text: A cliff of a ravine with shallow water Though void of decorations, such as paintings or family portraits, the white wall which Frank starred at was all the canvas necessary to compliment his inner world. He was motionless and expressionless, and one could only hope there was something happening behind those hopeless eyes - his chest occasionally stretching to signal air coming in and out was about the greatest indicator that he was, in fact, among the living. In his rented one room apartment, located on the second floor of a building not too far away but not quite in the center of Oslo, he was sitting on his bed, beside him a table with a lamp that was turned off, below which were a pen and paper, and there on the paper nothing was written. The bin next to the table was empty, the red stool by the table had a wet towel hanging over it. A school bag that was leaning to the bed was open, and in it were two thin books, a thick laptop and a thicker book, possibly a notebook. The room was indicative of scarcity, with its barren walls, no dining table, and the kitchen which was a part of the one room he inhabited, that included a sink with two hanging showcases above and an induction plate without oven. The bed had a single blanket, pillow without a pillowcase, a slightly not-in-place mat, and of course, Frank sitting and starring not quite at the window but the wall beside it. The kitchen surface had two empty clean glasses and a fork, as well as a dirty plate in the sink. The tint of the outside light was slowly strengthening into red, and the angled sun began to get the better of Frank’s uninterrupted stare into the wall. He was far removed from reality to perform an extreme action, such as turn his head and body to the left or snap into consciousness and move away from bed into a more important duty of the day. On the contrary, he merged his eyelids and continued the stare. The view for him was still the same. There was really no change of scenery, as for the entire time he was not exactly looking anywhere, and there was nothing to see regardless of the backdrop. This stare is not of the type one may bring themselves into willingly, and it can be difficult to even conceptualize it, lest one is brought to the state that is its prerequisite. While there can never be nothing that goes on, the thin fabric of the room’s atmosphere was a close authentic representation of what it may be perceivable as. It would be but natural to fall into a deep state of depression in such an environment, though it was not possible to deduce if it was the precise placement of things and empty spaces in the room that made Frank hopelessly melancholic, or the chain of events that led up until now, against which he was defenseless. The complexity of the matter may be the final nail in the coffin, the conundrum on top of a difficult-to-handle situation, that will entirely strip away his ability to feel ever again. The nothing which he now lives, it did not come from nothing, but it all mattered little, and it seemed to him that he had no willpower left to even consider the situation or attempt to deconstruct it. What is the point? He thought he did everything he could to eventually not be in this situation. But during the entire process of moving out from his parents, and pursing his independent life and career as a finance advisor, he dreaded this would come and vividly felt it in all the days leading up to it. He knew it would come, somewhere between the moment he was out of the door and laid a last proper look at his parents waving at him, and staring at the chemical compound which equates to white paint on the wall, that was visible only for a few moments before the void opened up and consumed all matter with it, leaving him to stare into nothingness. It was useless for him to ruminate now, all that was left was precisely what was said. Certain as the situation was, and that beyond it was a fall over a canyon cliff below which was a shallow river, there was a grey dot located somewhere in the vast space of his inner universe. The grey square resembled little at first and he paid no attention to it. When inevitably glancing at it, it contained the imagery of all the steps and concrete action he took, all of which he was convinced were correct and done flawlessly. This was no solace, and the paintings of success he once painted, which were once able to orchestrate a parade of wonder and excitement, were now a white light behind a grey diffusion. The grey layer of diffusion, he figured, was the confusion with the failure, despite the perfection of accuracy in the steps taken. Those images now, hardly visible, were yet another burden dragging him down an endless pit. He wished time could stop, everything could stop and cease to continue existing. His desires only stretched to the vision of him dissolving into small matter and merging with the void. The void, however, was exclusively inside of him, and the fact that reality did not reciprocate it disappointed him even further. What is there even left to happen, that he can tolerate. Why cannot everything just cease to be? Where exactly is the end of all things? This stupid grey box was now a hindrance. Though pale the light of it as it was, it was becoming overwhelming to even glance at from the side. Frank refused to give in, he wished for no