The Deep

I had a dream.

Everyone I knew was at the beach, slashing around in the water by the shore. We all were having a good time and didn’t seem to have any place to go. Enjoying the waves, we talked, laughed, kissed, jumped, danced, cried, wrestled, loved, and every other verb imaginable. It was a cosmic party where nothing else mattered, and that was fine. We didn’t go on land or into the ocean—the land was barren and the ocean alien—we just expanded infinitely across the shore. It was our time, our lives, our beach.

I was happy. I could have lived the rest of my life and called myself fulfilled. But I had this defect, minor, but gnawing. I was oddly and innocently curious about the vast ocean. Its placid, infinite expanse juxtaposing our breaking waves, it seemed so boring and yet…inviting. What was out there? Why had no one ever gone? Would it be more fun? Terminal, dangerous, innocuous questions filled my breast. Yes, I thought, I will go out into the deep.

I broke from the pack and began swimming out to sea. Background noise filled my head; “Where are you going? There’s nothing out there! You’re wasting your time, come back here and play with us!” Indeed. But first I will quench my thirst and see what’s out there. Afterwards I will return and tell everyone all about it; they will be so glad to hear of it I’m sure. But after a few hours of swimming out into the ocean I realized there was nothing here, just desolate wasteland (and the unbroken silence of modest mystery). No people, no action, and no fun. Disappointed, but not overly so, I began to turn back when a strange thought came to me. I know not where it came, but it lingered there in my mind; intrusive, insisting. Go down, it said. Go into the deep.

So, down I swam.

And I could not handle what I saw. 

Under the surface lay an endless expanse of color and movement. Miles of coral reef littered the ocean floor, with the rainbow’s spectrum at its disposal. Blues, greens, oranges, reds, yellows, pinks; I was overwhelmed by the display. And all around swam fish of dazzling color—playing, talking, laughing, kissing, jumping, dancing, crying, wrestling, loving, and every other verb imaginable (as well as some unimaginable). There was life here, action, and fun. But the beauty was completely disproportionate to what I had experienced with my friends on the shore. It was as if my eyes had been fogged before and now they were clear. In this depth was an intensity which permeated my senses; it seemed to borrow into my very core and nestle there. Just watching I felt invigorated. I couldn’t wait to actually swim down and play among my new friends.

I began to go down and swim deeper and deeper, trying to reach this new haven. But after a few minutes I grew tired and I couldn’t breathe. I realized I wouldn’t be able to make it, and returned to the surface. I needed to be stronger, more tenacious, to reach this wonder. But how? How would I get to the deep? Dawning comprehension: I must make myself a better swimmer. And so, every day from then on, I pushed myself to improve myself. Staying out in the ocean to avoid distractions, I swam for miles to increase my stamina. I would dive persistently to increase my breathing capacity. I talked to myself to increase confidence (You can do it! I know you can!) I glimpsed that depth from time to time to remind me of what I stood to gain. Form, strength, breathing; I heighted them all. It was hard, painfully so, and the most difficult thing I had ever done. In fact, it was the only difficult thing I had ever done. But I was determined, and that held me through. Within months I was in the best shape of my life. And, strangely, I felt great. I had not even reached my prize but already I was content. Why? How could being miserable bring one happiness? I didn’t linger on this thought, but again attempted to reach the sea floor. As before, I was determined to succeed.

I swam down, faster and harder than I had ever swam before. Within minutes I reached the reefs. Up close, it was even more majestic, and the palette of vibrant life more profound. The fish, crowding around me, invited me among there people. They were in fact lonely, funny enough, and were glad to have some company. They taught me their ways (such as how to never need air or how to swim effortlessly) and showed me wonders beyond description. The reefs and ecosystems were, unbelievably, just the beginning. Beyond this expanse lay many more, all more awesome and empowering than the last.

