The Cold Man and the White Hall

The following is an excerpt from my final creative writing portfolio. The subject I was given was “sleep.”

Als das Kind Kind war,

ging es mit hängenden Armen,

wollte der Bach sei ein Fluß,

der Fluß sei ein Strom,

und diese Pfütze das Meer.

Als das Kind Kind war,

wußte es nicht, daß es Kind war,

alles war ihm beseelt,

und alle Seelen waren eins.

—Peter Handke

            Last night around 11 o clock, I felt as if I had a right to talk about sleep. I was desperately in need of it and thought if anyone had the right, it was me. 

            Instead, I procrastinated. My mind felt dangerously close to a panic attack. I knew if I worked, my brain would wander to my fear and I would be in trouble. 

So instead of writing about sleep, I began reading the news. That was my downfall. I lost myself in an in-depth research trail into the background of the presidential impeachment proceedings. It ensured I would not sleep until 1:30. 

            When my alarm sounded in the morning, I knew I was prepared to write about sleep. 

            The longest I’ve ever gone without sleep was a trip from Kathmandu to Charlotte with lengthy layovers. That, joined with my inability to sleep in an upright position, IE, an airplane seat, added up to 56 consecutive hours of wakefulness. My family had just been forced out of the mission field by a foreign government, and I had been awake for so long that I was basically hallucinating. It was a hellish journey. 

            I particularly remember the Doha airport. The Qataris decided to add a playground for children to their airport, probably to make the lengthy layovers survivable for parents and children alike. A simple playground with a slide and some monkey bars isn’t enough for the Qataris, though. It has to be decorative. 

            Enter the 20-foot-tall bronze men that have been carved into a climbing ladder, slide, and etc. I remember staring at them in stupefied wonder. My 14-year-old brain wasn’t as dangerous then as it is now, but it was about as dead as I’ve ever felt. If I had to describe my reaction to giant bronze men, I would settle on “well… huh.”

            My parents decreed we would bed down for the night right next to the giants. I sat up against the wall while the rest of my family folded up sweaters as pillows for sweaters. The giants leered at me happily, and I smoldered a half-deceased glare back at them. I watched people in long white robes rush past in the pristine hallway and listened to music through my headphones, barely registering what was going on around me. All I knew was that there were giant bronze men staring me down, and I wasn’t about to lose the contest. It didn’t matter whether or not they were real. I didn’t care what I saw anymore.

The stream of people dwindled to nothing. Eventually, I climbed into the chest of one of the giants and curled up on the floor in an attempt to sleep. I was the only wakeful person in a dormant world. My brain couldn’t take itself away from its thoughts.

I didn’t sleep, but that barely surprised me anymore. I was alone with my thoughts—my mind churning over the events of the past week and trying to make sense out of a world that had become completely nonsensical. Sitting in the chest of a giant bronze man, I leaned up against the wall, pulled my knees to my chin, and cried. The bronze man across from me leered back. 

            I’ve never beaten that record. I’ve never even come close, but I would never want to. And yet I constantly push myself to reach it.

            Sleep these days is an escape. When my mind whirls itself to the edge of annihilation, I can lay down and push it all away. I can sleep, and forget for a few hours. Sometimes I spend hours reading anything online, pushing myself to the witching hour so I’ll be able to fall asleep quickly. It’s better to lose a few hours of sleep than let my mind wander too far.

            It all goes back to that one plane trip. My wandering mind had its first seeds planted inside that bronze giant. It was there that I realized the world was giant, cold, and hard. We pass through it like men in white robes rushing through an airport hallway. Everyone is running somewhere, and I spend my time running from the bronze giant.

I’ve never flown anywhere since then.

When the child was a child

It walked with its arms swinging.

It wanted the stream to be a river

the river a torrent

and this puddle to be the sea.

When the child was a child

It didn’t know it was a child.

Everything was full of life, and all life was one.