light, no more of anything. He wished for no change in the state of things, for even the light meant another change, a new thing, which will undoubtably be another hindrance in an already impossible state. He had no capacity to take anything new in, to even consider what the good in it might be. There would be too little good in it to weight him out of the gloom. No matter how it may look like, the new light is yet another occurrence to be disappointed by and a chance to be taken aback. No good was ever good enough, at least not in the amount he felt it needed to be. There was nothing now that could spring him back onto the surface, for he felt he was on the absolute bottom of all things. In the way it was, there was no space to ricochet from, there was no ground to build momentum on, there was no force to push with. The light from the grey box, however, was stubbornly persistent and began to increase. At first it was as if someone slightly opened curtains of a small window far up into the unreachable attic, visible as a dot from the basement in the house that had no floors. It then became a door left ajar, and soon after wide opened. There now was no roof, and it was all light. It began to be uncomfortable with closed eyes for Frank, but he refused to give in. The more it persisted the less he wanted to question it. Long gone are spiritual connotation he would put into things happening to him. The trials and tribulations of life that once were, were now occurances and him not refusing to open up to them in any way coated with meaning. The light building up inside his inner cave was no more than some bodily reaction, which satisfying as it was as an explanation, still left him in discomfort. It began to frighten him, mostly due to the confusion over the physiological phenomena. Determined not to give it its attention, he squinted harder his eyes, and his left eye began to water. He sensed this, to his own surprise, and began to dread that he might start producing more tears. The only thing worse than his abysmal state is feeling sadness for it. He refused once more to muster up and look for any capacity he might have for anything happening, in this case crying. He was now involuntarily annoyed. Then he was annoyed that he was annoyed. Then he was confused as to what was even happening inside of him, and he felt aggression piling up. But there was simply nothing coming up, he thought. Nothing in life worth caring for. All of his investments that were meant to ease his life, make him more stable and put him into a favorable position have failed. And that was all there is to life, as he sacrificed everything else for that. Everything was put in place, there was just no fruit to be picked. It was the dry, barren season, and he had no means to attempt cultivation next year, he was going to starve by then. There was only this prison of a room, and the eye piercing light that populated all of his retina as soon as he closes his eyelids. He was tired of everything, and was still, despite the irritation and disappointment, unable to act out on his frustration. With his back he was now leaning against the wall he previously stared at, his arms loose and lifeless, legs stretching straight forward. He took a glance at his room and found no good reason to entertain reality again. He closed his eyes once more, but the light gave him no chance at continuing the stare from before. Reality will have its way it seems, though Frank was reluctant, and unable to see what is there to do. With little willpower that he had he decided to concisely do nothing, he refused to engage the idea that something greater was happening. Now back at nowhere, through his head ran an onslaught of images, each pressing and making him feel heavy. They all were of vague scenery he was a witness to during the moments of greatest disappointments. His first breakup soon after moving out and subsequent inability to ever find someone else, his bank account having less and less digits as months went by, the first snow that came about a month early and made a mess of the traffic, and all the ugly faces that uttered words of rejection when applying to big firms, making him think he was not only foolish, but insane for even considering. When strung together, these thoughts gave an image of a wimp, and a man who might have overcalculated the estimate of his talents and abilities to make it in the world. He was blank for a moment more, and then closed his eyes. Embracing the unbearable light, too tired to swiftly react, he thought he saw something. He then opened his eyes and was certain that he saw the contours of a face in the light. It was his father, stern but not angry. The immediate association with the face was a recent email he received from the local Kiwi supermarket, where he was rejected due to there being more qualified applicants. Both sparked a similar reaction within him, and a feeling of a lack of self-worth. