Escaping Destiny

By M. Janson

Paul can no longer ignore whispers of dissatisfaction, calling on him to make a major shift in his life trajectory. He was always one to follow the rules, play it safe and constantly exist in the background of his own life. Work, friends and conversations are more and more blending together into a single, monotonous experience that he repeats on a daily basis. At first he struggles to make sense of his discontent, trying his best to navigate through a seemingly careless world.

Then, a chance meeting with a woman ultimately changes his life forever, igniting an unstoppable momentum within Paul. As he learns to open his heart, he meets people that challenge his unconscious belief that he is pre-destined to a life with little significance. His spiritual journey igniting from these events take him to exotic places, including that within himself which directs him to cultivate a rich, meaningful life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Dec 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504347341

M. Janson

M. Janson has a master's degree in science from the University of Southern California. Formally trained and working in the pharmaceutical industry, he balances his life with spirituality, friends, and family. He enjoys writing stories and sharing events in his life that have cultivated his nonphysical self. He resides in Northern California with his family.

Book preview

One

Chapter 1

F lashes of light glimmer against a stark black background—each a star that is hundreds or thousands of light-years away. They glow as if to call out for attention. Some transition ever so slowly from white to blue to red, so subtle that they are nearly imperceptible. If looking closely enough and with a keen sense, one can detect light patches of cloudiness—more clusters of stars at the edges of this galaxy. Their light struggles throughout the vast space to make its way over. Everything lends itself to a calm stillness that empties the mind to make space for something bigger than all of this.

Paul, I’m gonna need those Emerson reports before lunch, a woman’s voice interrupts. Paul is fixated on the screensaver of his computer. He is leaning forward slightly, seemingly hypnotized by the starry background. In his thirties, Paul has a thin build and is neatly dressed, wearing dark slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a tie that he loosened at some point during his morning. Paul, do you hear me? asks the woman, this time her voice louder. Paul quickly turns his head and then looks up, somewhat puzzled to see her. His face has a subtle sadness that becomes more evident as he looks at her.

Uh, yes? he asks.

Paul, I just asked you for the Emerson report. Have it to me before lunch, she replies, slightly irritated, and then briskly walks off, disappearing into the distance in a sea of fabric-walled cubicles.

Fuck, Paul whispers to himself. He shakes the computer mouse a few times to take the screen out of saver mode. It flashes white on his face and reflects off his glasses. He loosens his tie a bit more and leans back in his chair, pushing back his jet-black hair from his forehead and holding it there while looking up at the ceiling tiles. Now that he is back to reality, he can hear the collective chatter of his coworkers that coalesces into an unsettling background noise. Phones ring, papers print, keys frantically click on keyboards, people walk by his cubicle. He thinks to himself, What am I doing here? No…why am I here? He blindly stares at the tiles of the ceiling.

Chapter 2

S o if you would, how would you do it?

I don’t know. He thinks for a few seconds and then says, Probably drowning.

Wouldn’t you want something quicker? I mean, how would that even work?

Paul doesn’t answer. The two men sit in silence at a table in a restaurant, the only customers there. A waitress scurries by and disappears behind a swinging door into a fluorescent kitchen. The other man at the table, Sam, begins curling the edge of the cocktail napkin under his beer. Sam is also in his thirties, slightly overweight, but is well concealed under his oversized plaid shirt. His brown beard covers the bottom of his boyish face. His eyes focus on his fingers working the napkin.

Sam breaks the silence. So I wonder what makes someone choose the type of suicide they go with. Like, how does someone decide if they wanna take pills, or jump off a building, or slit their wrists?

Paul looks back at him, thinking. Maybe it’s the amount of pain they think they deserve. Or maybe it’s based on something they’ve experienced in their lives at some point. Like someone who jumps off a building—maybe he experienced his life like it was always moving down, like he was always falling into an abyss. Paul gazes to the other side of the restaurant.

"You know, I used to dream as a kid of being an astronaut. That’s all I wanted to be. I had these space posters all over my walls, and I’d spend all this time reading about space and the planets and all that stuff. I was kinda obsessed. No, I was obsessed. I just wanted to see what was out there, what was beyond what’s here. You know, all this, he says, waving his hand. It seemed so huge, so infinitely huge, and there was all this possibility I associated with that. Like, it … excited me. I had hope about things. I actually felt excited about the thought of there being so much more to life.

But now I don’t think like that. I lost that dream to be an astronaut. I don’t remember when I told myself that it was ridiculous to want to be that. It’s like I lost my passion. Not just for that, but for almost everything. And now … now I don’t think about what’s beyond Earth, beyond here. It’s the opposite, actually. I feel like I’m sinking into its center—like things are closing in on me, suffocating me.

"Oh … so how would I do it?" Sam asks out loud, uncomfortable, trying his best to keep Paul from going on.

I don’t know. I keep having this dream. I can’t sleep lately, so I’ve been taking Ambien to help me. So I’m dreaming, and I had just fallen off this small boat. It’s made of wood, and there’re two paddles. It always starts off right as I’m falling into the water too. I don’t know how I fall over. And then I’m sinking, but, like, very, very slowly, and my eyes are open the whole time, looking up, watching the bottom of the boat getting smaller. It almost looks like it’s rising away from me. It’s so detailed. I can actually picture it now. But I can’t move my arms and legs fast enough to swim, and something is drawing me down—an inescapable gravity. And then I get a terrible sense of something. This horrible feeling like something is coming for me, but not like a shark or anything that we’ve ever seen before. The water’s really dark, and there’s total silence, and I’m going down slowly, holding my breath. And I look up again, and I can see small, glimmering lights above me, around where my boat was. There’re people there. I’m still sinking, but they don’t notice. I can tell they’re just going about doing whatever—swimming and fishing and playing around. No one can see or hear me. And I realize what the horrible feeling is. I just feel so incredibly alone, and no one even knows that I’m struggling under the surface. And that is what is rising from the bottom to get me: total desolation while in the presence of people. And then that’s it. I never know what happens to me. I always wake up before anything else does.

