Barriers

At night, we often drive to the local diner, sat by the table, gazing out the square glass into the empty night hearing coffee being poured, tinkling of table wares and conversations. We would order a takeout and sat by the window where we would chat- made eye contact through the translucent reflection from the glass in front of us. God knows we never want to see what the other's facial expression was, so damn tired of all the human interactions- those sloop faces, the insincere smile, the smirk, pride, prejudices often condemning even those who made us feel liberating. As soon as they prepared our order I took the package, and we both left and ate in the car.

    We got runny scrambled eggs, omelet, with bacon, baked potatoes, and ripe red tomatoes along with juicy toasted mushroom. And sat there for minutes, sometimes hours, listening to each other chew. Stealing glances once in a while. Sat there at 2 am, seats slightly declined and windows opened letting the cool breeze of the night creeps in. now and then we would talk to each other, though of trivial importance. 

    The neon signs of the diner would flicker, buzz, clinking now and then- adding noise to the dead silence of the night.  

 “You should eat faster, the food will cool down and it’ll taste bad.” I said. Which he gave a shrug and ate with the pace of a snail. 

Trying to break the silence, I said, “I had the weirdest dream last night.” Which he became interested and said, “every dream you have is weird, by this time you should be familiar with it. It should be normal for you by now.” Tired of me complaining and saying the same thing repeatedly.

“Yeah… it should be if I don’t wake up and tediously tune myself rhythm of daily life all over again. Do you know how hard it is to do that? Sometimes I wish I was living in my dreams and other times, while dreaming, I wish I was awake.” I said with a sigh.

“No idea what you’re talking about. When I sleep it’s just blank and when I wake up, I feel rejuvenated and ready to continue my day. Not always ready... but I manage one way or the other. So what’s your latest dream?” he asked.

“It was that time we went on a holiday together. Remember? That trip on a beach somewhere on an island… can’t recall the name, but somewhere in Asia.” I responded while playing with the windshield, seeing it brush left and right at a consistent pace.

“Yeah… go on... and stop the windshield, it bothers me so much,” He said, looked at me and stopped eating.

I told him how pleasant the day was, with the warm sand enveloping our feet and voices of loitering around. He looked satisfied that I recalled this memory we shared. Then I told him experiences that I found weird. I told him that everything was so real that I felt the wind, the sentiment of that moment which was relaxing, calm and at peace while being bathed by the sun- I could even feel the sun on my skin. Felt how the humidity made me sweat and how the sweat washed away by the wind of the sea. But it’s like the more that scene becomes real, the more the emotions I felt that moment the more anxious I feel in the present, on my bed, a jabbing anxiety in my gut. As if I betrayed the present and ran away to the past- that I’m not allowed to own my life even though it forced its way whether I like it, or not. It's stupid really since all that information on how my senses were supposed to feel was in my brain and all I need to draw it out but it won’t let me. Like opening a file you wrote and a message pop up: corrupted document or unauthorized access detected- and the brain will ring the loudest alarm to tell me that an intruder has trespassed while that intruder was me.

He gave me a weird look after I told him that experience saying, “all that happened to me is blank than wake up, but I get you, when you say the past doesn’t really feel like it's there you know?”

I gave a nod, “Yep that’s what I meant and it's slowly driving me insane to doubt that all that happened was not there?”

We sat down in silence together watching people as they slowly leave the diner leaving the cashier standing there alone, her idle face accustomed to the excruciating silence as the clock ticks by the night. I rolled up the window and turned on the heater as the weather cools down and threw both our Styrofoam plate out the window. As I turned on the engine, thinking it was time to go to, my friend spoke. I turned off the engine.

“Last night my father came home drunk, again,” he said out of nowhere. Playing with the lights in the car.

“What happened again, I asked?” I asked sympathetically feeling bad going about my weird dream while he has much more important things going on. 

“Yeah, but this time was different… not different but something struck me. I’ve been thinking about it for months… days, - always stuck in my head whenever I blank out. That eye contact we made with each other left me unsettled. I was sitting on the sofa and heard the door open” he paused.


“Then what happened?” I inquired further, wanting to know more about this new discovery of his.

