There it was again–the stabbing pain in my chest that penetrated my heart like needles. With it was its accomplice–the bricks that laid on my chest, making it impossible to breathe.
The blue-light from the television glared on the lenses of my glasses as I sat on the couch. I attempted to give the feelings no thought. So I sat and distracted myself from them–or I tried to–but not enough blue-light could distract me from what really persisted; it was a thought that weighed more than the bricks and hurt more than the penetrating needles. I did not see a point in going to bed when all I could think of was the nothingness that I lived for. This nothingness extended to the following day, and I personally, had no desire to meet it again.
Thus, I stayed. I stayed and sat and watched, as the feelings were being felt and the thoughts were being thought. Although, I loathed staying–the action and the word. I would ashamedly sit and question why The Lord needed me to stay–what there was to stay for.
In the deepest part of my mind–the part not even I know much about–I would think and wish that I would not have to live to the next day. Admittingly, it is foolish of me to already despise a day I have not yet lived.
I began to think of the older-waiter–a character that Ernest Hemingway, in my opinion- wrote with such simplicity and such realism. I thought of his appreciation for a clean, well-lit cafe, and how he kept it open for all those who need, “a light for the night.” I also began to understand his hesitation to go home. Most of all though, I thought of the nothing he knew too well, it was a nothing I also knew too well. This nothing kept me from my bed–even though my eyelids were heavy and my brain tired. I had pitied the older-waiter when I first read the story–only for it to appear, that I was him.
Nevertheless, like the waiter, I too went to my room and layed in my bed. The only difference was my reason for staying awake. No, it was not insomnia, it was fear. It was the result of the wish I had made against my life, and this fear kept me fighting to stay awake. I could not risk the chance that the wish would come true–that my life would be taken away from me like I had asked. I had made this wish many times, why now did I fear it? I stared at the blank ceiling, my eyes shifted left to right, watching, and making sure that death would not come to take me.
I began to pray and plead for God’s mercy and forgiveness, for His protection over my life–the life I had just scorned over–I was now pleading for.
I woke up the next day. I let out almost a gasp of relief and a thank you to God. I lived. I lived.
There is not enough nothingness in my life to wish death upon myself. There is always a something that competes against the nothing–it is one’s responsibility to seek it out and find gratitude for it, no matter how small.
The older-waiter had a something. He had a job and although in comparison to his coworker, it seemed insufficient, it may have been sufficient enough to be a something to someone else. The waiter also had empathy and compassion. He had a clean, well-lit cafe for those who needed it. He received those who could not find it to receive themselves; he had a purpose, whether or not it was identifiable or sufficient to him.
When evaluating the homeless man in the story–who tried ending his own life–despite having a family and supposed money, he still stayed late and drank, refusing to go home because he too knew a nothingness too well. And yet, he was a father, and as the story reveals, most likely a husband to someone; he had purpose, but it was his flawed perception that did not allow him to truly see it.
It is time for me to take a step back, away from myself, and see the somethings that lie before me–no matter how big or small, and let them triumph over the nothingness that may creep up. It is not a matter of how much nothingness is perceived within one’s “meaningless” life, it is a matter of the somethings one can identify and be grateful for. Everyone, in my opinion, has a something; however, it becomes a choice whether or not one receives it and chooses to pursue it.
Read the story:
Hemingway, Ernest. “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.” https://yale.learningu.org/download/51358dbc-0c73-4e33-8cfb-967c55a621f5/H2976_Hemingway_A%20Clean%20Well%20Lighted%20Place.pdf