have changed my fear of the open water in a much larger way. I wonder if predictability has anything to do with it as there are much more pressing things to be afraid of when one grows older: crime, sickness, rejection, and any other fear we all carry within us. The waves and water offer us a simple, predicable, ending—if we enter it we either swim or drown.

Never being much a swimmer, and probably having a great talent for drowning, I never allow the water to pass over my shoulders. There remains some mystery for me beneath the surface of the water. I imagine it a quiet place where everything is blue and peaceful as waves roll above and the sky is distorted in some magical fashion. If I ever gather the courage to do so, to submerge myself, I worry that I might find disappointment. Does anything in life ever truly live up to the way we dream about it during those long hours of boredom or tedium spent daydreaming about better days—about how things could be? Most of the things that I dream about have not come true yet. So I suppose, I am not one someone should ask.

Character 7

At this point, I would imagine you are wondering if there is any point to this. It is a valid wonderment, after all. For the purpose of my story, just imagine me as any average young man—any John, Tom, Dick, or Harry. Actually let’s just go with John. I’ve never been fond of the name Tom, and Dick and Harry sound more like adjectives than names. My apologies to anyone named Dick or Harry.

It would be far too cliché to ask of you to project the last name Smith upon me. We could go with something dark and moody like Darkstar. However, I instantly regret bringing the idea up. John Darkstar sounds like a terrible porn star actor’s name—my apologies to John Darkstar. Can we agree upon Jonathan Liard? It seems fitting.

I am average looking, maybe slightly above. I am of average height and weight, perhaps slightly less. People always seem to feel that hair color and eye color are important details. For those who are curious, let’s say brown, short, long bangs. As for eye color I have always been partial to green. My father has green eyes.

I am nineteen years young. I am partial to casual looking buttoned up shirts, I like to leave the first few buttons open and jeans that are tighter rather than baggy. I wear a lot of glass beaded bracelets, but only on my left hand as it affects my guitar playing. I enjoy running and art. I like music. I like to read. At this point I am just naming off things everyone likes—generic conversational formalities. Do you like music?

Has anyone ever asked and received No.

Do you know enough about me to exist in your mind? When it comes down to it that is all that essentially matters, right? We all want to be acknowledged in some way. To be rational, there are a lot of people on this planet with us. I think the last time I checked it was almost seven billion. That is a lot of people, each with their own diverse personalities and talents. I think it is a safe assumption to believe that we would all like to stand out in some way—that our existence would be somehow reinforced by others knowing about us. After all, if we are ever truly alone do we exist to anyone other than ourselves?

Thank you for my existence.

At the risk of sounding ever more cliché, my main dream, or goal, in life is to be a singer-songwriter- musician. I know the odds. I might as well just wish that one day I want to be violently struck by a hot flash of lightning. I do not have grand aspirations of copious amounts of fame and beautiful women throwing their genitalia all over my tattooed glorious rock and roll body. I am actually more into new folk than rock and roll, and have no tattoos yet. All I really want is some small amount of recognition—for someone to hear me, my voice, my music, and appreciate what I am trying to say. I just want these calloused fingers and winter days spent writing to amount to something more than just a hobby. I suppose though, that anyone in the same shoes as me wants the exact same dream I do.

My name is Jonathan Liard and I am a dreamer.

In reality, I work at a gas station a few blocks away from my parents’ lakefront home. I walk to work every evening around eight p.m. and work the night shift until about six in the morning. My relief comes just in time for the morning coffee and cigarette rush—which I usually end up staying late to help with. However, I do not mind the overtime.

It is a Monday. Already dressed for work I begin to head out.

You should eat before you head off to work, My mother nags as I pass through the kitchen.

I’m fine, I reply as I grab a few items from the fridge.

A Snickers bar and a Mountain Dew is not an acceptable dinner… My mother says as she shakes her head. At least eat something real on your break.

If I get time for one, I say as I slide my grey shoes on and head out the door. If not I’ll make something when I get back.

