Another excruciating false start shattered any inkling of hope left. Weighted, suffocating, stale air boiled the interior of the truck. Frustration condensated across Marshall's brow, his shirt stuck to the low of his back, itch coated his skin, prickling him to a panic. Until he broke. Capsized, his emotions took over and threw his shoulder to the rusting door, tearing it tore open with a violent shriek. Outside fostered no breeze, no restitution, no calming splash of fresh air. Face flushed and temper flared, Marshall surrendered to dismay and lowered his forehead against the sticking, scalding, steering wheel.
Hunched in a deformed prayer position his blind hand found the ignition and gave the battered engine another jostling turn. Nothing. Nothing but a horrific industrial scream as the pick up gently death rattled against the curb. He cursed, and slapped the dash. In a flurry he ripped his seatbelt, grabbed his dead phone, stuffed the keys in his pocket, and tumbled from the driver's seat. With all his might he cranked the cursed door behind him.
The sound of the slam brought a split second of clarity. Marshall had done it again. Lost his patience when he'd been trying so hard over the last few months to stay grounded, present, and grateful. Now here he was, beyond irate, transforming into some form of a pathetic Hulk. He'd been doing his best, and his efforts had been rewarded with blow after blow after blow.
Marshall wasn't sure who he was more irate with. Maria, for asking for another harebrained, understated favour. Or himself, for not being able to say no to a friend. Being mad somehow made him angrier. Even the ridiculous realization that he was getting more worked up about getting worked up further compounded his fury.
The chore had taken way longer than expected. There was no way he was going to make it now. No chance. He'd been looking forward to the event this evening for months. Spent money he didn't have, and now, because he just couldn't say no, he was screwed. Again. As if the last few weeks hadn't been cruel enough. What more could he have taken from him?
His internal dialogue crackled with splintering venom. You try to do a good thing, you try to help someone, and you take the hit, get ganked. Lose more than the little bit of self esteem you would have gained. A day spent lifting, fighting traffic, making small talk with knuckle heads, when all you had to do was say no. Or not return the phone call. Make up any excuse, and sit at home in front of a fan, fighting the heatwave in front of the television, relax before a night of dancing.
Deep breaths weren't helping. Marshall cycled through his emotional toolbox to no avail. Everyday the effort was there. Yet still, in moments like this, he crumbled. He'd been using his gratitude journal, he'd been meditating, he was looking for silver-linings.
He was exhausted. Fed up. Drowning.
Marshall stomped across a packed parkade, dodging distracted shoppers desperate to get their groceries for the week, and searched for a bus stop along the main drag. Anger waltzed within, taunting him. On paper, Marshall was fine with the emotion, he only hated how it dictated him at times. How it overwhelmed his normally temperate, good natured. Try as he might, he just couldn't come to grips this week. Too much. Too often.
He looked up, and took in the Sun and her dancing rays. Try as he might he could only hold the beauty in mind for seconds before strife with her blinding light and scalding heat dominated his thoughts.
Of course the bus stop had no shelter, no shade structure. No time table for arrivals. Nothing but a useless post tethering him to further torment. He needed it, he needed the show tonight. Some hours of goodness. Some joy. A life line. It had been something to look forward to when his whole world was going to hell. A little something special when he treated himself to nothing.
His emotions boiled again.
What is the point? In trying. In anything. Tonight or ever. The thundering thought incinerated any semblance of hope, or encouragement. Why bother cultivate meaningful friendships when he always ended up on the short end. Why bother push himself to find the good in the bad when the practices seemed to garnish more difficulties to work with than peace.
The aluminium of the post burned against his skin through his shirt sleeve as he leaned. He flared his nostrils and closed his eyes. Practice overrode the pain, and in seconds he sank to a deeper calm. Marshall's focus centred on the sensation of the oxygen permeating through his nose as he inhaled. Then to the tingles around his nostrils as his exhale escaped. To the discomfort of his skin until it evaporated.
Perhaps his sister was on to something with all her wu-wu. The long talks, a stupid bet, her damned meditation app. "Other than twenty minutes of your precious day, what do you have to lose?"
The inarguable simplicity of Amelia's question cornered him into their contest. Marshall promised a year, he promised diligence and an open mind. She'd played him fairly, answering his concerns and misconceptions. Truth told, now two months in, he looked forward to his morning ritual. Sitting on a pillow in his kitchen while his coffee brewed and refrigerator hummed. While the birds sang, and the garbage trucks bustled.
Start again. Amelia's two worded mantra.
Oh, she'd made some nonsense word around it that sounded special for Marshall's mind to lock on to, but that's what his sister had explained its meaning was. That there was nothing to do but think of the word, or his breath moving through his nose for as long as he could. And when he noticed his mind had wandered, to let the slide go without emotion, without anger, or judgement, shame, or disappointment, and it off with gratitude. He’d start again, and return to his breath.
She told him there was no such thing as a good or bad meditation. That the only bad meditators were the ones that didn't sit, didn't practise. Some days would be easy, some days would be more of a trial, that regardless, Marshall needn't worry about how he was doing. That as long as trusted the process, his strengthening of mind would begin to show in his day to day. That before long he'd walk with calm. Move in peace.
The sound of a car horn broke the spell of memory. Marshall's acidic nihilistic rage bubbled, then popped, and through it, he felt a splash of calm. The thought pendulum had pulled against the anger. Why let the circumstances dictate his emotions, his joy. Why waste time feeling anything other than calm? Why even worry about losing his patience if that's the natural course, feel it, release it, move on. A bus would come, a solution would resolve. Fate might yet grace his movements, he may be late, he may make it, he may not and still find joy in what remained of his day. The tides would rise and fall in the hours to come, as they would in the days, months, and years to follow. Through the trials and storms Marshall would ride the waves best he could, and centre himself over again regardless of the strain. It's all he could do. It was all ok. He'd start again.
This kicks off the second series of Zoditraxx, Lunaticks, a deeper exploration, embracing the shadow side, balancing the masculine and feminine with different lead characters. In the Zoditraxx we gaze at the moon, we peer within the mirrors.
Thanks for reading!
-Mr. Write
PS: Be sure to check out Exaggerated Shadow’s new release for Leove Me Alone on all your favourite streaming platforms!