“That time I realized that the look my father gave me wasn’t anger or disappointment, but that of a tormented soul- full of regret, anguish, and on the edge of begging for forgiveness. It’s funny how the same look could show anger, other times sorrow, desperation which makes it damn hard to figure out what the other person is truly thinking.” he said.

“But your dad was really prideful, right? never said sorry for anyone… he didn’t even say, sorry to me when he bumped my car when I parked in front of your house- made it look like it didn’t happen”, I commented for clarity.

“that’s true when he’s sober... But when you’re intoxicated, parts of you you have had the will to ignore creeps up. Flashes and fragments and bit by bit I could really piece things together, piece his mind together”

“You knew what happened when I was a kid, right? I would often run to your house when my parents fight, screaming and shouting, told you all the details that made my dad looked like a demon scarier than those in the depiction of hell. Like he would go home and vent frustrations from working long hours towards the whole family. He had an affair which he never admitted-things add up. He needs to learn to let it go- let his a sense of guilt. What I saw last night most likely range in the inextinguishable pangs of guilt…” he recalled.

“Are you sure about this or are you just overthinking? Maybe he’s just a horrible human being and you’re just unfortunate to grow up in that family.” I replied

“Not so much of a bad dad… he did what he could, it’s just me over-analyzing, trying to figure out something when there really isn’t a way to find resolution,”, he said. Frowning his face thinking about his next statement, “along the side of what parents should be, they did really well considering the circumstances they grew up with- no psychological clarity, never taught to be introspective. All they’ve done is live looking forward and never look back”

“Navigating cause and effect… you think you’re stuck- unable to move on?” I asked.

“Exactly… based on what happened in my past, I’m sure everyone has experienced it as well- I’m unable to move forward… not unable more like terrible afraid. Like the ghost from my past in various forms are just there right beside my face ready to prowl and consume me.” he replied.

“Your dad one of them?” I asked. My face a little confused from his explanation.

“Not exactly him but the negative emotions he made me felt I guess. In reality he’s a harmless guy,” he said hesitantly

We sat there for a while, closing our eyes wishing that the dawn would come and day would start.

“What happened to that chick you met awhile ago?” he asked…

“No idea… haven’t talked for months, but now I will meet her next week.” I said, still slightly surprised that I got into this position.

“Looking forward to that?” he asked.

“A bit neutral.” I answered.

  “At least you have the stuff to keep whatever shit mind off this shit for the time being,” he replied, and I said, “you have your job interview next week too right?”

“But I’m afraid that these pointless thoughts of mine will hinder my performance one way or another. The more I try to sort it out- to accept gracefully what has been done- the more it gets messier and difficult to ignore it.” He replied, with a sense of resignation.

“Well you could talk it out with your dad, set a tiny portion of confusion in your life… make him own up to his mistakes.” I advised.

“What do you know? It doesn’t work like that! No one just talks and has things solved! It’ll just create more confusion, antipathy, hate, and distrust,” he replied agitated as the thought of confronting his dad trembles the inner core of his being.

Trying to console him some way or the other, I said a vague statement, “Sometimes I feel that I’m not living. That what I feel now is just a constant repetition of what I felt before- consumed in different forms- every time that it washes through my system it’ll be blander or stronger if you get what I mean. Making me appreciative of the dreams I have because at that moment I’m not thinking… no agitation, just living the pure moment as it’s the first time. You got to do something… that’s my point. Everyone breaks one way or another.”

“Or it’ll end worse than before… the past is a bitch, I’m sure you’d agree on me with this. What you get are only fragments of good and bad shit that has happened that clings to you when you’re trying to make some changes forward.”, he sighed.

“Either way you got to do something about it. We got to do something in our own ways. Move on.” I said.

“Does talking like this help?” he asked.

“Maybe” I answered.

We were both exhausted by how our pasts which intertwines with our future and present molds us in ways neither of us expect. Often comes in constant subtle strikes like droplets that leaves us paralyzed and suffocated one way or the other. Words get tangled, thoughts stretch into a bottomless pit; memories and feelings are a joke in which we cling to as without a grounding certainty of it being a foothold to stand when the pressure amounts too much. One way or the other its only memories, lost in thoughts, lost in un-reflected feelings that ebbs and washes away- that pops its sinister face one way or the other, and fades: announcing its exit, resigned, just like the moment we went home tired from that diner, reluctantly facing another day.