Down in the deep I, at first, practiced all my verbs, but they soon took new forms. Laughing, or crying, or dancing, were different down here. They had meaning somehow; some lasting impact on my soul. While I was enjoying life more than I had ever thought possible, it wasn’t just euphoric, or fulfilling. It was actually changing who I was. This happiness was growing inside of me. Sometimes it was painful, sometimes it was fun, but always, it was powerful. I became self-conscious of this change. It was frightening and enticing at the same time.

Despite these wonders, I grew lonely too. I wanted to be back with my human friends (I was not, after all, a fish), and even bring them down here. With amiable regret, I parted from my new community, my new paradise, and returned to the surface. The endless, placid expanse was ironic to me now. The intriguing mystery was replaced with intriguing understanding, and it tasted sweeter.

I returned to the beach shore and met up with my old comrades. After a loving reunion, I explained to everyone where I had been. Their responses, however, baffled me. “You went where? What’s so special about that? It’s perfectly great here, why would we leave? Better? How can anything be better than this? We have to do what to get there?!? Exercise? That sounds terrible! No thanks man, I’ll just chill here on shore.” It was maddening. They would not believe my story, and when they did, they were disinterested (or entertained) rather than inspired by my tales. I tried to convince them, but to no avail. They did not understand. They needed to see what I saw. They needed to work like I worked. They needed to be curious, and adventures, and discontent. But they weren’t.

I also tried to return to life on the shore, but it was hopeless. The tedious playing, talking, laughing, kissing, jumping, dancing, crying, wrestling, loving, and every other restricted verb was done with a kind of droll, unpolished vigor that seemed just so empty, so barren, so…shallow. I was not happy here anymore. Unable to connect to others, unable to satisfy my lust, I was disconnected. I had isolated myself.

I spent the intervening time alternating between the deep and my beach shore. They were good breaks from each other. But make no mistake, my problem only intensified. I began to despise the shore for its ignorant contentment, while my love of the depth became obsessive. Unfortunately I woke from my dream before this dilemma was resolved, and I’ll never know how it ended. But, perhaps, this is for the best.

Ending a Life

I killed a mouse the other day.

I had just gotten home from the hospital. Turning on the lights as I walked in the door, my eyes adjusted to the change. I was tired and hungry, but also filled with a kind of…disappointment. Against the back door the black silhouette of my dog loomed large; its tail wagged. I couldn’t help but smile. I gave him some fresh water and figured my dad had already handled the food. I should have turned around and headed back to my room, but instead I went outside. I don’t remember why. Suddenly, nearby:

“EET, EET, EET!”

The cry and rustling spooked me. Regaining my wits, I turned on the back light and went towards the noise. There on the ground sat the bucket we fill with food for the dog. And inside the bucket was a mouse.

“EET, EET, EET!”

He was a large mouse, but didn’t seem to be able to jump out of the bucket. Seeing me, he made mad leaps against the side of his prison, to no avail. He was trapped. His chest pumping, he stared at me with wide, terrified eyes. He continued to plead. I made to attack him, to see if driven by fear he could jump out of the bucket. He tried heroically, but could not. I assumed he fell in while trying to grab some dinner. A field mouse from beyond our backyard, no doubt. Did he have a family nearby? Friends? If allowed free, would he return with more? 

I picked up the bucket and brought it into my house, laying it on my bathroom floor. I called my dog over and had him sniff the rodent. Despite the mouse’s panicked spasms, the pooch was unimpressed, and even tried to lick him. Harmless, he concluded. “Good boy”, and sent him off. I stared at my quarry. He was an adorable little guy: grey, robust, and inquisitive even now. He rose on his two back legs and stared right back at me. “EET?” 

“*Sigh*. What am I going to do with you buddy?”

I tip-toed into my parents room and shook my father gently. His eyes popped open. “What?” he said anxiously. “I caught a mouse.” “So?” “It’s alive.” “Alive?” “Alive. What should I do?” “Kill it, and throw it out back.” I tried to protest, but he had fallen back asleep. Heading back into the bathroom I stepped over my dog, who had also nodded off.  Useless, the both of ‘em. I called my mom and probed her for wisdom. 