Both men stare across the table at each other. The silence is peppered with the sound of dishes being collected by the wait staff until the pause becomes awkward.

I don’t think those sleeping pills are working, man, says Sam.

Chapter 3

P aul awakens to the sound of his neighbor’s angry foot pounding on his ceiling. He lays there, eyes flickering open, letting his alarm continue to cry for his attention. Another thud on his ceiling. Paul lifts his arm and, without looking, hits the alarm off button with casual precision.

The room is still dark with the early morning light filtering through the overcast sky, forcing its way through his gray linen curtains. It’s as if the room is waking as well to another day that Paul feels he doesn’t have the patience for. He wakes with his mind racing, full of thoughts, if not more than when he went to bed. It’s like his mind is a subway station with each thought racing through, too fast for him to focus on before the next one pushes in. The thoughts are loosely associated with one another and fleeting. Meeting this morning at nine a.m., don’t be late. Do I have enough gas in the car? Don’t go to the 76 station on the corner—it’s too expensive. Is the car still making that noise? Maybe I ran something over the other day and it’s stuck to the car. What if it was an animal? What if it’s the detached limb of someone murdered. Wouldn’t it smell by now? He knows things will get done without his repetitive worrying, yet he still does it. It is a habit. And he gets mad at himself for worrying. That, too, is habit. He sets himself up to never be at peace.

He slides out of bed, leaving the drapes pulled, and heads to the kitchen to make coffee. Open cabinet, remove coffee beans, and place them on the counter, following a protocol he’s done a million times. Fill kettle with water, heat, and grind the beans while the water boils. Put grinds in the French press, pour hot water on top, stir, and wait precisely five minutes. He doesn’t even have to think about it; Paul’s doing this all on autopilot. While his body moves about, his mind is everywhere but then and there.

Then he showers and dresses while occasionally sipping his coffee, which he only does when he sees the steaming cup on his dresser as if it’s saying, Notice me. It isn’t because he really wants it or craves it, but it is simply routine and a necessary crutch to jumpstart him into yet another monotonous day that really is not unlike yesterday or tomorrow. He hurries about the apartment getting ready and thinking about the morning meeting he will probably end up late for because he didn’t hear his alarm go off. Or perhaps he didn’t want to hear it go off. He went though a number of excuses in his head and ended up on car problems as an excuse to tell his boss. After all, there very well could be an arm in the transmission as he thought earlier. But car problems … that was something vague and realistic enough that he wouldn’t have to elaborate on to the folks at work. The same people who would really not care enough to probe further anyway.

One last check to make sure the stove is turned off and he zips out the door and downstairs to his red Miata. Paul was still upset at himself over this impulse buy: a used convertible in a city that barely gets a few good, sunny days worthy of having the top down. Before buying it, he imagined himself driving down a palm tree-lined street, much like the ones the movies portray of Hollywood, his black hair fluttering in the wind and the sun beaming down on him. Strangers would wave to him as he passed them on the street. He wonders if he mailed the car payment as he turns the ignition and backs out of his parking spot.

Back in his apartment, the coffee still sits on the dresser and slowly cools to room temperature. Drapes remain closed and bed unmade. The place becomes still and heavy with desolation as the hustle of Paul’s morning routine slowly fades out. It’s a perfect reflection of its owner.

At this point, Paul knows he’ll be at least five minutes late to the morning meeting. It takes him four and a half minutes to get from his apartment to the freeway and then another twenty minutes on the freeway. He’s driven this same route for more than five years and can do it blindfolded. If there’s traffic, it will add more time to just how late he’ll be. Being late stresses him out, and he berates himself for not getting up on time like everyone else. He pictures himself walking into the conference room late, all eyes upon him as he tries to settle in and pretend to be interested in whatever is going on, all the while worried about their silent judgment.

Paul arrives at his job four minutes past nine and hurries through the parking lot and corridors and quietly opens the door to the conference room while wiping the sweat from his face with his sleeve. The room is empty, and he immediately panics, thinking he has the wrong room. This means he’ll have to go to his office computer to find out the right room and then go there, something that will add another ten minutes to his being late. He pictures his manager discussing his tardiness issues with him after the meeting. Paul, we need to talk about your punctuality. Maybe you need to purchase an alarm clock. Maybe don’t go to bed so late and wake up fifteen minutes sooner … he imagines her scolding him.

Practically running to his office on the other side of the building, Paul sees Sam, his best friend, who actually got him his job there at TeleCom, a global communications corporation.

Hey, man! What’s the rush? Sam says to Paul from one end of the corridor.

Late for the weekly meeting with the senior managers. I’m presenting the East Coast numbers today, Paul says, trying to catch his breath, but still hurrying.

Canceled, said Sam. Linda’s out sick. You know how that goes. If she’s not here, the meetings never happen. Coffee? Sam asks.

Frustrated