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Both of his eyes gave sings of starting to tear up, but he was able to deter the heaviness away. He merely puffed. To be rejected by a supermarket due to lack of qualification was a mighty blow he thought, though he was unsure about the degree it hurt him. In the nothingness of his soul, he felt that heaviness was akin of having shape, and therefore also occupying space. The vast space was still absolutely nothing, but he began to be a tangible reality in it. A notion of spite was shooting as if in a fast projectile, he dodged. Spite was too high of a state, and there was no good reason to be spiteful. It will lead into more action, and that action will lead into more disappointment. Not as if his father did not have fair judgement when he repeatedly suggested that he should join him in being a carpenter. But he tried to do the job himself and could never seem to do it properly, nor find enough motivation to master the craft. He was rather interested in the wages of all the workers, potential workarounds to more efficiently complete the project, the quality of material and that it should suffer the least when deciding the budget of a project. His greatest struggle was perhaps that there seems to be no world where he can actualize his affinities, where he can be useful with them, despite his grandest strives. And when he attempts to be useful elsewhere, though not wholeheartedly but still honestly, he is rejected and there is seldom space available. There seemed to be no use in being eloquent and articulate, or even educated and well-versed in your craft, if that cannot be exploited to fuel the endless appetite of the consumers. In a way, the less you strive to be remarkable, noteworthy and more you curb your desire for autonomy, the further you will be slingshot into prosperity. That at least applies for the majority, to the class of workers, who have to build their wealth every month anew, and should they dare to take a break, they might as well end their life immediately. It was this exact thinking that made Frank stare numbingly into the wall, and that made him conclude long ago that thinking might just be the number one cause of all problems in the contemporary order of society. This time he was somehow overwhelmed and unable to resist. He was always aware of this reality, but he should never have allowed himself the luxury to ruminate in it. He was now in mud, all of the factors surrounding him indicated that he has failed as a human, and that it is late to go either way. How is there no force in the world on his side? He had a thought to end it all, though in this state he was numb to that idea also. He was numb to all sorts of suggestions that came and went by. That he should check his email to see if the last bigshot company has given a response, or to check the physical mail to see if the passport he ordered and took a portrait for seven days ago came. None of these invitations to perform an action were attractive enough, and he closed his eyelids, only to be reject by the inner radiation of non-existent light. Another puff of air left his mouth, and then an old image came. It was a long time before it last crossed his mind, though there was a period when it refused to leave - similar to the continuous light at the moment. It was the vivid memory of his mother waving at him, eyes filled with tears, smile spread across her face, from one end of the cheek to the other. He was now sure, that is the white spot, which now shone across the entire universe. It was only her that cared for what he wished to bring to the world. To her it was never about what the world might expect from him, but what he can aid the world with in the most profound way. He now remembered that it was precisely this vision that has kept him through thick and thin of his independent life. He wished more than anything to visit her, if briefly. It was now a grand fight between this new noble aspiration, and the quicksand in the soul. For a while after moving out, this image was burnt in his head. It kept him in motion when he wanted to move the least, it was his sudden burst of energy a marathon runner feels when pushing beyond his limits just before the line. It then began to fade, as all images in life do as time marches on, and they climb up and down into relevancy in the ever-oscillating line through which thoughts swim. Crucial thoughts in their trajectory, even those that motivate, are not linear and it might have not been the cleverest idea to allow this important one to disappear for too long. He felt slightly silly about the whole thing. He was sure when he meets his mother, she will embrace him with the support unlike the rest of the world could ever give him. But then there was his father, the constant counter to all the positivity radiating from the mother. And maybe he is the one in the right, and his mother was foolish, baselessly optimistic and superficially kind. A thought of his mother being disappointed in him crept its way into his heart, he did not know what to do with it. It was entirely plausible that she too expected more of him, or more so of his situation. But so did he, and if anyone was to understand him, it will be her, maybe to a degree higher than he could understand himself. It may have not solved all his problems, but the memory of his mother made him stand up, and that was revolutionary. He will only need to open his email to find his acceptance letter, and pick up the mail to take his passport, but he is unaware of that - and it mattered little. He longed for her face, and for the warmth of her living room for which she was exclusively responsible. He will tolerate his father, that is the most he can do for him.