The Monster

I’m sitting on the edge of a bank. A bank of knee-high, dry grass swaying in the twilight breeze. The moon is now the brightest object in the sky, an observation my eyes learned from photography. I stare at a sea of houses, all huge, walled-in conglomerates. Fear drives up fences and stone walls, street lights and motion sensors that give an alerting “beep” upon entry and exit. Fear drives the monster that is ‘comfortable’ living, or the misconception of it. Comfort is everywhere, in the woods, on an office chair, in a living room floor. It doesn’t discriminate, and doesn’t cost money. A feeling of equanimity, the passive ability to sit on the edge of a bank. More so the ability to feel the same on the edge of a bank as on the edge of a cliff. The edge of picnic table at a family reunion. The edge of sleep.

Comfort works like magnetism. My body seeks comfortable spots as my eyes seek bright spots. I occasionally find myself on a soft couch staring at a light bulb. The kind of couch that swallows you whole. Now that I have acquired this ability, the ability of comfort, the next step is to spread it. Like a wildfire on a bank of dry grass. Traveling down, stretching across the sea of houses, turning off televisions and turning on reading lights. Knocking over walls and planting flowers. Turning off street lights, and silencing beeps. The world sleeps better when it is dark and silent. When words are liberation, not a two-dimensional siege of sound and light. I sleep better when the world sleeps better.

Off in the distance the remains of an orchard can still be seen. Oranges, real fruit grown under watchful care, picked with delicious anticipation and eaten with a simple satisfaction. Fruitful trees are comfortable trees. No walls to stop the summer breeze, plenty of sun and just enough moon. The monster, fear-driven and misconceived, is hungry though. Orchards, large hills, dry grass. Nothing escapes it’s appetite. Even stars are a source of food for the monster; its eyes require space hitherto saved for the night sky. It devoured all the porches in front of houses. Porches inspire conversation, sharing, communion. A few rebels can be spotted sitting on the steps of their front door, but those few grow fewer fast.

Refrigerated cubicles of fear, far as the eye can see. I feel my brow wrinkle involuntarily at the sight, but I can’t look away. The monster has a disconcerting beauty at night. An accidental camouflage. During the day I feel better knowing its ugly head can’t hide under the cloak of darkness, and again my distaste has justification. I want to take all the monster’s victims camping. I want them to drink water from the ground, and sleep on a bed of pine needles. I want them to feel respect for the Earth they make their home on. I want this because it is what I have, and strive to improve upon. I search for a great respect for the bed I make at night, the stars that I muse upon, the mountains that frame the sky. Everyday the monster is stricken, a person sees something they haven’t seen before, a mountain top, a white cap on a lake, the look in a person’s eyes after you kiss them. As of late, the monster is winning and has won many battles, with a greater appetite after each victory. But I have faith in nature; in it’s inherent beauty and its passive triumph. The buildings of Japan’s islands claw at mountains, but the mountains laugh gleefully and without any effort trounce any insurrection. Maybe my born-in attraction to mountains is their invincibility. My comfort peaks at the top of a mountain, and my respect grows evermore when I can climb, be near, or take pictures of mountains. Of the monster’s enemy. Of life.

People who sleep with the lights on don’t want to remember their dreams.