You can’t go ten hours on nearly nothing, my father chimes in from behind his evening ritual of burying his head in the newspaper.

I do it four days a week, I say as I head towards the door.

You should be in college, my mother adds.

She always has to add that. It seems to be her ‘go to’ statement every time I head out the door for work. Of course I did terrible in high school. Do I wish I did better? Of course I do. Do I regret it? Not so much. After all, perhaps if I had done better I would not be interested in music as I am now. I could be a completely different person altogether. I could be a douchebag. You never know who you could be if things were different. Then again I feel that you should never regret who you are. Just being aware that you could be someone else and that you always have the capacity to change seems more than reasonable enough to ask of anyone.

I’ll be home in the morning.

It is a warm summer evening as I begin my walk to work. The smell of the lake, a diffused somewhat musty smell that manages to also come off as faintly clean, is carried delicately upon a breeze. I take small bites of the candy bar as faint stars emerge in the hazy sky that is turning from a deep haematic red to a dark aubergine.

A streetlight lights up just as I walk beneath it. I wonder if it is just coincidence or perhaps something more. I entertain the thought that I had some control over it, if I were a superhero it would be the most useless power ever. The smell of gasoline hits me long before I reach the Phillips 66 station. Outside a blue Mustang convertible is being fueled up by a heavy set man who looks to be in his late forties. I stare longingly at the car for a moment—wishing I had one. ‘Just a few more months here,’ I tell myself reassuringly. Then I can afford something, anything, to get me around.

Hey Jonathan, Red Johnson says from behind the gas station counter.

Red is a somewhat disheveled looking man in his late thirties who has a full, slightly un-kept, beard. Rumors are that he has issues with alcohol. However, I do not know if it is purely speculation based upon his looks or retains any basis in reality. He seems to fit the stereotype, and sometimes I cannot discern whether he smells heavily of alcohol or cigar smoke, or even cat piss. All I know for certain is that he is going to be fired in a few days. He has worked here for about ten years—used to be a great worker from what I heard. I suppose that the same way roads and building deteriorate if they are not properly cared for over time, so do people.

Hey Red…were you very busy today?

Slow as fuck man, Red says as reaches for a cigarette in his shirt pocket and places it in his mouth. Can’t wait to get out of here, it’s been about as much fun as watching shit stink.

I do not have the heart to tell Red that I know that his employment here is soon to be at an end. Despite his complaints about the job, I know that he will miss it dearly when it comes down to it. Part of me wonders if he will cry. It is a strange thought to think. However, I place myself in his situation for a moment. He has been here for ten years—this is the life that he knows. In a few days it will be taken away from him and he will have to either adapt or fail. I suppose just like the open water it offers only two possibilities, sink or swim. Still, I cannot help but feel sad. It also puts things into perspective for me. If I am still here, working at this same station in ten years, is Red the person I will become?

Sounds like I am in for an interesting night, I add sarcastically as I smile. I attempt to hide away any indication that I know that he is going to be fired, even though I am certain he would not be able to read it upon me if I did show any sign of unhappiness. He would probably just chalk it up to the boring night that lies ahead of me. Great…

Anyway, Red says as he allows the unlit cigarette to hang from his mouth, I am out, you take it easy man.

Hey Red, I say, just catching him before he exits. I do not know why I feel the need, but an impulse causes me to speak.

…Yeah?

If you could do anything else other than work here—what would you do? I ask as I get my cash drawer ready to count out my change for the overnight shift.

Shit man… If I had the money I’d travel. Can’t do that though, right? Gotta pay bills—one day though, Red says as he laughs and pushes his back against the door and exists. I’ll try not the blow up the tanks as I light this cigarette, no promises though...

I laugh in reply and shake my head. I do not know whether Red’s answer makes me feel any better or not. Perhaps without this job he could find something else, maybe save back some money and eventually follow his dreams—however, it seems unlikely