“Will you explain to God how you killed one of his creatures?” Hanging up the phone, I evaluated my situation. I was all alone.

“EET!” 

No, that’s wasn’t true. I wasn’t alone. There was still the mouse, and we needed to come to terms. I watched him for a long while, debating in my head. At times he seemed to forget about me, and would clean his whiskers, nibble on a bit of dog food, and poop. I couldn’t help but notice how similar we were. 

But the question remained: What to do with him? I first thought of taking him down the street or something, and throwing him in a bush. But would he find his way back? Or would he infest another home? He might even die to some predator. But what other choice do I have? Could I really kill him? Could I really end a life, even a mouse’s life, for simply being inconvenienced? I brought the bucket to my front door with the intent of carrying out my plan, but stopped right as I opened it.

I knew wasn’t being honest with myself. I’ve killed mice before, with traps. I’ve squashed bugs. I’ve caught and eaten fish. I’ve eaten more burgers than I could count. Was I really chickening out now? Was that all I was, a coward who only kills in the abstract? Here in front of me was a life in my power. Would I be a man and do what needs to be done? Or avoid the problem and tell myself I wasn’t already a murderer? I carried the bucket back into my bathroom.

Very well, if I was to kill him, how? Stab him with a knife? Too unsanitary. Squash him? Too bloody. Boil him in water? Too cruel. Well, I thought, if I was going to do the dark deed, I could at least do it with honor. I would kill him with my own hands. The mouse by now had gotten used to me, and would only whine when I got too close. He nibbled away, oblivious.

I couldn’t use my bare hands, so I grabbed a baby-wipe. I tried to reach in the bucket and snatch him, but he immediately jumped on the cloth and attempted to climb up my hand. I dropped it and him, and cursed. Smart sucker. He began playing with the wipe: “EET EET!” Running under and around it, he rubbed his furry coat against the chill cloth. A gift, he must have thought. I quickly grabbed him when he darted underneath it, so I held the mouse in the baby-wipe tight in my hand.

Oddly, he was very placid. He didn’t squirm or squeak. I felt his heart beat in the palm of my hand. He was so small and soft. Cute even. Consistent, measured breaths from his body synchronized with mine. I held him as I would a dove, and we sat a moment, living. To think, the mouse had patiently waited an infinite amount of time to exist. Once born, he enjoyed a difficult, insignificant, and impossibly brief life before infinity bore down on him again. And somehow, in the midst of that mind-boggling time span, we happened to live in the same period together. And across the endless universe, we happened to find each other. It was an encounter against all odds, and nothing like it would ever happen again. In my hand was a miracle as rare as life itself.

I squeezed.

I felt his bones crack. Pinched nerves snapped and healthy organs burst. I clenched as hard as I could and felt his skin rip through the cloth. All the while the mouse didn’t make a sound. But it was done. I put him back in the bucket.

And yet, he lived. His body was collapsed, but somehow his breathing continued. How, I wondered? “You fool”, I thought, “You unbelievable fool. You merely inflicted internal rupturing. Instead of giving him a swift, merciful death, he would now die slowly. Painfully. His last moments of life will be in agonizing pain as darkness descends. That was your gift to him.”

My hand was covered in blood. I turned on the sink to boiling hot and scrubbed my hand. Looking back into the bucket I noticed the mouse had crawled under the baby-wipe. His breathing was slow. “I’m sorry friend. I’m so sorry.” I took the bucket outside and was going to throw him in the bushes when I thought of the maggots and smell. So I instead threw him into our garbage bin with a *clud*. I stared into the dark abyss of the container and heard, faintly, but distinctly, a soft “Eet…”. I closed the bin. 

Now, I noticed, now I was alone.

I washed the bucket out and did some last minute chores. Soon I was done and jumped into bed. Tucking in, I noticed my hand still smelled of rodent. Of blood. Of death. I don’t remember my thoughts before I drifted to sleep and maddening dreams, but I do remember, clear as day, my deep sense of shame. With that, I nodded off.